An unexpected journey leads one woman to discover that life after loss is possible, if only you can find the courage to let go…

One minute, Tegan Lawson has everything she could hope for: an adoring husband, Gabe, and a baby on the way. The next, a patch of black ice causes a devastating accident that will change her life in ways she never could have imagined.

Tegan is consumed by grief—not to mention her anger toward Gabe, who was driving on the night of the crash. But just when she thinks she’s hit rock bottom, Gabe reminds her of their Jar of Spontaneity, a collection of their dream destinations and experiences, and so begins an adventure of a lifetime.

From the bustling markets of Thailand to the flavors of Italy to the ocean waves in Hawaii, Tegan and Gabe embark on a journey to escape the tragedy and search for forgiveness. But they soon learn that grief follows you no matter how far away you run, and that acceptance comes when you least expect it. Heartbreaking, hopeful and utterly transporting, Come Away with Me is an unforgettable debut and a luminous celebration of the strength of the human spirit.

Come Away with Me

Karma Brown

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Praise for Come Away with Me

“One woman’s journey through grief becomes the journey of a lifetime… This emotional love story will stick with you long after you’ve turned the final page.”

—Colleen Oakley, author of Before I Go

“[A] heartbreaking yet hopeful tale… Karma Brown is a talented new voice in women’s fiction.”

—Lori Nelson Spielman, author of The Life List

“Full of lush locations [and] memorable characters…nothing short of jaw-dropping.”

—Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of Forever, Interrupted and After I Do

“[A] beautifully written story of love and loss…Come Away with Me had me smiling through my tears.”

—Tracey Garvis Graves, New York Times bestselling author of On the Island

KARMA BROWN is an award-winning journalist and freelance writer who probably spends too much time on her laptop in coffee shops. When not writing, she can be found running with her husband, coloring (outside the lines) with her daughter or baking yet another batch of banana muffins. Karma lives just outside Toronto with her family. Come Away with Me is her first novel.

www.KarmaKBrown.com

www.MIRABooks.com

For Adam & Addison, the greatest loves of my life.

And to anyone who has been handed the proverbial lemons of life and made lemonade with them, this book is also for you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Praise

About the Author

Dedication

Quote

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two

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five

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Acknowledgments

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Karma Brown

Copyright

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

—From a headstone in Ireland

one

Chicago

1

Even now, the smell of peppermint still makes me cry...

2

We drive the dark streets a little too fast for the weather. Beside me, Gabe crunches a candy cane and drums his thumbs against the steering wheel, singing along to his favorite holiday tune on the radio.

He reaches for the second half of the candy cane with one hand and uses the other to turn up the radio. I tell him to keep his hands on the wheel, but I’m not sure he hears me above the music.

If only he listened, if only I said it louder.

It’s 6:56 p.m. I watch the clock nervously...6:57 p.m. We’re going to be late, and my mother-in-law hates it when we’re late.

At this hour the sky has already turned black, a particularly depressing fact about winter in Chicago. But the twinkling Christmas lights that wind around the lampposts almost make up for it. On vacation from the law firm, with a whole six days of freedom, Gabe is in a feisty and festive mood. Plus, it’s Christmas Eve and we have so many reasons to celebrate this year. He crunches the candy cane enthusiastically, too impatient to savor it. The candy’s sweet, refreshing scent fills the car.

“Your mom is going to lose it,” I say, eyeing the Jetta’s dashboard clock. “We’re going to be so late.”

“Five minutes. Ten tops,” Gabe says. “She’ll live.”

“Wonder if we will.” I give him a wry glance. After eight years of being part of the Lawson family, there are three things I can count on. One, they love to eat, and dropping by for lunch generally means a six-course meal, prepared from scratch by his Italian mother. Two, Gabe inherited his love of life and unwavering positivity from his dad, which I am grateful for. And three, you never, ever, show up late to a Lawson family event...or without a good bottle of red wine.

“You need to relax, my love.” Gabe takes his right hand off the wheel and rests it on my knee briefly, before sliding it up my thigh. His calloused palm—rough from sanding the antique cradle he’s been refinishing, the one I slept in as a baby—scratches against my tights as it works its way along my thigh. The bottle of wine tumbles off my lap.

