Maybe in Another Life (23 page)

“OK,” Gabby says. “Thank you.” She turns to me. “Let’s go.”

We go past what looks like a neonatal unit, maybe intensive care. And then we go through double doors and find ourselves in the children’s ward.

“I don’t think this is the right way,” I say.

“She said there was a left up here somewhere . . .”

I look over at the nurses and then peek through the windows as we move farther down the hall. It’s mostly toddlers and elementary-school-age kids. I see a few teenagers. Almost all of them are in hospital beds, hooked up to machines, as I have been. A lot of them wear stockings or caps. It occurs to me that they are covering their bald heads.

“OK,” Gabby says. “You’re right. We’re lost.”

I pull over to the side of the hallway.

“I’m just going to go ask a nurse for a map,” Gabby says.

“OK,” I say.

From my vantage point, I can see into one room with two kids in it. The kids are talking. Two preteen girls in separate beds. A doctor is standing to the side, talking to a set of parents. Both parents look confused and distraught. The doctor leaves. As he does, I can see there is a nurse standing with them. The nurse starts to leave, too, and the parents catch her at the door. They are close enough to me now that I can make out the conversation.

“What did all of that mean?” the mom says.

The nurse speaks gently. “As Dr. Mackenzie said, it’s a bone cancer mostly found in adolescents. It can sometimes occur in families. It’s rare, but possible, that multiple siblings may develop it. That’s why he wants to see your younger daughter, too. Just to be sure.”

The mom starts crying. The dad rubs her back. “OK, thank you,” the dad says.

The nurse doesn’t leave then, though. She stays. “Sophia is a fighter. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. And Dr. Mackenzie is an exceptional pediatric oncologist. I mean, exceptional. If it was my daughter here—my daughter is eight, her name is Madeleine—I’m telling you, I’d be doing exactly what you are doing. I’d put her in the hands of Dr. Mackenzie.”

“Thank you,” the mom says. “Thanks.”

The nurse nods. “If you need anything, if you have any questions, just page me. I’ll answer any I can, and if I can’t”—she looks them in the eye, assuring them—“I will get Dr. Mackenzie to explain. In simple terms, if he can manage it,” she says, making a joke.

The dad smiles. The mom, I notice, has stopped crying.

They end their conversation just as Gabby comes back with the map. Both Gabby and the nurse can now tell I’ve been eavesdropping. I quickly look away, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been caught.

Gabby pushes my chair down the hallway.

“I can do it,” I say. I take the wheels. When we are far enough away, I ask her, “Was that the kids’ cancer ward?”

“It says ‘Pediatric Oncology Department,’ ” she says. “So yeah.”

I don’t say anything for a moment, and neither does she.

“We’re actually not that far from your room,” she says. “I just missed a left.”

“Being a nurse . . . seems like a hard job. But fulfilling,” I say.

“My dad has always said it’s the nurses who provide the care,” she says. “I always thought it was kind of a cheesy double entendre, but his point always made sense.”

I laugh. “Yeah, he could just say, ‘Nurses might not be the ones who cure you, but they certainly make you feel better.’ ”

Gabby laughs. “Tell him that, will you? Maybe he’ll use that one from now on.”

I
don’t know what you’re supposed to wear to tell your new boyfriend, who used to be your ex-boyfriend and is the man you are pretty much convinced is the love of your life, that you are having a baby with another man.

I decide on jeans and a gray sweater.

I brush my hair so many times it develops a shine to it, and then I put it up in my very best high bun.

Before I head out the door, I offer, one more time, to stay home with Charlemagne and Gabby.

“Oh, no,” Gabby says. “Absolutely not.”

“But I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I mean, you know, I won’t be fine. That was a lie. But I’ll be fine in the sense that I’m not going to burn the house down or anything. I’ll be just as sad when you get back. If it’s any consolation.”

