Chasing Rainbows A Novel

TWENTY


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A few weeks later, George Clooney fed me grapes, the tips of his fingers brushing my lips as he dropped each juicy morsel into my waiting, hungry mouth.

He reached up and ruffled the top of my hair. “You look cute as a boy.”

Cute.

Even in my dreams, I couldn’t get things right.

Ding dong.

George tipped his head to one side. “Must be Aidan. He’s bringing over the brownies.”

Ding dong.

“Aidan?” I asked lazily.

George nodded. “Number Thirty-Six.”

Oh. Aidan.

With that, George morphed into Number Thirty-Six, all tousled hair and sexy grin.

My nerves simmered to life inside me, but I slapped them away, reminding myself there was no room for nerves in a dream this good.

I focused on relaxing as the doorbell sounded again.

Number Thirty-Six winked and I wondered what kind of brownies he’d brought to the party.

An icy-cold wet nose nudged my cheek, but I swiped it away.

Ding dong.

Another nose nudge. Another swipe.

This time, a paw on my chest.

“Poindexter,” I muttered, willing myself to stay in the dream. “If you could see what I see, you’d let me sleep.”

Ding dong.

I frowned, blinking open my eyes.

That last chime most definitely was not part of the dream.

I blew out a sigh of regret, bid a silent farewell to George, Number Thirty-Six and the brownies, and reached for my robe.

Poindexter gave my cheek a quick lick, and I gave his neck a squeeze as I pushed myself off of the bed. “Good boy.” I think.

I’d just slid my bare feet into my bunny slippers when the doorbell rang yet again.

Whoever this was, they meant business--I squinted at the clock--at sixty-thirty in the morning.

My stomach did a slow sideways roll.

Someone was at my front door, ringing the bell insistently, at six-thirty in the morning.

A phone call this early in the morning meant bad news, but a house call had to mean... I shook my head, refusing to let my thoughts do anything more than focus on making it to the front door.

When I peered through the peephole and saw Diane, blotchy-faced and obviously upset, my stomach’s sideways roll morphed into a full-out tilt. A knot formed in my throat and squeezed.

In one smooth motion, I yanked open the door, grasped her arm and pulled her into the foyer.

Her eyes had grown to the size of saucers, tears swimming along the edge of her lower lashes.

I studied her, forcing my lips to form one word. “What?”

Myriad thoughts flew through my mind in the time it took her to answer. The baby. David. Ashley. Ashley and David. Their house. The rink. All of them. None of them. And wasn’t Diane supposed to be under baby house arrest?

“It’s Ryan.”

Ryan?

I’m fairly sure I stopped breathing momentarily. I know for a fact my heart stopped beating.

You can tell yourself you don’t care about someone until the moment you think they might be hurt, or sick, or worse.

The full force of how much I still cared about Ryan hit me like an oncoming locomotive--headlight beaming, horn blaring--knocking me backward until my heels hit the bottom step and I sank onto the stairs.

“Is he...?”

I held my breath waiting for her answer.

Diane nodded. “A daddy.”

A daddy?

I shut my eyes, hating myself for how quickly the tears came, stinging behind my closed lids.

“Girl or boy?” I asked without opening my eyes, but I pulled myself taller, as if a stiff spine could fool anyone, including me, about how much this hurt.

“Girl.”

Diane spoke the word in barely more than a whisper, wedging herself onto the step beside me, squeezing her very-pregnant body between the wall and me. She wrapped one arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.

Poindexter tiptoed down the steps behind us to investigate. He typically hid after I answered the door to make sure whoever stood on the other side posed no threat. Then he appeared.

Had the visitor been a burglar, axe murderer, or door-to-door magazine salesperson, he’d be beneath the bed upstairs by now.

Instead he sat behind me, his furry chest pressed against my back as he lowered his chin to my shoulder, tucking his head against my neck.

“Is she all right? Healthy?” An irrational fear tugged at my insides as I asked the question.

“She’s fine.”

I nodded, happy for that much. “What did they name her?”

Diane shook her head against mine. “I don’t know. Ryan called David, but he didn’t say anything more than she was here.”

She was here.

Ryan’s new daughter. Ryan’s new life.

I had thought I’d be prepared for this. After Emma’s death and Dad’s death, I hadn’t expected this particular moment in my life to be quite as painful as it was, but the deep, throbbing ache in my heart was almost more than I could bear.

“Well,” I forced a note of levity into my voice, even though I knew I’d never fool Diane. “I should have known it would take more than a designer purse sale to get you out of bed this early.”

My voice broke on the last word and a guttural sob punched through my facade of control.

Diane tightened her grip on me, anchoring my head against her neck. Poindexter moved even closer, until I felt like a sandwich filling, pressed between the woman and dog who probably loved me more than most everyone else in my life.

