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But those three words, “I have cancer,” shook something loose in me, took my confidence and spun it around like socks in a dryer. My mother was my rock, a small woman with a huge personality and the ability to put my brother and me in our places with only a glance. Because of her I knew how to throw a proper dinner party, I understood being kind was as important as being smart or successful, and that she would always be there for me. Without her I would not have survived the aftermath of Paige’s accident—along with a million tiny heartbreaks in my childhood, like when my beloved guinea pig, Sherman, died and when Johnny Saxon dumped me after I gave him my first kiss. My mother carried me through the grief that threatened to swallow me whole after Paige died—I knew I needed her as much as an adult as I did as a child.
I wanted to be stoic, like she, my dad and Danny were that evening, but her diagnosis pulled the rug right out from under me. To this day I’m still embarrassed by how selfishly I took her news. One of my first thoughts upon hearing she’d need chemotherapy and would likely lose her hair was to hope it would grow back in time for the wedding. I couldn’t cope, so instead focused on the small, unimportant things, like taking wedding pictures with a bald mother-of-the-bride.
Six months later Ryan and I were married—in a no-frills ceremony at city hall, Mom wearing a gorgeous wig—and I quit my job to take care of her a month after that when it became clear the cancer was winning. Dad had Danny to worry about, plus he had to keep working to pay the bills, and I needed to be useful. But there was only so much a daughter’s love and devotion could do, and much too soon for all of us, Dad and I were picking out a granite headstone, Danny standing beside us with silent tears rolling down his peach-fuzz covered face, me understanding I would now have to live with a hole inside me, forever.
It was around that time the debilitating nausea started. I was distracted by my grief and so, not worried, but Ryan—suffering “second year syndrome,” medical student hypochondria—dragged me to a specialist after I threw up in the sink one night after dinner. The doctor agreed it might be an ulcer, certainly the stress of the last year could have done it, she said, and they took enough blood I actually felt woozy when we left the clinic. Of all the possible things it could have been, I was not expecting the result: I was pregnant.
With the baby on the way and my heart still shattered from Mom’s death, I nested in our cramped apartment full of secondhand furniture and cheap but cheerful decor and tried to prepare for motherhood. Meanwhile, Ryan finished second year, and Dad started dating, which I thought was absolutely too soon, but I never said so because I’d promised Mom I wouldn’t let Dad wither away.
“I love your father, Margaret, but he is a man born without the ability to read a recipe or keep his whites and darks separate in the laundry machine. Bless him, my Hugh.” I’d laughed softly when she said this, but I knew the domestic tasks excuse was a cover. Dad did better as a team. Plus, Danny, only a week away from celebrating his fourteenth birthday when Mom died, also needed someone. He was too young, she said, to be left without a mother.
“But he has a mother,” I’d said, biting my lip to keep the tears at bay so she would see how strong I was. How capable she raised me to be. “I’ll take care of Dad. And Danny.”
She’d taken my hand then and pressed my palm to the paper-thin skin of her cancer-hollowed cheek. “You have your own life to worry about,” she’d said. “I won’t steal the joy of that away from you, along with everything else I’m taking.” I’d nodded, leaned into her body so bony and frail and smelling like antiseptic—the scent of sickness and death—but still warm with life and love.
I never did announce my engagement that evening. It wouldn’t be until the next day, when I sat with Mom and Dad at her oncology appointment, that my secret would be revealed.
“What is this?” she’d exclaimed, grabbing my hand and holding it up to the light. Delight had brightened her face as she stared at the ring. She’d still looked like herself—wavy brown hair to her shoulders, enough weight on her body to prove she loved good food—and despite where we were and why we were there, it’s one of my favorite memories of my mother.
“Hugh, the grandbabies are coming!” she’d trilled loudly. Her enthusiasm and happiness had made me laugh, but I also felt bolstered—she wouldn’t leave before meeting her first grandchild.
* * *
By the time I drag myself out of bed and splash cold water on my face it’s just before seven, and I still feel horrible—brittle with fever, consumed by shock and worry for Jack, and humming from the vestiges of my nightmare about Paige and the bittersweet memories of Mom. I text Audrey and am making a cup of tea when I hear the front door open.
“Meg?”