“It is not,” I say. I take my hand off the doorknob. I really don’t feel good about leaving her by herself. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Who’s alone?” she says. “I have Charlemagne. The two of us are going to watch television until our eyes fall out of our heads and then go to sleep. We might take an Ambien.” She corrects herself. “I mean, I might take an Ambien.” She continues to look at me. “Just to be clear,” she says, “I’m not going to drug the dog.”

“I’m staying,” I say.

“You’re going. Don’t
use me as an excuse to avoid your own problems. You and I have a lot of adjusting to do, and it’s better for everyone if we know where things stand with Ethan as soon as possible.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right.

“The new you tackles life head-on, remember?” she says. “The new you doesn’t run from her problems.”

“Ugh,” I say, opening the front door. “I hate the new me.”

Gabby smiles as I head out. It is the first smile I’ve seen in two days. “I’m proud of the new you,” she says.

I thank her and walk out the door.

It’s ten to seven when I park my car outside Ethan’s apartment. It took me three times around the block before I found a spot, but then I saw a car pulling out of a space right in front of his place. I was both frustrated and thrilled at the experience. I suddenly wonder what driving in Los Angeles will be like with a child. Will it take me a half hour getting in and out of the car because I’ll never truly figure out how to hook up a car seat? Will I have to circle the block over and over accompanied by the soothing sounds of a baby crying? Oh, God. I can’t do this.

I have to do this.

What do you do when you have to do something you can’t do?

I get out of the car and shut my door. I breathe in sharply, and then I breathe out slowly.

Life is just a series of breaths in and out. All I really have to do in this world is breathe in and then breathe out, in succession, until I die. I can do that. I can breathe in and out.

I knock on Ethan’s door, and he opens it wearing an apron that says “Mr. Good Lookin’ Is Cookin.” It has a picture of a stick-figure man with a spatula.

I can’t do this.

“Hey, you,” he says.
He grabs me in his arms, tightly, and I wonder if it’s too tight for the baby. I don’t know the first thing about being pregnant! I don’t know anything about being a mom. What am I doing? This is all going to end in a terrible disaster. I am Hurricane Hannah, and everything I touch turns to shit.

“I missed you,” he tells me. “Isn’t that ridiculous? I can’t go one day not seeing you, after years without you.”

I smile at him. “I know what you mean.”

He leads me into the kitchen. “I know we mentioned going out to dinner, but I decided to make you a proper meal.”

“Oh, wow,” I say, trying to muster up enthusiasm, but I’m not sure I’m doing a good job.

“I Googled some recipes at work and just got home from the store a few minutes before you got here. What you’re looking at is chicken
sopa seca
.” He pronounces it with an affected Spanish accent. He is silly and sweet and sincere, and I decide, right this second, that I’m not going to tell him tonight.

I love him. And I think I have always loved him. And I’m going to lose him. And just for tonight, I want to experience how it feels to be his, to be loved by him, to believe that this is the beginning of something.

Because I’m pretty sure it’s the end.

Just like that, I become the version of myself that I was just two days ago. I am Hannah Martin, a woman who has no idea that she is pregnant, no idea that she is about to lose the one thing she might have wanted her entire adult life.

“Fancy!” I say to him. “It looks like it takes quite a bit of prep.”

“Actually, I just have a few more steps, and then everything goes in the oven,” he says. “I think.
Yeah, I think it goes in the oven.”

I start laughing. “You’ve never made this before?”

“Chicken
sopa seca
? When in my life would I have ever had reason to make chicken
sopa seca
? I didn’t even know what it was until a few hours ago. I make grilled cheese. I bake potatoes. When I’m feeling really fancy, I’ll make myself a pot of chili. I don’t go around wooing girls with chicken
sopa seca
.” He is chopping vegetables and putting them into a pot. I hang back and sit down on the stool by the kitchen.

“What is chicken
sopa seca
?” I ask him.

“I’m still a bit unclear on that,” he says, laughing. “But it involves pasta, so . . .”

“You’ve never even had it?”