And even though my heart hurt at the mental image of Ryan cradling his new daughter, my head knew I’d survive.

“It’s going to be all right, Bernie,” Diane whispered. “I promise.”

I nodded. I knew she was right, but for the time being, I was content to stay exactly where I was. Safe. Protected.

I could face the world later.

After all, I was fairly sure it wasn’t going anywhere.

o0o

I called out sick to the rink, though based on David’s voice, he hadn’t believed a word of my elaborate fictional disease description.

Matter of fact, he’d sounded sympathetic and concerned.

I scowled.

The whole new in-touch-with-his-emotions David might take some getting used to.

I’d decided to pull a movie marathon.

Why just wallow in my sadness? Why not watch one sappy love story after another to fully reinforce the fact there wasn’t a sign of true love or romance to be had in my life.

After the Dating Now fiasco, I’d let my trial membership lapse, leaving me with just about zero prospects for a love match. And even though he’d been quite friendly in my dream, I hadn’t had a single Number Thirty-Six sighting since I’d verbally attacked him over Poindexter’s near-death experience.

I had just slipped into another blissfully deep sleep when the doorbell rang.

I was beginning to see a pattern here.

I wiggled out from beneath Poindexter’s limp body. The dog was either one hell of a deep sleeper or one hell of a good actor. If I had to bet, I would have gone with the latter.

When I spotted Ashley through the peephole, I warmed instantly. Unless the kid was on the run and looking for a place to hide, I was happy to see her.

Hell, I’d be happy to see her even if she was on the run.

She brightened when I opened the door, blessedly saying nothing about her Uncle Ryan’s new baby.

“Dad was going to let you drive the Zamboni all by yourself.” She bounced past me, headed straight for Poindexter and the sofa.

Let me? “Let me?”

She nodded, her penciled-in brows lifting in an effort at sincerity. “Builds character, you know.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “So I hear.”

She plunked down next to Poindexter, hoisting his furry chin off of the cushion and onto her knee. He lazily studied her before thumping his tail and snuggling in close.

“I wish we had a dog,” she murmured then lifted her intense gaze to mine. “Did you know dogs do whatever you say and love you no matter what?”

“Really?” I felt a smile spread across my face, a touch of lightness pushing against the darkness I’d felt since Diane’s visit that morning. I tipped my chin in Poindexter’s direction. “You might want to tell him that. I don’t think he gets it.”

I made air quotes with my fingers and instantly frowned. So did Ashley.

Since when had I become an air quote person?

I shuddered, forcing myself to refocus on Ashley’s sudden appearance at my front door.

“How did you get here?” I perched on the coffee table, patting her knee.

“Bus.”

I was beginning to think the kid was up to something more than a social call. “You took the bus to come see me?”

She shrugged as if her actions were inconsequential, but I’d known this child since the moment of her birth. As much as I’d like to believe she’d gone out of her way simply to check on my well being, I knew better.

“Where do your parents think you are?”

“Mall.” She flipped through the stack of DVDs I’d tossed onto the coffee table, her head snapping up as she grinned at me. “Have any peas, Aunt Bernie?”

Peas. God help me. “What did you do?” I did my best to keep the suspicion out of my voice, but based on Ashley’s sudden frown, I’d failed miserably.

“I didn’t do anything.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

I pressed my lips together, saying nothing, deciding to pass on any attempt at a single eyebrow arch.

“I skipped school,” she muttered, bending to hug Poindexter.

Skipped school. Oh, how I remembered those days.

“You did what?” I pushed to my feet. “Why?”

A shadow washed across her face. “You sound just like mom.”

Did I? Maybe I was making progress in my efforts to become an adult.

“That’s not an answer.”

She sucked in a deep breath and straightened, meeting my expectant gaze head on. “The Neanderthal called me a clown.”

Maybe the next time she pointed a Zamboni at the cave man, I’d hit the gas instead of the brake.

“What happened?”

“My eyebrows smeared.”

I bit down on my lower lip to control any involuntary reaction my facial features might have.

“What do you mean smeared?”

“Smeared.” She gave another shrug. “I sweat, Aunt Bernie. I’m only human. And when I wiped my forehead--” she made the motion as if to prove her point, trailing two pale streaks across her forehead “--they smeared.”

Shit. She did look like a clown.

“I can’t go back there.”

“Yes, you can.” I nodded. “We’ll go back to the mall. Those little...salespersons...at the Rediscover You kiosk must have something waterproof.”

Ashley’s eyes glimmered with hope. “You’d do that for me?”

“Honey, I’d do anything for you.” I leaned down to press a kiss to her smeared forehead before I used my thumbs to erase all evidence of the makeup pencil’s remains.