Tears come to my eyes, and I hastily wipe them away. “In here,” I call out. I turn and lean against the counter, the ceramic mug hot in my hands. Ryan comes into the kitchen and I smile, all the bad feelings I was holding on to about this morning’s argument gone the moment I see him, wanting nothing more than to be inside the safety of his arms.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply, taking a sip of my drink and glancing at the clock. 7:06 p.m. “You came home early.”
He smiles. “I came home early.” He walks to me and, careful not to spill my drink, puts his hands on my shoulders and kisses my forehead. “I left the meeting right after you called and went to Children’s. Audrey was still there.” His eyes—at times blue, at times gray, but today a flecked mix—are concerned. He holds a gentle hand to my forehead, in the spot he just kissed. “You’re hot.”
“Thank you,” I say, batting my eyelashes. Then I cough hard, and my tea spills, scalding and sticky on to my hands. “Ouch!”
Ryan rips off a few sheets from the paper towel roll. He gently wipes my hands, then the edge of my mug and the small circle of wet on the floor near my feet.
“How was everyone doing?” I ask, as he tosses the soiled paper towel into the trash.
“As well as can be expected. Audrey filled me in on what happened.” He watches my face, waiting to see if I want to talk about it. I just nod. “She wanted to stay with Sam until Jack is out of surgery, which might be a while,” he adds. The corners of his mouth turn down, and I wonder what else he knows. “Go, sit,” he says, gesturing to the living room couch. “I’ll join you in a minute, okay?”
I kiss his cheek before heading to the living room, where, with a contented sigh, I sink into the plush cushions. A few minutes later Ryan sits beside me, pulling my slippered feet onto his lap and wrapping my legs in a blanket. Once he’s cocooned me, he grabs the beer he brought with him from the kitchen and twists the cap.
“What did you find out? About Jack?” I hold my breath, my heart racing. Ryan doesn’t answer immediately, and suddenly I’m terrified.
“Is he going to live?” I whisper.
He pauses. With his telling silence I wilt deeper into the cushions, tears springing to my eyes.
“Oh, my god, Ryan—”
“He’s fighting hard,” Ryan says. “But he has a tough road ahead.”
I sit up a bit straighter and steel myself for what a “tough road” means.
“He has a skull fracture and some bleeding in his brain.” Ryan puts a hand on my knee, rubs firmly. “Meg, Praskesh is his surgeon, and he’s the best. He’ll get it under control.”
“I don’t know if Audrey should be there, Ryan. It’s too much. For them. For her.” I take a deep breath, my heart hammering in my chest. I recognize the feeling as panic—I desperately want Audrey home with me, where I can know for sure that she’s okay.
“Someone she loves is suffering a whole lot right now,” he says. “Sam needs her there. And she’s okay. I just saw her. She’s fine, Meg, all things considered.”
I nod and try to control my quivering lips. “What about Jack’s leg? And his back? Andrew said it was broken?”
“They’re trying to save his leg,” Ryan says. Then he sighs, runs a hand over his face, and I try to focus. I think about how when Jack woke up this morning, he had no idea it would be his last as a carefree teenager. That the moment he stepped off the curb, his life would never be the same again. “As for his spine, jury’s still out. It depends on the break. And if his spinal cord was completely severed or not.”
Bile moves up in my throat, and I swallow reflexively a few times. “And if it is completely severed? What will that mean?”
“He’ll be paralyzed.”
A violent shiver moves through me, and my tea nearly spills again on the couch.
“Hey. Hey, come here.” Ryan takes my mug and places it on the ottoman tray. He shimmies closer, tucks me under his arm and rests his head on mine. I fight the tears so hard my shaking intensifies, and Ryan rocks me, like he did when my mom died, and when Audrey was hospitalized with a terrifying case of pneumonia when she was only a year old. “He’s young, Meg. And strong. Even if we’re talking worst case and he’s paralyzed, he can make it through this.” Of course “worst case” isn’t actually paralysis—that would be Jack not surviving this—but I don’t say anything because I understand Ryan is trying to help me.
“Talk to me.” Ryan’s face, so familiar, is creased with worry—his age beginning to show in how easily the lines form on his forehead and around his eyes and don’t fully disappear when at rest. I want to tell him that seeing Jack Beckett fly off Sarah Dunn’s car has brought up what I went through at sixteen, and I wonder if he’s already figured that out.