“Again, Hannah, I ask you, when do you think I have occasion to have chicken
sopa seca
?”

I laugh. “Well, why are you making it?” I ask. He is pouring broth into the pot. He looks like a natural.

“Because you are the kind of person who deserves a fuss made over her. That’s why. And I’m just the guy to do that.”

“You could have just made me a cinnamon roll,” I tell him.

He laughs. “Considered and dismissed. It’s too obvious. Everyone gets you cinnamon rolls. I wanted to do something unexpected.”

I laugh. “Well, if you aren’t making cinnamon rolls, then what’s for dessert?”

“Ah!” he says. “I’m glad you asked.” He pulls out a cluster of bananas.

“Bananas?”

“Bananas Foster. I’m gonna light these babies on fire.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

He laughs. “I’m
kidding. I bought fruit and Nutella.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say.

“How’s Charlemagne?” Ethan asks. Charlemagne, the baby, Gabby and Mark—I want to leave all of it at the door. I don’t want to bring any of that here.

“Let’s not talk about Charlemagne,” I say. “Let’s talk about . . .”

“Let’s talk about how kickass you are,” Ethan says. “With a new job starting and a new car and a dog and a handsome boyfriend who makes world-class cuisine.”

This is when I should say something. This is my opening.

But his eyes are so kind and his face so familiar. And so much else in my life is scary and new.

He kisses me. I immediately sink into him, into his breath, into his arms.

This is all going to be over. This is ending.

He picks me up off the stool, and I wrap my arms around him.

He brings me into the bedroom. He pulls my T-shirt off. He starts to unfasten my bra.

“Wait,” I say.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he tells me. “The
sopa seca
has to simmer on low for a while. It’s not going to burn.”

“No,” I say. I sit up. I look him in the eye. I put my shirt back on. “I’m pregnant.”

D
r. Winters comes in to check on me toward the end of the day. Gabby has gone home.

“So,” she says, “I’ve heard you’ve been galavanting around the hospital in your wheelchair.” She smiles. It’s a reproach but a kind one.

“I’m not really supposed to be doing that, huh?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says. “But I have bigger fish to fry, so to speak.”

I smile, appreciative.

“You are healing nicely. We’re almost out of the woods here, in terms of risk of complications.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down at my chart. “We should talk about your next steps.”

“OK,” I say. “Tell me.”

“One of our physical therapists is going to come in tomorrow, around eleven.”

“OK.”

“And he and I will assess what sort of mobility you have, what you can expect in a reasonable amount of time, what you should know going forward.”

“Great.”

“And we will come up with a program and a tentative timeline for when you can expect to begin walking unaided.”

“Sounds good,” I tell her.

“This is a long road ahead. It’s one that can be very frustrating.”

“I know,” I say. I’ve been sitting in a bed for a week, leaving only rarely and only with help.

“It will only get more frustrating,” she says. “You are going to have to learn how to do something you already know how to do. You will get angry. You will feel like giving up.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not going to give up.”

“Oh, I know that,” she says. “I just want you to know that it’s OK to
want
to give up. That it’s OK to reach a breaking point with this stuff. You have to have patience with yourself.”

“You’re saying I’m going to have to relearn how to walk,” I tell her. “I already know that. I’m ready.”

“I’m saying you’re going to have to relearn how to live,” she says. “Learn how to do things with your hands for a while instead of your legs. Learn how to ask for help. Learn when you have reached your limit and when you can keep going. And all I’m saying is that we have resources at your disposal. We can help you get through all of it. You will get through all of it.”

I felt I had this under control, to a certain degree, before she walked in here, and now she’s making me feel like everything is a disaster.

“OK,” I say. “I’ll let that marinate.”

“OK,” she says. “I’ll come check on you tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” I say. I only half mean it.

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, but I know that if I go to sleep now, I’ll wake up in time to see Henry. So that’s what I do. I go to bed. I only have a few more nights in this hospital. I’d hate to waste one sleeping.