Laurel’s eyes drift shut, and she simply holds Andrea. She’s drinking in the very scent of our child. Memorizing her, before she has to leave her behind again. Watching them together, I find myself thinking of the hospital—of the first time I held Andrea, and the look on Laurel’s weary face. Joy, heartbreak, amazement; it was all there. Many times—long before Alex died—I’ve thought of what that cost her.
I know she wants to take her back today. She aches with it, deep in her bones because Andrea is her child, same as she’s mine. And leaving her behind now, when she knows what a hole she has in her life—that’s got to be killing her. I know, because living with that hole, that giant crater Alex’s absence has left, well it’s killing me, too. Every day I stare into it, like a mirror; every day I know what my baby girl’s got missing in her life.
But watching them there at curbside, Andie’s cheek resting against her birth mother’s shoulder, I think of someone else that’s missing. And it isn’t Alex, oddly enough. For some unexpected reason, I remember the other baby Laurel carried briefly, of Andrea’s lost fraternal twin. The tiny second baby that appeared on the first sonogram, but had vanished by the next, before we could even find out if it was a boy or a girl. It was in the bloodline, they told us. Twins could be expected with in vitro fertilization. Still, that soaring feeling when I saw those two tiny sacks on the screen was the most unexpected miracle of my life.
And then one simply disappeared.
Of course we focused our joy on Andrea, but sometimes I do think about her—
I say her because I’ve always felt the other baby was a girl, just like her sister. Maybe one day, when Andie’s old enough, I’ll tell her about her vanished twin.
It seems to me that life is an accumulation of losses. All these lives brush past our own, impacting us, changing us. Sometimes their mark is as fleeting as a tiny thumbprint. As insubstantial. Like a tiny, ghostly ship down in the murky depths that vanishes before we even see it again.
I would have liked to call that child Ruth. After my mother.
Laurel and Andrea step apart, Andie backing closer to me. I slip my hands on her shoulders. Laurel stands there, suitcase clutched in her hand, smiling at me—and I realize she’s waiting. Waiting for me to hug her, too. So I lean close, bending to give her a quick peck on the cheek. But she takes hold of me now, and doesn’t let go. Against my face, I feel her warm, familiar breath as she kisses me. “I love you, Michael,” she whispers softly, touching my jaw with her fingertips. “I love you. And don’t forget that you will always be my brother.”
I try to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. I have no words at all. So I just wave as she steps backwards from me, tears shining in her eyes despite her beautiful smile. Then in one graceful move she disappears through the opening glass doors to the airport into the throngs of people. With that one pirouette she’s gone from our lives again.
When Andie tugs on my hand, I realize I’ve been standing, staring after her aunt. Staring at nothing for a while.
“It will be okay,” my brave daughter says, smiling up at me. God, she’s so much stronger than I’ve ever managed to be. I miss Laurel. I miss her a hell of a lot, something I never could figure out how to explain over the past four days; how so much anger and resentment can cohabitate easily with love.
I nod and squeeze Andrea’s small hand in mine. “It will be okay,” I agree.
It will be okay, because it has to be. With everyone I’ve lost, all the lives that have brushed against mine then faded away, I can’t afford to lose anyone else.
Chapter Twenty-One: Rebecca
Andrea and I stand in Mona’s driveway, watching Michael recheck the surfboards on his truck rack before we leave my place for Malibu. He adjusts the straps, giving them quick tugs; Andrea balances on the low brick wall beside Mona’s flower garden, hopping along as she walks. She’s definitely excited about this three-day trip, even though she’s quiet. And I notice the way she steals furtive glances at the shopping bag in my hand, one that’s filled with little girl beachy things I couldn’t resist buying. I figure I’ll keep the contents a surprise unless she asks.
Michael gives the surfboards a final, reassuring pat. Like he’s getting their agreement to cooperate in our travel plans. “Everything okay up there?” I call out with a smile.
“Want to be sure they’re really down tight,” Michael explains, vaulting over the side of the truck bed. It’s one of those fluid, all-guy maneuvers—truck to driveway in a single motion. That same masculine gracefulness must be breathtaking on a surfboard.
Brushing off his hands, he says, “Last thing we need is a board flying off and hitting somebody.”
“That happened to Daddy once,” Andrea explains, climbing down off the garden wall. “When he was in high school. Somebody’s board broke his windshield. That’s what he said.”
Michael takes the tote bag from my hand, giving me a gallant, flirty smile. Out here in the late morning sunshine, the gold flecks in his eyes almost assume a hazel hue.
Andrea turns to me. “Hey, Rebecca? Are you really going to surf?”