But still, Ryan doesn’t know everything about the night that Paige died. Just that there was a horrific car accident after a reckless teenage party—the incident made all the papers and news channels, and though we weren’t named, being young adults, our story was used as a cautionary tale in practically every high school in Massachusetts. But though Ryan knows the details of how Paige died and that I witnessed the accident, he’s never understood why I hold myself responsible. The full truth is right there on the tip of my tongue, straining to be released as he holds me. “If you can’t trust the ones you love,” my mom used to say, “life will always feel harder than it needs to be.” But then he shifts position, and the moment is gone, and I tuck the secret and all it carries back inside again.
8 (#u03196365-e241-516a-a543-24cc33d0df3f)
The next morning I see the gel clings on our bedroom windows and smile, thinking of Audrey and her big, bird-loving heart. Then I remember what happened the day before, and the smile melts from my face.
I’m alone in bed, Ryan already up. Squinting at the clock I see it’s nearly seven, and as I come more fully to consciousness I hear shuffling, movement underneath me. The sounds of my family getting ready for the day. I wait a few more minutes, working up the courage to face the day—it was late by the time Ryan went to pick Audrey up at the Becketts, and I was half asleep on the couch when she gave me a kiss good-night before heading to bed. I’m not sure how she’s doing today, though I can imagine.
When I finally walk into the kitchen in my robe and slippers, the vestiges of sleep still clinging to me, Ryan hands me a mug of coffee, and I grimace. “Can’t do it,” I croak, handing it back.
He pulls out his phone and taps the flashlight icon. “I called Prakesh to check in on how Jack’s doing this morning. They were able to stop the bleeding and stabilize his skull fracture, and repair the leg. He’s hanging in there.”
“Oh, thank god,” I say, momentarily refreshed by the sense of relief that washes over me. But then I remember the possible paralysis. “What about...the other thing?”
He shakes his head, a frown on his face, and I know Jack is paralyzed. The weight is back, painfully heavy on my shoulders, and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. Ryan notices and places a gentle finger under my chin. “Let’s worry about you for now, okay?” he says softly. “Open up.”
I open my mouth and stick my tongue way out while he shines the light into my throat. I can smell my rose face cream on his skin—he claims to not need moisturizer whenever I offer to pick up some for him, but my own bottle seems to disappear at a mysterious rate.
“Yuck!” Audrey says, her head right beside Ryan’s as he shines the light down my throat. I resist the urge to close my mouth, my jaw beginning to complain.
“Strep,” Ryan announces, releasing my chin. “Classic.” Even though as a radiologist he probably hasn’t seen a case of strep since medical school, Ryan prides himself on being able to diagnose illnesses that send one to a family doctor. He also likes to guess how many stitches a cut will need, or how many degrees a fever is, or which strain of flu has felled us.
I sigh, rubbing my jaw. “At least I don’t have any showings today. But I can’t do strep right now. No time.”
“That’s what Sam has,” Audrey says, licking yogurt off her spoon before dipping it back into the container. “Apparently it’s going around school.” She looks a bit tired but otherwise seems fairly chipper, considering yesterday’s events. I wonder if she’s simply putting on a good performance.
“Well, I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but you’re doing it,” Ryan says to me as he tucks his phone into the side pocket of his bag and swigs the last of his coffee. “I’m going to drop Audrey at school on the way in, and you’re going to go get swabbed. Just to be sure.”
“You’re going to school?” I turn to her with surprise.
“Why wouldn’t I?” She jumps from her chair at the table and rinses her empty yogurt container out before tossing it into the recycling bin under the sink. I look over at Ryan. Surely she needs at least one day off, to process and talk about what we went through yesterday?
“She’s okay, Meg,” Ryan says, as I open and then close my mouth.
“I’m okay, Mom,” she reiterates, glancing between Ryan and me. “It’s not like we were the ones in the accident or anything.”
“That’s true, Aud, but it’s still a pretty scary thing to see a friend go through.” I wish I could explain how the trauma of being an observer to something so horrifying can be nearly as bad as physical bumps or bruises. Audrey is nearly the same age I was when Paige died, and I’ll never forget what it felt like to realize we weren’t invincible—that terrible things could happen at any moment. “How’s Sam doing?” She shrugs, says he’s okay. “Is there anything you want to talk about? About Jack, or the accident?” I ask, giving her arm a rub.