“Gabe!” I laugh and playfully swat at him. I right the wine bottle and place it between my suede winter boots on the floor. “Get your hand back on the wheel. If this bottle breaks, you’re done for.”

But he keeps his hand where it is. “Trust me,” he murmurs, his smile widening. “This will do the trick.”

“We’re almost there,” I protest, pressing my hand down hard on his, temporarily stopping its climb. “Let’s save this for later, okay? When we’re not late and you’re not driving.”

“Don’t worry, I’m an expert one-handed driver,” he says, inching his hand higher despite my efforts. “Besides, I don’t want you going into my parents’ house all wound up. You know how my mom smells fear.” He turns and winks at me, and I melt. Like always.

His fingers hook the thick waistband of my tights, which sit just underneath my newly swelling belly, and I stop protesting.

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree...have a happy holiday...

My breath catches as Gabe’s fingers work their way past the waistband and into my not sexy, but quite practical, maternity underwear. I look over at him but he stares straight ahead, a smile playing on his lips. I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest, as Gabe’s hand moves lower...

Then, suddenly, too much movement in all the wrong directions. Like riding a roller coaster with closed eyes, unable to figure out which turn is coming next. Except there’s no exhilaration—only panic at the realization Gabe no longer has control over the car. The tires lose their grip on the road and Gabe’s fingers wrench from between my legs. I gasp out his name and brace my hands against the edges of my seat. We fishtail side to side, and for a moment it seems as though Gabe is back in control. I allow myself a split second of relief. One quick thought that being late to dinner isn’t the worst thing that could happen, after all. An instant to contemplate how lucky we are.

Then, with a sickening lurch, the car swerves. The momentum is so great it tosses me sideways like a rag doll, and my head cracks against the window. Stars explode behind my eyes, mingling with the lampposts’ twinkle lights and creating a dizzying kaleidoscope. I feel like I’m watching a lit Ferris wheel, spinning high in the night sky.

As our car smashes into the lamppost, steel meets steel and everything slows down. I wonder if the bottle of wine will be okay. I think that at least now we have a good excuse for being late for dinner. And I’m amazed the radio continues playing, as if nothing has changed.

After the impact comes the shriek of metal as our sturdy car rips practically in two. And still, the music plays. When the airbag explodes into my face and chest I worry I may suffocate. But then a rush of pain, deep and frightening, crushes my belly—where the most important thing to both of us is nestled—and it takes my breath away.

Seconds later, everything goes quiet.

I try to call out for Gabe, but have no air left to make a sound. With my left hand I reach out, hoping to feel him beside me. I need to tell him something is wrong. My head hurts terribly.

He’ll know what to do.

But there’s nothing beside me except cold, empty space.

Then I realize it’s snowing inside the car.

We will not be lucky this time.

3

The biscotto shatters into a million pieces, the butter knife clanging against the fine china plate I’d planned to use for Christmas dinner. Back when I was looking forward to Christmas. Or to anything. Staring into the crumbs, I realize how closely they resemble my life. No one piece big enough to be satisfying; too many that even if you try to gather them all, a few will be left behind. Lost forever in the cracks.

“I don’t know why you insist on trying to cut that stuff.” Gabe leans against the doorjamb between our kitchen and the hallway.

“Because I only want half,” I say. “Why do they have to make them so damn long?”

“So you don’t burn your fingers when you dip them in your coffee,” he replies, shrugging. Obviously, his expression adds, though he doesn’t say anything out loud.

I sigh, tucking a stringy piece of dark hair behind my ear. “Why are you still here anyway?” It’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, the middle of a workday. It’s been a long time since I went to work, nearly three months. I pick up a small chunk of the broken biscotto and dip it in my coffee, appreciating the hot liquid’s burn against my skin. Physical pain is good. It dulls the ache that won’t leave my chest.

Gabe moves into the kitchen and sits on the empty stool beside me at the island. “I live here,” he says, his tone purposefully light. He’s trying to bring a smile to my face, I know, like he used to so easily.

The soggy corner of the cookie falls from my fingers and disappears below the surface of the coffee. “Besides, you need me,” he adds with a resigned sigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I look back into my mug, oily dots popping to the surface, and grab another piece of biscotto. My mother-in-law, Rosa, brought it over earlier, a whole tray’s worth, because she believes eating dilutes grief. But the cookies are Gabe’s favorite, not mine. To be honest, I don’t much care for them although I didn’t have the heart to tell his mom. Especially not now.

