On Second Thought
Page 39
Me, let’s face it. I’d known Nathan only nine months. It was deeply sad, but it didn’t have to be crippling. I’d be noble and, um, clean, that would be great. I’d get back to showering every day, and I’d go back to enjoying single life again.
I’d be so good, so kind, such a role model. My ex-cons (who’d sent a joint card, by the way) would love me all the more, and teenage girls would look up to me as an example of a life well lived, a person worth knowing. I’d be dignified yet also the life of the party (not that I’d ever been that, but it could happen). People would hear that I’d been widowed and be amazed. Kate? But she’s so happy! She’s so giving and wonderful and fun!
I lay there a minute, picturing this, feeling better for the first time since Nathan died.
Then I felt the familiar warm rush and accompanying cramps in my upper legs, flung off the covers and ran into the bathroom. Jazz hands didn’t work. I flapped, jumped, the lights finally went on and I yanked down my sock monkey pajama bottoms.
My period. And not just any period, either, the Biblical period, the is this a period or did I accidentally sever my femoral artery period, the pajama-destroyer, the burn-the-mattress, and God! It was so unfair!
I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t pregnant. I really wasn’t pregnant, and the throat-squeaking began. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, little nonbaby, I’m so sorry! My breath slammed in and out of me, hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn. My arms and legs buzzed with tingling so intense it hurt.
I was probably dying. My heart raced and zipped, and my vision started to gray, and I knew, I just knew, my life was ending, and anxiety and fear engulfed me in a cold wave. What about my nieces and nephew? Sadie wouldn’t remember me! Would I see Nathan in heaven?
I bent double on the toilet. Don’t let me die here, I begged my vague higher power. Please don’t let the paramedics find me like this. I don’t mind dying, just not in a pool of menstrual blood with my sock monkey pajamas around my ankles.
In for three, can’t hold anything, can’t think, jeez, listen to me, hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn. In for three, hold for three, out, oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry I can’t even have your baby and I wanted one so bad and I miss you, I miss you so, so much, I want you to be here, blinking those long blond lashes at me, saying something sweet, please come back, please, I just can’t do this, please help me. My hands fisted in my hair as I struggled not to list to one side.
Some distant part of my brain gave a wry smile. I guess the whole not being sad thing was off the table, then.
In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three.
In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three.
“Kate? You okay?”
I pressed my hands against my hot eyes. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice wobbling and strange. “I got my period.”
“You want me to come in?”
“No. No. I’m...”
“I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere.”
Thank God. I wasn’t alone.
The lights went out; I flapped and they came back on. “Thanks, Ains,” I said. I sounded more normal now.
Could I stand? Would my legs work? The answer was yes. I washed up, dug out the box of tampons, did what I had to do and pulled on Nathan’s bathrobe.
It still smelled like him.
Oh, Nathan, please help me. Give me a sign.
There was no answer.
“Hi,” I said, opening the door.
Ainsley had already stripped the bed. She hugged me. “I’m sorry,” she said.
The spike was back in my throat. “I knew I wasn’t. I took fourteen tests.”
She laughed a little. “I was hoping anyway.”
“Me, too.” Never too comfortable with physical contact (except for when I was a wife), I stepped back. “You headed for work?”
“Yep. Guess what? Eric’s blog has more than fifty thousand shares. Nice, huh?” She rolled her eyes. As always, she looked like Betty Boop in that 1950s, adorable style she had. Circle skirt printed with little umbrellas, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, bright red lipstick. The only thing modern about her was her adorable cropped haircut.
I’d heard her crying last night, but she was smiling now, probably because I needed her to.
Eric was such an ass to leave her.
“What do you have going on today?” she asked.
“I actually have a shoot,” I said. “A teenager who wants to be a model.”
“Oh, fun! And it’s gorgeous out, too. Where are you going?”
“Prospect Park. Brooklyn.”
“That sounds great! More fun than my night. I’m going to Gram-Gram’s for dinner. She needs help with her dating profile.”
I felt a pang that Gram-Gram hadn’t asked me, followed by relief. “You’re a saint.”
“Tell me about it.” She smiled again, her sweet apple cheeks plumping. “You okay now? Sounded like maybe another panic attack in there.”