She slings her backpack over her shoulder, knocking my hand off her arm in the process. I tell myself she didn’t mean to do it. “Nope,” she says, then turns to Ryan. “Can we go? I don’t want to be late.”
I look at Ryan as if to say, “Can you give it a try?” but he’s busy packing up his bag and doesn’t notice.
“We can talk later,” I say to Audrey, tugging on her backpack shoulder strap so she looks at me. “Audrey?”
“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. I pull her to me for a tight hug despite the resistance I feel in her lithe body. I breathe in the scent of her hair, something fruity with a hint of lavender, feeling grateful for the hundredth time since yesterday afternoon that she wasn’t the one in front of that car.
“Mom, we’ve got to go.” She pats my back a couple of times to placate me. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Ryan grabs the handles of his leather duffel bag that he takes to the gym on his lunch break and gives me a kiss. I turn at the last minute so his lips graze my cheek, and he smiles. “Meg, you know I never get sick.” It’s true. After so many years in med school and working in the hospital, Ryan never seems to catch anything.
“I’ll pick you up after school,” I say to Audrey. “We can get ice cream or something.”
She scowls. “It’s too cold for ice cream. And I don’t need a ride. I’m going to the hospital with Sam after school to see Jack.”
I frown.
“Dad said it was okay,” she says, pointing at Ryan.
“Not a good idea, Aud,” I say, not commenting on Ryan’s lax attitude. “Jack’s only just had surgery, and we don’t know where things are at. Plus, I’m sure they’re all exhausted. They don’t need company right now.”
Audrey looks perturbed in the way only a teenaged girl can. “Sam asked me to go with him. It’s fine, Mom. And Dad already said I could.”
I take a deep breath. “Well, it’s not fine with me.” Ryan sighs, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it. “I’ve asked you to come home so we can have a chat. And that can be over ice cream or hot chocolate or whatever, but we are going to talk about things. So I’ll see you in the pickup line, okay?”
She stomps her foot, the way she used to when she was little and didn’t get her way. “You are so annoying!” she shouts before slamming the door to the garage behind her with extra force.
Ryan adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, looks at me with eyebrow raised.
I sit down at the kitchen table and rest my head in my hands. “Why did you tell her she could go? I’m sure the Becketts need time alone right now. Plus, I want to talk with her about yesterday. Make sure she’s all right.”
He doesn’t respond right away, watches me closely. “Look, I know this has probably brought up a lot of stuff for you,” he says, and I peer at him through my hands. I swallow hard, know he’s talking about Paige. “But this situation is completely different. And if she wants to talk about it, she’ll talk, Meg. I don’t think forcing the issue is a great idea.”
I nod, but not because I agree. Simply to acknowledge I’ve heard him. “Tell her I’ll see her in the pickup line, okay?”
Ryan sighs again, this time with barely concealed frustration. “I think you should be prepared for things not to go the way you hope.”
The way I hope? Nothing about this is what I hoped for—but I won’t pretend like our fifteen-year-old has enough emotional maturity to process what happened yesterday on her own. I know how the aftereffects of witnessing such a tragedy can be slow to show themselves, coming out when you least expect them, and it’s my job to support Audrey, whether she wants it or not. Like my mother did for me.
“Noted,” I say to Ryan, matching his frustrated tone. “See you later.”
He starts to open the door, then turns back. “If you want to talk, I’m here, okay?”
“I know,” I reply, some of my irritation slipping away. “Hope you have a good day.”
“You, too,” he says, before heading through the door.
There have been many times I’ve missed having my mom to talk with since she died—when Audrey was a newborn and I couldn’t figure out how to get her to latch on, after what happened with Emma on New Year’s, when I sold my first house, when I caught seven-year-old Audrey stealing a pack of gum from the variety store and marched her back to confess and apologize. But it’s been a long time since I felt the pain of her loss, like someone is burning me from the inside out, and with a sob I wrap my arms around my body and imagine they’re her arms instead.
