“Yeah.”
“I came by your house too, but your mom said you weren’t up for having visitors.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I…uh…” I try to come up with a reasonable excuse for not returning his calls or wanting to see him, but I’ve got nothing. The truth is, I couldn’t face him, knowing he was thinking what Meg’s parents and everyone who was ever close to her were thinking—that she’s dead because of me.
Eventually I give up trying to come up with a response. Alan doesn’t seem to be expecting a real answer anyway.
We’re quiet for a long time. I stare out at Lake Winnipesaukee. You can see across to the other side easily, but its size is deceiving because it’s not round. It’s all warped, with hidden bends and nooks. You could spend your whole life out here and it would keep surprising you.
I haven’t been here in a long time.
After a while, Alan says, “She looks like her.”
I blink out of my daze. “What?”
“The baby. She looks like Meg.”
The name hits me hard, right in the gut. Even though it’s always with me, I haven’t heard it spoken aloud in months. I dig my heels into the grass and run soccer drills in my head. When all the bad feelings are safely restrained, I turn to Alan and find him staring at Hope. I look back at the lake. “You think?” I ask. My voice is flat.
I already know she looks like Meg. It’s all I see whenever I look at her. Shoshanna was right—Hope is cute. Beautiful even. Like her mother. Especially lately, now that she’s growing out of that smooshed-face, all-newborns-look-alike thing. Other than her eyes, which are a dark blueish (though my mom says that will probably change), everything else about Hope is pure Meg, right down to her fair skin, the shape of her lips, and her jet-black hair, which sticks out in every direction and is growing fuller every day. And she’s only half a year old—as she grows up and becomes more of a person, it’s gonna get worse. Her eyes are going to turn dark brown, almost black. I know it.
“It’s uncanny.” Alan’s voice is full of awe. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use the word “uncanny” in actual conversation before. “What’s her name?” he asks after another minute.
I startle. “You don’t know her name?”
“How would I? You won’t talk to me, Meg’s parents won’t talk about the baby, and no one else I’ve asked has known any more than I do.”
Well, shit. Now I feel even worse.
“Her name is Hope,” I say.
“Hope?”
“Hope.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s ironic.”
This time, both corners of my mouth pull up. “Tell me about it.”
A few people pass us on their way down to the picnic, but they don’t stop. They just wave and hurry down the hill.
“So,” I say after a few minutes. “I’ll see ya.”
I stand and start to gather Hope and all her crap.
“Wait, Ryden.” Alan stands and brushes the grass off his butt. He nods toward Hope. “It’s like…at least Meg didn’t die for nothing, you know?”
He’s totally serious, waiting for me to say, “Yup, I understand completely. Right-o.” But that’s not going to happen. Because if I could go back in time and do it all differently, I would.
It’s not that I blame Hope or want her to go away or anything like that.
I just wish I’d realized that Meg’s birth control pills weren’t going to work because of all the chemo. I wish I’d used a condom. I wish Meg had listened to me and gotten the abortion—I wish I’d fought even harder for that. Because if any of those things had happened, Meg might still be here.
But Hope is here now, and Meg’s not. That’s the way it is, and I’m trying to do my best with it.
I don’t respond to Alan’s question. Instead, I sling the diaper bag over my shoulder and say, “Later, man.”
Then I walk to the parking lot and don’t look back.
Chapter 4
That afternoon at work, Joni comes up to me as I’m squeegeeing the refrigerator doors. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it was made in a beginners’ knitting class. The holes between the stitches are really big.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asks, nodding at my bare arms.
“Nope.”
“If you say so.”
“Where’s your name tag?” I ask.
Joni reaches under her loose collar and pulls out the top of the tank she’s wearing underneath. The name tag is pinned to the thin white cotton.
“You know you’re supposed to wear it where people can actually see it, right?”
She shrugs. “All they said was that we had to wear it. They didn’t say where.”
“Have you always had such a problem with authority?”
She sticks her tongue out at me. It’s tinted blue.
“What the hell have you been eating?” I shift my squeegee and bucket down to the next frost-and fingerprint-covered door.