I nodded. “I’m good.”
“Okay. I have to go. Jonathan pops another hemorrhoid every time someone’s late.”
“Have a good day, Ainsburger.”
She laughed at the nickname Dad always used and left the room, her nice orangey smell going with her.
I was so glad to have her here, and not at all sure I deserved her.
I’d always tried to be nice to my little sister, but it was hard sometimes. For one, Sean and I didn’t remember a time without each other; Ainsley was thrust upon us. There was always the schism: if I loved Ainsley too much, I’d be too sad at the end of our weekends with Dad. If I found myself missing her, it meant I didn’t love Mom enough.
When Ainsley came to live with us, it was even worse, because she was so little, so cute...and yet Dad wouldn’t have left us without Michelle getting knocked up. For three years, I’d watched Mom’s heart petrify, and then he was back, and with a cherubic toddler, too. Any time I spent with Ainsley, I felt like I was betraying my mother.
I should’ve done more. She was just a little girl. I shouldn’t have been torn at all.
Just another item for the guilt pile.
Well. I had a shoot, and I had to get to Brooklyn by ten, and traffic would be hell because it was New York. Max was meeting me there. I threw some tampons in my purse and swallowed some Motrin.
The model in question was Elizabeth Breton, younger sister of Daniel the Hot Firefighter. She’d emailed me last week and said that her brother said he knew a professional photographer, and did I do head shots for modeling? She had a day off from school and she’d saved a hundred dollars of her babysitting money, less than a tenth of my fee.
She sounded so sweet and earnest that I said yes, that would cover it. Fashion shots weren’t my specialty, but I’d done enough to be competent.
And it was awfully nice of Daniel to recommend me.
I still couldn’t get over the fact that he’d come to the wake, all the way from Park Slope.
And that Paige hadn’t. I did get a sympathy card with a white dove on it and the generic card message: Sending you caring thoughts. She’d written only her name.
Whatever. I had bigger sorrows than a shitty friend.
After I’d showered and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt (no need to look pretty; that was the model’s job), I went downstairs to make sure I had everything.
There was my Nikon on the shelf in the study. Or den. I’d never know for sure which room it was, since Nathan was dead.
I’d be so good, so kind, such a role model. My ex-cons (who’d sent a joint card, by the way) would love me all the more, and teenage girls would look up to me as an example of a life well lived, a person worth knowing. I’d be dignified yet also the life of the party (not that I’d ever been that, but it could happen). People would hear that I’d been widowed and be amazed. Kate? But she’s so happy! She’s so giving and wonderful and fun!
I lay there a minute, picturing this, feeling better for the first time since Nathan died.
Then I felt the familiar warm rush and accompanying cramps in my upper legs, flung off the covers and ran into the bathroom. Jazz hands didn’t work. I flapped, jumped, the lights finally went on and I yanked down my sock monkey pajama bottoms.
My period. And not just any period, either, the Biblical period, the is this a period or did I accidentally sever my femoral artery period, the pajama-destroyer, the burn-the-mattress, and God! It was so unfair!
I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t pregnant. I really wasn’t pregnant, and the throat-squeaking began. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, little nonbaby, I’m so sorry! My breath slammed in and out of me, hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn. My arms and legs buzzed with tingling so intense it hurt.
I was probably dying. My heart raced and zipped, and my vision started to gray, and I knew, I just knew, my life was ending, and anxiety and fear engulfed me in a cold wave. What about my nieces and nephew? Sadie wouldn’t remember me! Would I see Nathan in heaven?
I bent double on the toilet. Don’t let me die here, I begged my vague higher power. Please don’t let the paramedics find me like this. I don’t mind dying, just not in a pool of menstrual blood with my sock monkey pajamas around my ankles.
In for three, can’t hold anything, can’t think, jeez, listen to me, hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn. In for three, hold for three, out, oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry I can’t even have your baby and I wanted one so bad and I miss you, I miss you so, so much, I want you to be here, blinking those long blond lashes at me, saying something sweet, please come back, please, I just can’t do this, please help me. My hands fisted in my hair as I struggled not to list to one side.
