I shake my head. Even that late in the game, she was still so sure she was going to make it through. But I know that if she’d opened her eyes and seen what the rest of us saw—that she was deteriorating, fast—she would have felt differently about blaming me.
Just one more, and then I’ll stop reading…
January 16.
I told Ryden what I want to name the baby today. Hope Rosa Brooks. I like the sound of that. Pretty. Strong. The name of someone who has her two feet solidly on the ground and knows which direction to walk.
I remember that conversation. We were in my room, under the covers, sharing a pillow, staring at each other. (My mom didn’t care. Meg was already pregnant, so what difference did it make if we were in bed together? Anyway, we were fully clothed.) Even seven months pregnant and close to death’s door, Meg was so beautiful.
Things were good between us again. The only thing we’d ever really fought about was the abortion, and yeah, that was an enormous fight, and it lasted a long time, right up until it was too late for her to have one and the fighting became pointless. But even through her blatant disregard for my opinion, for my concern for her well-being, I’d never considered breaking up with her. We were in the shittiest of shitty situations, but we were in it together.
I brushed her hair out of her eyes. God, I loved that crazy hair.
But then I felt sick for thinking that, because the fact that Meg still had her hair meant she’d stopped chemo, which meant she wasn’t getting any better.
“Hope Rosa Brooks,” I repeated, testing the feel of the name on my tongue, trying to distract myself from Meg’s hair and all its implications.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“What does it mean?”
“What do you mean, what does it mean?”
“I know you, Meg. You’re the most organized person I’ve ever met. I know you have a reason for everything. Usually a long, thought-out reason.”
She smiled. “Okay, fine. So, Rosa because of Rosa Parks.”
“That bus lady? Why?”
She rolled her eyes. “I want our daughter to grow up knowing she can do anything she puts her mind to.”
I nodded. “Okay, what about the Brooks part? Shouldn’t it be Reynolds?”
“It’s traditional for a child to take the father’s last name,” she said.
“I have my mom’s last name.”
“Yeah, but that’s because you don’t have a dad.” She gave me a look that gave extra meaning to her words: I didn’t have a dad, but maybe I could if I wanted. If I decided to track down Michael.
I shook my head at her. I wasn’t ready for the Michael stuff yet. “But this baby will have a mom and a dad,” I said. “So that’s not a good argument. And since you won’t marry me…”
“Ryden, come on, we’ve talked about this.”
We had. A couple of times, actually. And she kept shooting me down. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I wanted to get married. Jesus, getting married at seventeen is nuts. But so is having a kid. And since we were doing that, I wasn’t going to leave her when she needed me the most. I wanted to show her how much I loved her. But she kept saying no. She said it “wasn’t something she felt she needed to do.”
“I’m just saying, all things being equal, I don’t get why the baby automatically has to have my last name. You’re the one doing all the heavy lifting.” I put my hand on her huge, round stomach. The baby didn’t kick, which was fine by me—that shit freaked me out.
“Yeah, I am,” she agreed. “So I get to decide. And I want her to have her father’s name. The end.”
I sighed. Whatever. Fine. I wasn’t going to fight with her about something as stupid as a last name. “And what about the first name? Hope?”
“Hope.”
“Why Hope?”
She just stared at me, like I was slow.
“What?” I asked.
“Because it’s hopeful, you dumbass. She’s stuck inside here”—she rubbed her hand over her belly, linking her fingers with mine—“in this sick, all-wrong body, not getting the best start, you know? And…” She took a deep breath. “And I really don’t know if she’ll be okay, Ryden.” Her lower lip started to wobble. “But I really hope she will.”
I gently reached out and brushed my thumb over her quivering mouth, feeling like breaking down in sobs too but really, really trying to stay strong. What Meg said about the baby was exactly how I felt about her. I didn’t know if she would be okay, but I really hoped she would. She wasn’t looking so good lately. Her face was drawn, her skin had lost its luster, and her eyes looked so, so tired.
“Hope is a really good name,” I whispered. And I kissed her.
I close the book when I reach the end of the entry, but something’s nagging at me that I can’t put my finger on. Meg recounted that conversation pretty much exactly the way I remember it, but though the memory is the same, it feels weird now. Off, like there’s something between the lines, something I’m missing. Huh.