A few photos feature a glowing Margaret holding the newborn, and one picture shows Quinn smiling down at the infant in her arms with rapt tenderness. I stare at this photo for a long time.
Here’s a picture of all three women and the newborn baby together on a sofa in what looks like Brooke’s living room. Lily is without the cap, and her hair is a little dandelion puff of blond fuzz.
I scroll through the photos and watch Lily grow. She’s an older baby on a blanket, laughing at the camera. Now she’s in her mother’s arms clad in a christening gown, a long lacy affair that looks like an heirloom. Quinn, Margaret, and a black-robed minister pose beside them, smiling at the camera.
Here’s Lily in a high chair, with something orange smeared all over her face. Here’s a photo of her wearing a reindeer-motif bib that readsBaby’s First Christmas. Here she is in a fancy dress with an Easter basket.
I study these photos, mesmerized at the way the pink burritomatures into a toddler. There she is, standing upright, holding on to the sofa. Now she’s taking a step, holding on to Margaret’s finger. She’s sitting in a high chair in Brooke’s kitchen with a cake with one candle. Brooke, Quinn, and Margaret are gathered around her, and a crowd of other people are in the background.
This photo shows all three women and the baby at Thanksgiving—I can tell the holiday from the horn of plenty centerpiece and the turkey on the table.
Here’s Lily at another birthday party with two candles—and yet another one at age three. This was less than a year ago, I realize—yet look how much she’s changed!
I scroll back further and realize that Margaret was chronicling Brooke’s life before Lily was in the picture, almost as if Brooke were her child—her only child. There are graduation photos, Christmas photos, Mardi Gras photos, prom photos, and vacation pictures. Since I can’t picture Margaret actually attending some of the events—days at the beach, for example, with a bunch of other young people—I surmise that Brooke sent these photos to her.
Many of these photos include men. I’d begun to wonder if Brooke and Quinn were a couple, but, no—here are photos of Brooke kissing a man. Here’s another one with Quinn on a boat, sitting close to a man who has his arm looped around her.
The thing that seems to be missing in all of the photos—even the holiday photos, and there are a lot of those, spanning different years and hairstyles—is anyone who looks like a parent to either woman.
One photo in particular grabs my attention. Quinn and Brooke are ice-skating at Rockefeller Center in New York, each with a man on her arm. The two women are looking at each other and laughing uproariously. I lean closer to the screen to study the picture. They look a lot alike, and it’s not just because they’re both blondes in black jackets. There’s a joie de vivre about them, a sense of delight in each other’s company. They’re attuned to each other and caught up in the moment. They’re having freewheeling, uninhibitedfun.
I feel weirdly jealous. Have I ever had that good a time with anyone in my life? I don’t think I’ve ever laughed like that with Jessica.
The thought makes me sit back in my chair and run my hand down my face. I don’t want to think like this. I love my wife. That’s the kind of man I am—the kind who loves the woman I married, not the kind who looks at other women and feels like I’m missing out on something.
Not that I’m looking at Brooke or Quinn and lusting after them. They’re attractive, yeah, but I’m not thinking about sex—well, no more than any guy does when he looks at pretty, fully clothed women. I haven’t thought very much about Jess in terms of sex in a long while, either, though. It’s as if someone hit the pause button on my libido.
The thing that strikes me in this photo of Quinn and Brooke is their sense of connection—the way they seem to be sharing a vibrant bond that transcends their surroundings or the other people around them. I haven’t felt really close to anyone, including Jessica, in a while. In fact, I’ve felt kind of lonely for most of my marriage.
The thought makes me push back my chair. Maybe I’m still angry, even though I don’t want to be. I want to forgive and move on. I need to; I know I do. Learning about Lily was hard on Jessica. She was already having a difficult time accepting her infertility; it must be killing her to know that the whole time she and I were struggling to conceive, this little girl was growing from a baby into a child.
Oh, God—Jessica will be back in a few days, and I’ll have to share all of this with her. The thought makes my stomach drop and my skin feel clammy. I don’t like this sensation. I don’t like it at all.
I close my computer, stand, and run my hand down my face. I’m tired; that’s all it is. It’s been a long, stressful day. I’ll go to bed and get some sleep, and when I get up in the morning, hopefully I’ll be able to think more clearly.
But a question haunts me:What’s wrong with me, dreading the return of my own wife?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Quinn
Saturday, May 11
MORNING VISITING HOURSfor ICU are from eight thirty to nine. I arrive on the sixth floor at eight twenty-five, feeling harried and hurried and badly dressed because all my favorite jeans seem to have shrunk overnight.
I thought I’d allowed myself plenty of time, but I’d forgotten how long it takes to get a small child out the door in the morning. There’s breakfast to dawdle over, toothpaste to over-squirt, funny faces to make in the mirror, and hairstyle choices to consider.
Lily is very particular about her hair. Today she wanted a French braid, then cried because I couldn’t fix it exactly the way her mommy did. I realized that her tears were more about the loss of her mother than about my sadly lacking hairstyling skills, but still, I felt painfully inept. This, I think, is how grief ekes out—unexpected and raw, in small, inconvenient moments.
I held her and comforted her, and Ruffles worked her magic again. A little dog who wants to get in on all cuddle action is turning out to be a godsend. Lily finally settled for a side part and a barrette, then moved on to wardrobe selection.
Margaret hadn’t packed very many of Lily’s clothes—she thought she and Lily would be in New Orleans for only three or four nights—so mercifully the choices were limited, but the time she took deciding made me understand why Brooke used to ask Lily to select her next day’s outfit before she went to bed. The memorybrought Brooke to mind so fully that I had to sneak off to another room and wipe away grief tears of my own.It’s no wonder I’m nearly late, I think, as I round the corner to the ICU waiting room.
It’s full of solemn, fatigued-looking people, but my gaze immediately flies to a handsome broad-shouldered man in a blue shirt, sitting in a chair against the wall.Zack.My heart rate jackrabbits. What the heck is he doing here again?
He stands and walks toward me, his mouth curved in a smile. “Good morning. How’re you doing today?”
I’m fighting morning sickness, having a bad hair day—I spent too much time coiffing Lily to do more than run a brush through my own tangled tresses—and now I’m feeling ambushed. He probably came here in hopes of meeting Lily.