I put the thick, crusty cookie on the plate and pick up the knife again. Gabe raises an eyebrow but I ignore him, cutting the piece in half, once again unsuccessfully.

My mother bustles into the kitchen and I glance up at the stack of tiny folded blankets, covered in green turtles and fuzzy brown teddy bears, she holds in her arms. “What would you like me to do with these?” She looks uncomfortable to be asking the question, even though I’ve asked her here specifically to help pack up the nursery—something Gabe and I are incapable of facing alone.

“Get rid of them, please,” I say as if I’m talking about tomato soup cans in our trash bin. “Give them away or something.”

My mom opens her mouth, then closes it as she fingers the fine, muslin blanket on top of the pile—the one I imagined swaddling our son in before rocking him to sleep. “I could just put them in storage, until you’re sure.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. The air in the kitchen is charged with tension. No one knows how to deal with me these days; I can’t say I blame them. If I could escape my body and mind, I wouldn’t look back. “Give them away. Or throw them out. I don’t really care, as long as they’re gone.”

“Are you sure?” Gabe asks. He looks sad. But I’m sure I look worse. I tuck my hair behind my ear again, smelling how long it’s been since my last shower.

My mom hasn’t moved. She’s standing on the other side of the island and staring down at the blankets, sweeping her hands across the top one to try and straighten out the wrinkles. It occurs to me she imagined wrapping her grandson in that blanket, too.

“Get rid of them,” I say with an edge this time. But I keep my eyes on Gabe, who has gotten up and is now standing beside my mom. I’m challenging him to argue. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

“Okay, hon, okay,” Mom says, looking apologetic before leaving us to finish the conversation I don’t want to have.

“I’m sorry, Tegan.” Gabe’s voice carries a sadness I understand but don’t want to deal with.

I pick up another biscotto and put it on the plate full of broken cookie pieces. “I know,” I reply, setting the knife directly in the middle of the cookie. I press down firmly and a large chunk of the biscotto flies off the plate, still intact. Finally. “But it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

4

“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.” Gabe is beside me on our couch. I’m looking at the collection of photos on my lap that have yet to make it to a scrapbook or album. I shuffle through the photos, stopping at one of Gabe and me in Millennium Park, in front of Cloud Gate, or what Chicagoans call “the Bean.” In it Gabe kisses my cheek, my one foot kicked up and my hands holding the dress’s frothy layers of material in a sashay move. Our image is reflected back in the Bean’s smooth, shiny steel surface, along with the Chicago skyline and a slew of strangers, now part of our memories. A day I’ll never forget.

“Aside from the tinge of green on my face,” I say. Remembering. It’s only been six months, but feels like a lifetime.

We were married at dusk, during an early September heat wave. The ceremony was on the rooftop of the Wit hotel under the glass roof, which, along with the potted magnolia bushes that were somehow in bloom despite the season, made it feel as though we were inside a terrarium. Glowing lanterns lined the aisle and guests sat on low, white couches that would later become seating for the reception. It was all much more than we could afford, me a kindergarten teacher and Gabe just out of law school. But his well-off parents insisted—and paid—so the Wit it was.

I was horribly sick at the wedding, throwing up most of the day—including right after the picture at the Bean, in a bag Gabe wisely tucked in his suit pocket, “just in case”—and only five minutes before I walked down the lantern-lit aisle. Luckily my best friend and maid of honor, Anna, grabbed a wine bucket just in time. My mother-in-law blamed the catering from the rehearsal dinner the night before, which my parents had organized. My mom, bristling at Gabe’s mother’s implication, suggested it was nerves, telling all who would listen I’d always had a weak stomach when I was nervous. As a child that was quite true. I did my fair share of vomiting before important school exams, anytime I had to public speak and, most unfortunately, onstage when I was one of the three little pigs in the school play. But I had outgrown my “nervous stomach,” and figured I’d just caught a bug from school. When you teach five-and six-year-olds all day you spend a good part of the year ill.

