“How is Lily doing with the whole grief thing?”
“Most of the time, amazingly well.”
“You’re really good with her,” I say as we reach the top of the stairs. I can’t believe I’m complimenting her. I’ve thought of her as my nemesis ever since I first found out about her, and learning she’s pregnant with Zack’s child raised my rancor to a whole new level. It’s bewildering to discover that the woman who’s wrecking my life is so warm and likable.
Quinn lifts her shoulders. “I was there when Lily was born. I’ve always loved her.”
It shows, I think. I’m about to say it when Lily turns toward us.
“Auntie Quinn! Miss Jess’ca! Come see these silly penguins!” Lily calls. She’s maybe four feet away from us, standing in front of the glass wall with Zack.
We walk over, and everyone laughs at the penguins frolicking on the rocks.
“I can walk like one,” Lily says, waddling with her arms held down straight like wings.
“Me, too,” Quinn says, doing the same.
To my surprise, Zack joins in. I’ve never seen him act silly in public before.This is how he’d be with our children, I think. I always knew he’d be a good father, but I never knew he’d be so free and easy and fun-loving. He marches around with his legs stiff, his head jutted out, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth puckered like a beak.
He’s hysterical.
He’s adorable.
He’s breaking my heart into little bleeding pieces.
I watch him cavort with Lily and this lovely woman who’s carrying his child, and I think,He belongs with them.
The thought makes it hard to draw a breath.
No, I think.He’s my husband. Mine. He belongs with me, and I should be having his baby.
I swallow around a painful lump in my throat and again dig my fingernails into my palm. Anxiety is swirling in my chest and starting to roar in my head. I have to do something; I can’t just stand here and watch this, or I’ll fly apart.
“Look at the funny family, Mommy!” a boy about Lily’s age says, pointing at Quinn, Zack, and Lily.
He sees them as a family. The whole world probably does, because...
Hell. They are.
This is too much to take, I think, my heart rate spiking.I need to get out of here.
And then I see a man taking pictures of his wife and children with the penguins in the background, and all of a sudden, I’m inspired. That’s what I need to do—focus on a task. I pull out my phone, turn on the camera setting, and start clicking photos.
There—that’s better. I now have a role: I’m the group photographer. When viewed through the little window on my phone camera, the situation is cut down to size. I can choose what to shoot and how to shoot it. I can save or delete the photos. I can make choices instead of just being dragged along.
Taking pictures gives me the one thing I’ve never been able to do without: control.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Quinn
I WAS ANXIOUSabout spending the day at the aquarium with Zack’s wife, but things are going a lot better than I feared. Jessica is friendly and sweet to Lily, and although I wouldn’t call her manner toward me exactly warm, she’s cordial and polite. Most importantly, she and Zack aren’t holding hands or nuzzling or exhibiting a lot of PDA. This, I realize, had been my biggest worry. I don’t want to examine why.
At the penguin exhibit, Jessica starts taking photos of Lily, and that role seems to put her more at ease. It occurs to me that Jessica is what Brooke used to call a task-oriented person.
After the penguins, we go to Parakeet Pointe, an enclosed outdoor area filled with trees, perches, and parakeets. We buy Lily little wooden sticks covered with peanut butter and birdseed, and she shrieks with delight as birds land on her hands and arms and head. Jessica takes lots of photos, and I’m grateful that she forwards some of them to my phone.
After a bathroom stop and thorough hand washing, we head to the aquarium food court. We’ve just placed an order of salads and sandwiches at the Aqua Grill when a woman stops beside us with a baby carriage. I can’t help but peer in. A baby dressed in a baseball onesie gazes up with somber blue-gray eyes. He’s mostly bald, with a little tuft of brown hair.