“How about those peas?” Ashley’s voice climbed three octaves on the last word.

I laughed. The kid was nothing if not persistent. “I never touch the stuff, but I know someone who might.”

I reached for the phone and punched in Sophie Cooke’s number. After all, she kept telling me to call if I needed anything.

Much as encouraging Ashley’s pea craving went against every law of junk food I held dear, I knew how much these teenage years could hurt--even with eyebrows.

If the kid wanted legumes, I’d go to the ends of the earth--or at least next door--to find her legumes.

While I listened to Sophie say she’d be right over with the cans she’d purchased at last week’s two-for-one sale, Ashley straightened from the sofa, moving toward the mantle.

I watched her from the corner of my eye, my heart catching as she studied Emma’s photo and traced one slender finger along the lines of my daughter’s face.

My stomach tightened, the usual dread knotting inside me as I hung up the phone.

“What are all of those things on her face?”

Surprise flickered through me. Not that Ashley had asked the question. I had always known she would someday.

What surprised me was that whenever someone did ask the question, I was never as prepared as I thought I should be.

“She needed some help breathing, honey.” I stepped to her side, pointing to the tape and tubing on her face. “She needed some oxygen after she was first born.”

“And then she could do it herself?”

Ashley looked into my eyes, and the hope and innocence in her gaze stole my breath away.

I bit down on my lip and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, hoping she hadn’t spotted the tears threatening in my eyes.

“No.” I forced the word through my tight throat, wondering when it would ever get easier to talk about Em. “She never could breathe for herself, but she sure tried. She got better and better and then her heart gave out, honey.”

Ashley said nothing, studying me, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry you never got to bring her home, Aunt Bernie.”

I blinked then, forcing a smile, fighting like hell against the sting of tears in my eyes.

In one sentence, Ashley had summed up all my pain.

I never got to bring Emma home.

I wrapped my arms around Ashley’s neck and squeezed. “Thanks,” I said softly.

And then the mental image of Ryan holding his new daughter filled my brain and an inexplicable anger pushed against my sadness.

He’d replaced Emma.

He’d found another woman, another baby, another life.

Ashley pushed away from my embrace and narrowed her gaze on me as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“I think Uncle Ryan wanted the new baby because of how much he loved Emma, don’t you think?”

The vise of anger and grief loosened its grip on my heart and I stared down at the carpet for a moment.

Maybe Ryan hadn’t been trying to replace Emma...or me. Maybe he’d been trying to recapture what we’d once had.

I looked up at the picture, at the look of sheer joy painted across Ryan’s features as he’d cradled Emma in his arms.

Ashley was right.

Ryan hadn’t been trying to replace our daughter at all.

He’d only wanted to feel that same sense of unconditional love again. One more time.

And suddenly, I couldn’t find a shred of a reason to fault him for that.

“Can I see her memory box, Aunt Bernie?”

Ashley’s question so surprised me, I audibly gasped.

“I’d like to see it, too.”

Sophie’s voice startled me. I hadn’t heard her come through the front door.

She pointed back toward the foyer as she stepped into the room. “I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me. I hope you don’t mind.”

Moisture blurred my vision and I shook my head, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Of course not.”

She held up two cans of peas and waved them in the air. “Ta da.”

But then her focus locked on my face and I felt my features crumple, unable to hold my emotions at bay for another second.

Without saying another word, she crossed the room and wrapped me in a hug. I melted into her, not caring about the stream of tears that escaped, beating wet paths down my cheeks.

“Life has a funny way of working out, dear,” she whispered against my ear. “Never forget that.” She pushed me out to arm’s length and gave me a gentle smile. “I’d love to see Emma’s things.” She spoke the words without an ounce of uncertainty.

“Really?” I blinked away the lingering moisture in my eyes.

I found it difficult to believe her. No one ever asked to see Emma’s things before today. No one.

I’d never quite understood if it was because they didn’t want to remember what had happened or if they were too uncomfortable. Maybe it was because they were afraid to bring up my memories, my heartache.

“Really,” Sophie answered.

Something glimmered in her eyes and I realized she wasn’t afraid of the box. Wasn’t afraid of the memories.

Even more than that, I knew without a doubt it wasn’t my heartache she hoped to bring back.

It was my joy.

I stole a glance at Ashley. Moisture shimmered in her eyes as she nodded at me.

“Okay,” I said softly, returning her nod. I turned for the stairs, hesitating momentarily on the bottom step to take another look at these two women.

Sophie’s eyes met mine, her gaze softening with encouragement and love.

Was this really the face of the woman who’d yelled at me countless mornings over Poindexter’s barking?