Gabe was so sweet that morning. Sending me a prewedding gift of a dozen yellow roses, a bottle of pink bismuth for my stomach and a card that read:

You’ve always looked good in green—ha-ha. You are my forever.

G xo

Even sick, it was the best day of my life.

We found out a week later it had nothing to do with food poisoning, or nerves, or a virus. I was pregnant. I’d never seen Gabe happier than when he opened the envelope I gave him, telling him it was a leftover wedding card previously misplaced. When he pulled out the card, which had a baby rattle and “Congratulations” printed on its front, at first he looked confused. Then I handed him the pregnancy test stick, with a bright pink plus sign, and he burst into tears. He grabbed me and spun me around, laughing and hollering with joy, until I couldn’t see straight. There is nothing like being able to give your husband, the man you’ve loved since the day you laid eyes on him, a dream come true.

We met at Northwestern in our first year, during frosh week. My dorm was having an unsanctioned floor crawl. Gabe, who had been invited by a friend who lived in my dorm, had backed into me coming out of the Purple Jesus room, his giant Slurpee-sized cup of grape Kool-Aid mixed with high-proof vodka spilling all over both of us. Shocked at the cold, rubbing-alcohol-scented drink sopping into my white T-shirt and shorts, I simply stared at him, my mouth open. But then we burst out laughing, and he offered to help clean me up in the women’s washroom, which also happened to be the orgasm shooter room for the night.

“How apropos,” Gabe said, wiggling his eyebrows at me and handing me a shot glass. I laughed again, tossing back the sickly sweet shooter.

“Thanks,” I said. “That was the best one I’ve ever had.”

While we’d been together for so many years after that, our lives intertwined, the day we were married was the day it all really began. If only we’d had more time to bask in that happiness. There was a carton of orange juice in our fridge that had lasted nearly as long.

I stack the photos back together, not bothering to wipe away my tears.

“Teg, please don’t cry.” Gabe shifts closer to me, but I can barely feel his touch. I’m so numb.

“Do you think I’ll ever be happy again?” I close the lid on the box of photos. Saving them for the same time tomorrow night. “I mean, really happy?”

“I know it,” he says. “You’re just not ready yet, love.”

I touch my necklace, still trying to get used to it. It’s a white-gold, round pendant, about the size of a quarter and a half-inch thick. It hangs from a delicate chain. And while the pendant was hollow when the necklace arrived, via a white-and-orange FedEx box nowhere near special enough for its cargo, it’s now filled with the ashes of a broken dream.

I chose the necklace off the internet shortly after I was released from the hospital, one late night when sleep was impossible. I considered an urn, but somehow it felt wrong. That’s how my grandma had kept Gramps’s ashes, in an ornate brass urn on her kitchen windowsill. “Where we can still kiss him every day, the sun and me,” she liked to say.

In truth, twenty-six felt too young to keep—or need, for that matter—an urn of any kind. I casually mentioned the idea of something a little more intimate to Anna, hoping she’d tell me wearing a necklace filled with ashes wasn’t at all weird, but her frown and pinched look suggested otherwise. Gabe hadn’t been much help, either. None of us wanted to deal with the horror, but I didn’t have that luxury because it was my body that was now hollow. Empty, like my gold necklace used to be.

Gabe glances at the pendant. “You don’t have to wear it all the time, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Does it...make you feel better?” he asks, shifting sideways so he can face me straight on.

I pause for a moment. “No.” Then I turn my head and look at him before quickly turning away. I don’t like his look. It’s a complex mix of concern, sorrow and frustration.

“I’m worried it’s making things worse, Tegan.”

Anger burns in my belly. The last thing I should have to do is explain myself. Especially after what he’s done to us, to me. “How could anything make this worse?” My voice is low, unsteady.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

“Obviously I don’t.” I slam the box of photos on the coffee table and stand up so quickly I feel woozy.

“Hey, hey, Tegan,” he soothes, and I know if I were still on the couch he’d reach for me. But I’m just out of his grasp, and neither of us tries to close the distance. “I want to understand. I’m just trying to help.”

How do you explain that if you could, you’d cut your chest open and pour the ashes right inside so they could forever lie next to your heart? Like a blanket to smother the chill of sorrow. You can’t, so you don’t.