9 (#u03196365-e241-516a-a543-24cc33d0df3f)
After a jittery, somewhat white-knuckled drive to the clinic—this is the first time I’ve been behind the wheel since the blurry drive to and from the hospital yesterday after Jack’s accident—I make a quick stop at the pharmacy for antibiotics, then go home. My plan is to spend the rest of the day before school pickup alternating between our bed and the living room couch. But by the time I get home my phone has exploded with messages and texts, and sleep seems out of the question.
Julie has sent three check-in texts and Ryan one, asking if I made it the clinic and if I mind if he plays squash after work with his colleague Jamie. My in-box has twenty-five unread messages, a dozen of which are from Tom—even though he knows I’m taking a sick day—about everything from how much wine to get for the open house to whether lilies are “too predictable.” Emma and the PTO need volunteers for the town hall meeting at Merritt High Sunday night, to kick off the school’s anti-texting-while-driving campaign. My dad sent flight details for his upcoming visit for Thanksgiving, along with a link to Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk, which he feels should be mandatory watching for Audrey.
And though I’m busy and distracted most of the day—finally sending out the open house invitation and responding to Tom’s unrelenting questions—thoughts of Jack and the accident squeeze their way into the quiet moments in-between. I’m desperate to know what’s happening but am not sure how to find out. I don’t want to bother Andrew and Alysse, plus Ryan would likely update me if he had any new information. I suppose I could text Audrey, but based on how we left things this morning, I suspect she’ll ignore me.
I try to focus on work but end up obsessing over the “what ifs” while making a cup of tea, only realizing once I take a sip I never actually boiled the water. What if Jack hadn’t stopped to tie his shoelace? What if I’d been paying closer attention, had seen Sarah’s car? What if Sarah Dunn hadn’t chosen that moment to respond to her ex-husband’s text and had kept her eyes on the road?
By the time it’s school pickup time, I’m still feeling ragged and worn out, but at least it’s a beautiful day, warm enough for only a sweater and jeans. With only one main road leading to and from Merritt High, it’s impossible not to drive right past the accident site, where signs have recently been erected, including a hand-painted one that reads, Honk if you love Jesus, text while driving if you want to meet Him. I try to keep my eyes on the road ahead, but they drift to the large pile of colorful flowers in plastic wrap situated on the edge of the curb, right near where Jack lay bleeding in the street yesterday afternoon. I’m weak when I approach the accident spot and press the gas a little more firmly to get by it all more quickly.
A minute later I drive past the semicircle driveway in front of the school and into Merritt High’s parking lot. I’ve decided Audrey and I will take a walk on the nearby trail and have a chat. The school sent an email about the crisis team they set up to talk with the students, but I know how easy it is to tell experts what they want to hear. No, Audrey needs to convince me she’s coping before I leave it alone, like Ryan suggests I should.
I’m standing by the front doors, only a few cars in the pickup line because it’s still early, holding a tray with two lattes—after much nagging, I’ve recently agreed that Audrey can drink coffee, as long as it comes with loads of milk—when I hear my name.
“Meg?”
I turn and see Andrew, in his car at the front of the pickup line. The window is down, and he’s leaning across the passenger seat.
“Hi,” I say, walking over to the car and bending down. “How are you?”
It’s a question asked out of habit, but I resist the urge to cringe because the answer is obvious. Dark shadows cup his eyes, the darkness highlighted because of how pale he looks. His hair is disheveled, some pieces sticking up, others laying flat against his head. He’s obviously been up all night.
“We’re hanging in there.” He dips his chin, and I can see him fighting to maintain an expression that backs up his words. “Want to get in? They won’t be out for another ten minutes or so.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t want to. Because when I look at Andrew I see Jack, and all I can think about is my careless wave, about how Jack’s body looked flying off of Sarah Dunn’s car. Swallowing hard and forcing the image from my mind, I nudge the passenger side door with my hip and hand Andrew the tray of lattes as I get in. “Do you want one?” I ask, pointing to the tray, hoping my voice sounds steady, because inside I’m a wobbly mess. “It’s for Audrey, but honestly, I’m still not fully onboard with her drinking coffee.”
“No, thanks,” he says. “It was a pretty rough night, and I don’t think my body can take any more caffeine, to be honest.”
I nod, rest the tray on my lap, unsure what to say next as we sit quietly side by side. “So Sam’s at school today?”