Her eyes crinkled just the tiniest bit as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“I’ll be right back.” I heard myself say, and the next thing I knew, I was headed upstairs to retrieve my most private possession, ready to share my most painful--and my most joyous--memories with the lanky teen and the next door neighbor who had become two of the most important women in my life.

o0o

I sat and stared for a long time after Sophie left and David came to take Ashley home. I stared at the contents of Emma’s memory box, at her photo on the mantle.

Trisomy 18.

I remembered when the call came. I remembered the time of day, the smell of late summer coming in through the open windows, and I remembered the tone of Dr. Platt’s voice.

I remembered the slick wall, cold behind my back as I slid to the floor in disbelief and shock.

And then we’d battled--Ryan and I--together as a team.

We’d fought for Emma’s life, and for five days, we’d won.

I slowly climbed the stairs then headed down the hall to Emma’s room, or rather, what would have been Emma’s room.

I’m sorry you never got to bring her home, Aunt Bernie. Ashley’s words reverberated in my brain as I peeked through the doorway.

An oversized plush bunny snuggled into the pillows on the bed where I’d always imagined I’d cuddle Emma on nights she couldn’t sleep or got scared. Trailing pink and yellow tulips graced the fleece blanket on which Emma had rested at the hospital.

A rainbow of stuffed elephants, bears and dogs lined the shelves, waiting for a little girl who would never come home, who would never cuddle them in her sleep. I touched their heads lightly with fingertips that still remembered the softness of Emma’s skin and the downy hair on her forehead.

She would have loved it here.

A sob pushed against my throat and I pressed my fingertips to my lips to hold it back.

Ryan had never believed the prognosis. He’d always sworn the test results were wrong, the ultrasound findings were inaccurate. But me...I’d always known something wasn’t right.

Call it mother’s intuition--call it whatever you want to call it--I’d known Emma was sick. Sure, I’d believed in the miracle. I’d been convinced she’d prove the doctors wrong by being born alive, but I’d never been able to picture her coming home.

Had I failed her by not believing enough?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure up the image of her face, her scent, the feel of her tiny body against my chest as I’d held her in NICU. Then I refocused on the here and now.

The doorway to Emma’s room. The doorway to what might have been.

I’d stood here countless times before. I’d sat in the middle of the floor with her belongings piled around me, intending to sort them, give them away, put them in storage.

But I never had.

I’d never been able to fully accept the truth.

Emma wasn’t coming home.

This time, as I stood here, the reality of Emma’s empty room felt different to me.

I looked at my feet, blinking against the tears that came, watching as one fell with a tiny splash to the top of my foot.

When I lifted my gaze, refocusing on Emma’s room, everything looked the same, and yet everything looked different.

I needed to let go.

And this time, I was ready.

o0o

By the time I’d sorted and packed Emma’s toys and clothes and blankets, my eyes were gritty with fatigue, but there was still one thing left to do.

Ryan and I were meeting at my lawyer’s office in a few weeks to sign our property settlement papers. I patted a small box as I pushed away from the bureau in Emma’s room, making a mental note to take it with me when I saw him.

I ruffled Poindexter’s head as I passed him in the hall, gesturing for him to follow me when he wearily lifted his snout and squinted at me.

We padded downstairs together, I checked the lock on the front door as we passed and I tossed him a few dog treats then let him out back.

The night was clear and cold, a bit colder than normal for this time of year, but early spring was like that around here. You never knew what kind of weather you were going to get from one day to the next.

Kind of like life.

I slid open the drawer where I’d stashed the beads and wire and jewelry tools and plucked out the bag holding them all.

I let Poindexter back inside, locked the back door and then settled at the kitchen table, methodically spreading everything before me, this time seeing the pattern and color combinations as if they’d been heaven sent.

I took a deep breath, measured the wire and snipped. I faithfully worked the pattern, over and over, stopping and starting, cutting the wire and beginning again, until I got it right.

I wove the beads into a simple pattern--a rainbow of colors and textures down the middle framed by seed beads the color of the sun down either side.

As I reached for my bedside lamp a long while later, I studied the play of color against my wrist, tracing my fingertip over each piece of glass.

I reached for Dad’s book and flipped the cover open, searching not for a cryptogram to solve but instead for the words he’d written on the inside front cover, the sentiment he’d lived by, taught us, hoped we’d believe.

In life, you either choose to sing a rainbow, or you don’t.

Maybe I’d taken my time in getting to this point. Maybe someone else would have bounced right back from life’s curve balls without quitting a job and cutting their hair and almost sleeping with their landscaper.

But, I hadn’t. And that was all right.

This was my rainbow. Mine alone. And maybe for me, the singing had finally begun.

o0o

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer.”

-Albert Camus