Gabe and I are the only ones who know exactly what’s in the necklace. Well, us and the funeral director, who filled it at my request. Close to my heart. It’s the only way I can keep breathing.

“I’m going to bed,” I say. My muscles ache as I walk slowly to the bedroom, making the space between us even greater. I’m so fragile these days, paper-thin. Even though I’m only halfway through my twenties, I feel more like a ninety-year-old. Probably because for the past couple of months I’ve done little aside from move in a daze from couch, to bed and back.

I barely remember what it feels like to get up and get ready for work. To enjoy takeout during one of the nature shows Gabe loves to watch, to shop for shoes or bags or the very short dresses Anna likes to fill her closet with, hopeful for date nights. I forget what it’s like to have a purpose that gets me up each morning.

These days I care little about what’s happening beyond my four apartment walls. I don’t remember what fresh air smells like, except for when Mom opens one of the apartment windows, touting fresh air as effective an elixir as anything else. The late winter chill that tickles my senses always feels good, but I don’t want to feel good. Not yet. It has only been seventy-nine days. So I ask her to shut the window and she sighs, but she always does it. That’s the thing about going through something like this. People will do anything to try and make you happy again; they’ll give you whatever you want. Except that the thing you really want you can never have again, and no one can bring it back.

“I’ll come with you,” Gabe says, from behind me.

“You don’t have to,” I reply, although I don’t mean it. As much as I am still so angry with Gabe, still full of rage and blame, I don’t like to sleep alone.

“I want to.”

“Fine,” I say, pushing the door to our bedroom open. As I do, I glance into the guest room to my right. The door is supposed to be closed—I’ve been quite clear about that—but it’s wide-open. Beckoning me.

The pile of baby blankets rests on the dresser, which would have doubled as a change table to save precious space in our not-so-spacious apartment. My mom must have forgotten to close the door when she left. Casting my eyes around the dim room, the bile rises in the back of my throat. Pushed up against one wall, the crib is still covered by a white sheet, with the mobile—plush baseballs and baseball bats, which Gabe had picked out as soon as we found out it was a boy—creating a peak in the sheet’s middle like a circus tent. In another corner I see the cradle, which Gabe had restored beautifully, waiting for a final coat of stain. Even though we still had months to go, we had been ready for our boy’s arrival.

Feeling sick, I turn away and shut the door firmly. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll agree to the crib being taken apart. It will have been eighty days, nearly three months, and I know I’ll soon have to accept no baby will ever sleep here, gazing with wide, curious eyes as the mobile circles soothingly overhead.

As I settle into our bed, pulling the sheets—which smell clean and fresh, thanks to Gabe, or my mom, or someone else who takes care of the things I no longer seem able to—up to my chin, I try to pretend none of it happened.

But the nightmares won’t let me forget, not even while I sleep.

5

Anna has her hands on her tiny hips in a way that looks more cutesy than angry, despite her best efforts. Her nearly black, almond-shaped eyes narrow. “I’m not taking no for an answer,” she says. I pull the duvet over my head, and weakly fight her as she pulls it down again. “You have to eat,” she continues. “Lunch. I promise.” She makes an air cross over her chest, eyes earnest. “Only for lunch and then you can come right back here to bed.”

“Anna, stop,” I say, finally allowing her to strip me of the covers. The flannel pajamas I’m wearing are rumpled and smell like they need a wash. “I don’t want to go out.”

She sits on the bed beside me, her lithe body barely making a dent in the mattress, and crosses her arms. “Listen, I promised your mom I’d get you to eat today so don’t make me look bad, okay?” When I say nothing, keeping my eyes on the ceiling, she bends toward me and kisses me on the cheek. “Besides, Gabe would be pissed if I let you stay in bed all day. Best-friend duties and all that.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter what Gabe wants, does it?” My voice is sharp, but frustratingly weak. Anna sighs, looking ready to argue some more, but then waves her hands about like she’s trying to shoo a fly away.

“Scootch over then,” she says. I don’t move. “Come on, Teg. Scootch.”

I shift my body over the foot or so she needs to lay her petite frame beside me. It forces me onto Gabe’s side of the bed, which is cold. Anna’s thick, silky black hair tickles the side of my face, but I don’t move away. Head to head, her feet only reach the middle of my calves.

