We got screened by a few adoption agencies, but we never got a call, and honestly, affording it would’ve been a stretch. Foster parenting was fraught with the idea that a child could be taken away from us, and what would that do to Dylan? By the time he was seven or eight, we had withdrawn our applications and settled into the reality of being a family of three.
We knew we were lucky. Dylan was everything to us, and there were plenty of studies showing that only children had many advantages. I worked as a nurse part-time, and helped out with stagings or showings for my in-laws. Brad had a full load of patients. Our little house was coming together bit by bit, year by year. We were happy. Of course we were. It was a choice we had to make.
And still, I thought of my poor little baby every day. I’d held her there in the ambulance, and after my hysterectomy, they let me hold her again. I’d memorized her perfect face. Every year on the first of December, the day I’d lost her, Brad would bring me flowers, and I’d cry a little (or a lot), remembering the fear and love and grief so pure it was like a scalpel, slicing my heart in half.
But you keep going. The memory is there every day, but the days grow and multiply until it’s years and years. Her story was so brief, and after a while, there was nothing new to say. She was branded on my heart, and she always would be. It became my private loss, spoken of no more. Brad had lost her, too, but he hadn’t grown her inside him, felt every wriggle and kick; hadn’t known my secret fear; hadn’t seen all that blood or felt her tiny body slide out of me, even as I fought to keep her inside.
Maybe I became a better mother to Dylan because I knew how remarkable a healthy baby was. Maybe I appreciated life more. I know it made me a better midwife. Nevertheless, it made me feel feral and vicious to believe that her death made me a better person. Sometimes I dreamed that I was in that ambulance again, jolting myself awake with the wail that was torn from my soul when I couldn’t stop her from leaving me.
I had a beautiful son, a happy marriage, a home that was part of me. I had my quirky, imperfect family, my wonderful dad. But every spring, when the forget-me-nots appeared, I missed my little girl in a way that still surprised me. That after five years, ten years, twelve, I could still sob, alone in the downstairs bathroom, for my lost little girl.
When Brad left, he’d left our daughter’s remains, too. I wondered if he ever thought of her at all anymore.
But sometimes, on these nights when the house was so quiet, when Zeus lay next to me on the bed, I thought of her more than ever. I imagined her alive, now fifteen years old. At night, when the rain rushed in the gutters and the wind blew against the roof, I could even picture her face, a feminine version of Dylan’s.
We would be best friends, my sweet girl and I. I wouldn’t be alone here. She would be smart and kind and helpful. Her existence would’ve underscored the importance of a man treating a woman with honor, and Brad would never have cheated on me. Dylan would’ve chosen a school closer to the Cape—in Boston or Connecticut or New York—because he wouldn’t have wanted to be far from his beloved sister.
Or, even if her father had cheated, and even if Dylan was still at the University of Montana, my daughter and I would become even closer. Popcorn and movie nights, walks around the kettle ponds, kayaking, cooking, baking, laughing. School events, her friends filling the house with the sound of their laughter, their youthful beauty and curiosity bringing life into this uncharacteristically silent house. I’d be too busy to deliver skunks. No. I’d want to be a good role model for her, not this crazy-ass woman fixated on her ex-husband’s life. Vanessa would still be speaking to me, as she wouldn’t have the heart to alienate her granddaughter.
My daughter would be my closest ally, and I would be hers. We’d go to Provincetown this weekend to see her grandpa, and I’d buy her a treat. We’d get sandwiches from the Canteen and eat on the beach, watching the glorious September light turn the entire town gold. She’d lean her head against my shoulder and say, “You’re my best friend, Mommy.”
The longing . . . it never goes away. My little girl. How wonderful she would have been.
CHAPTER 11
Melissa
Hannah Chapman had no problem planning the wedding, despite the fact that her sister was Bradley’s first wife. It just confirmed Melissa’s belief that money could buy anything, even loyalty. Plus, it would send a strong message, wouldn’t it? Even Lillie’s sister supported this new marriage.
Melissa had done her research, and Hannah was the best. She’d consulted her before she knew about the sister connection, but this made things even more satiating (word of the day!). There had been a few stares at yoga when word got out, a cold shoulder at the market, but so what? Half of marriages ended in divorce. Melissa already had Brad saying things like “We’ve been growing apart for years” and “It was very amicable.”
But God, she was sick of Bradley talking about Lillie! Dennis had never talked about his ex-wife. She knew Bradley’s divorce was only ten days old, and he had to get it out of his system, but all his complaints of “Lillie never” and “Lillie always” and “When Lillie and I” . . . it was grating! Bradley (like most therapists Melissa had met) needed therapy more than anyone. Get over her! she wanted to say. You’re with me now! Erase her.
Ophelia had zero interest in her new stepuncle/father. It was so different from Dennis, but Ophelia . . . whatever. It was just two or three more years till boarding school, anyway. Meanwhile, Bradley went overboard in his efforts with her, asking her about school, friends, books, talking over her silence or pretending her one-word answers were delightful.
Both Melissa and Brad loved posting to Instagram, and whenever possible, Bradley would always use #girldad. He’d always tag her, too, and Melissa’s influencer status was growing. Ophelia was always a hit, though Melissa had to be careful not to let her know she was being photographed, or she’d get a stony stare. #LoveMyNiece #LegalGuardian #FosterParent #FosteringSavesLives #FosterKidsMatter #Niece #Auntie #Motherhood. It worked . . . Sandra Bullock followed her! (It wasn’t blue-check verified, but even so!)
Stella Maris helped her numbers grow as well—she used the same professional organizers Gwyneth Paltrow had, and they tagged her closet! Not only that, a Real Housewife commented on the fact that they had the same purse!
And now, the wedding. Everyone on social media loved a wedding, especially one that was expensive and gorgeous, which Melissa’s certainly would be. With Dennis, she had just needed the marriage certificate and the ring on her finger (which, yes, had been a diamond band). With Bradley, she would swing for the bleachers, and no one did that like Hannah Chapman Events, according to Cape Cod Life, the Knot and Martha Stewart Weddings.
Hannah had style, unlike her sister, Melissa thought as they sat in the parlor of her very charming and posh office. She wasn’t pretty, and she was old (well . . . the same age as Bradley), but she knew how to dress. Perfect manicure, great haircut, fantastic lipstick. An arrangement of white orchids was in a low vase on the coffee table, and the place smelled fabulous, thanks to a pear-and-freesia-scented Jo Malone candle.
Hannah and Melissa could be friends, maybe. That was one of the only flaws in Melissa’s new life. No friends. Not yet, anyway. Not that she’d ever really had anyone super close, but . . . well, there’d been her roommates back in Kansas, but she’d had to block them, since they obviously knew she hadn’t gone to that Wesleyan. One woman at yoga seemed nice, and they’d had coffee once, but after Brad left Lillie, she’d stopped speaking to Melissa. Whatever.