Some distant part of my brain gave a wry smile. I guess the whole not being sad thing was off the table, then.
In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three.
In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three.
“Kate? You okay?”
I pressed my hands against my hot eyes. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice wobbling and strange. “I got my period.”
“You want me to come in?”
“No. No. I’m...”
“I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere.”
Thank God. I wasn’t alone.
The lights went out; I flapped and they came back on. “Thanks, Ains,” I said. I sounded more normal now.
Could I stand? Would my legs work? The answer was yes. I washed up, dug out the box of tampons, did what I had to do and pulled on Nathan’s bathrobe.
It still smelled like him.
Oh, Nathan, please help me. Give me a sign.
There was no answer.
“Hi,” I said, opening the door.
Ainsley had already stripped the bed. She hugged me. “I’m sorry,” she said.
The spike was back in my throat. “I knew I wasn’t. I took fourteen tests.”
She laughed a little. “I was hoping anyway.”
“Me, too.” Never too comfortable with physical contact (except for when I was a wife), I stepped back. “You headed for work?”
“Yep. Guess what? Eric’s blog has more than fifty thousand shares. Nice, huh?” She rolled her eyes. As always, she looked like Betty Boop in that 1950s, adorable style she had. Circle skirt printed with little umbrellas, white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, bright red lipstick. The only thing modern about her was her adorable cropped haircut.
I’d heard her crying last night, but she was smiling now, probably because I needed her to.
Eric was such an ass to leave her.
“What do you have going on today?” she asked.
“I actually have a shoot,” I said. “A teenager who wants to be a model.”
“Oh, fun! And it’s gorgeous out, too. Where are you going?”
“Prospect Park. Brooklyn.”
“That sounds great! More fun than my night. I’m going to Gram-Gram’s for dinner. She needs help with her dating profile.”
I felt a pang that Gram-Gram hadn’t asked me, followed by relief. “You’re a saint.”
“Tell me about it.” She smiled again, her sweet apple cheeks plumping. “You okay now? Sounded like maybe another panic attack in there.”
I nodded. “I’m good.”
“Okay. I have to go. Jonathan pops another hemorrhoid every time someone’s late.”
“Have a good day, Ainsburger.”
She laughed at the nickname Dad always used and left the room, her nice orangey smell going with her.
I was so glad to have her here, and not at all sure I deserved her.
I’d always tried to be nice to my little sister, but it was hard sometimes. For one, Sean and I didn’t remember a time without each other; Ainsley was thrust upon us. There was always the schism: if I loved Ainsley too much, I’d be too sad at the end of our weekends with Dad. If I found myself missing her, it meant I didn’t love Mom enough.
When Ainsley came to live with us, it was even worse, because she was so little, so cute...and yet Dad wouldn’t have left us without Michelle getting knocked up. For three years, I’d watched Mom’s heart petrify, and then he was back, and with a cherubic toddler, too. Any time I spent with Ainsley, I felt like I was betraying my mother.
I should’ve done more. She was just a little girl. I shouldn’t have been torn at all.
Just another item for the guilt pile.
Well. I had a shoot, and I had to get to Brooklyn by ten, and traffic would be hell because it was New York. Max was meeting me there. I threw some tampons in my purse and swallowed some Motrin.
The model in question was Elizabeth Breton, younger sister of Daniel the Hot Firefighter. She’d emailed me last week and said that her brother said he knew a professional photographer, and did I do head shots for modeling? She had a day off from school and she’d saved a hundred dollars of her babysitting money, less than a tenth of my fee.
She sounded so sweet and earnest that I said yes, that would cover it. Fashion shots weren’t my specialty, but I’d done enough to be competent.
And it was awfully nice of Daniel to recommend me.
I still couldn’t get over the fact that he’d come to the wake, all the way from Park Slope.
And that Paige hadn’t. I did get a sympathy card with a white dove on it and the generic card message: Sending you caring thoughts. She’d written only her name.
Whatever. I had bigger sorrows than a shitty friend.
After I’d showered and dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt (no need to look pretty; that was the model’s job), I went downstairs to make sure I had everything.
There was my Nikon on the shelf in the study. Or den. I’d never know for sure which room it was, since Nathan was dead.