“Look,” she begins, “I know the last thing you want to do is go out there. To see people all happy and shit. I get it. And I’d be exactly the same way.” She rolls toward me, but not without difficulty. I’ve spent so much time on this mattress, wishing I’d disappear if I lay still enough, that I’ve left a hollow the length and shape of my body. A depression to match my depression.

She sinks her elbow into the mattress’s pillow top, above the hollow, and rests her head in her palm. “But it’s been three months, Teg. You’ve not even left the apartment. You’ve lost so much weight you look like a freakin’ supermodel, and, no, that is not a compliment. There’s a hole in this mattress so big we’ll have to call the firemen to rescue you...by the way, let me make that call if we have to, okay?” Anna winks and I smile despite myself. “As your best friend, it’s my job to make you do the things you don’t want to do because they’re good for you. I would expect nothing less from you.”

It’s essentially the same speech she’s been giving me for the past month. She’s made it her mission to get me out of my apartment for something other than a doctor’s appointment—because no one else has been able to, including Gabe, my brothers or our parents—and I have a feeling she isn’t going to relent anytime soon. I stare up at the ceiling again, at the small crack running from the light fixture over our bed to the corner where a cobweb dangles, swaying in the current of warm, forced air coming from the vent. If I could only shrink and suspend myself from that cobweb, out of sight...

“And as my zu mu always says, talk does not cook rice. So please, get out of this freaking bed, okay?” Anna is endlessly quoting her Chinese grandmother, who seems to have a proverb for any situation one could think up.

“Tegan, I love you.”

“I know.”

“Then let me help you. Please.”

I sit up, without looking her way. “Fine.”

A second later Anna and her tackle-hug slam me back into the mattress. For such a small person she really knows how to throw her size around.

* * *

There’s nothing like strolling down Michigan Avenue on a sunny day. Even if it’s cold enough to freeze nose hairs within seconds. People hold tight to bursting shopping bags full of treasures sure to at least temporarily make their lives better. They laugh often, debating over whether to go into another shop or stop for lunch. Their lives are full of small problems.

I used to love people watching on the Miracle Mile, but now all I want to do is escape. It’s too vibrant. Damn Anna and her fucking best-friend speech. I long for the dullness of my pewter-colored apartment walls. For Gabe and my mom’s acceptance—however hard-fought—that I’ll leave the bed when I’m good and ready.

“Anna...” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, like a tourist with no appreciation for the flow of foot traffic all around. “I need to go home.” This must be how agoraphobics feel. The open spaces around me seem dangerous, unpredictable, and I have the sudden urge to lie down and let the gently falling snow cover me until no one can see me anymore.

Anna tries to escape the chill by snuggling farther down into her chunky mauve wool scarf. She shivers a little then turns her attention back my way, giving me a critical look. Like she’s trying to sort out how to react to what I’ve said. We’ve been friends forever. Well, for three years actually, but Anna has a way of making you feel like she’s known you since the first moment you can remember.

She takes the few steps back to where I am and tugs me gently out of the way of the shoppers, who barely break stride. “Screw lunch. Food is overrated anyway,” she says with a most unladylike snort—a classic Anna-ism, which helps to remind me that at least some things don’t change. “Let’s just get a coffee, okay?” I allow her to pull me into the Starbucks in front of us.

It’s warm inside, and familiar. Both things that make me feel instantly better.

While Anna orders us coffee I grab a table near the back. I take off my gloves and lay my snow-damp wool hat on the chair across from me, knowing Anna will take the seat beside me. She has this thing about sitting side by side. She thinks it’s easier to talk naturally if you aren’t forced to stare into each other’s eyes. She says it’s a Chinese thing, even though she was born and raised in Chicago.

“Here,” she says, pushing a venti cup across the table and into my idle hands. Without thought, my fingers close around the cardboard sleeve, the heat coming through just enough to make me never want to let go. “I got you a vanilla latte...with whole milk and whip on top.” My regular order is a skinny vanilla latte, hold the whip. “If I can’t get you to eat the least I can do is make your coffee more caloric.”

She sits beside me and takes a sip from her own venti cup, which I know holds a soy chai tea latte, extra whip, then rests her other hand on my thigh. I jump from her touch, and she rubs my thigh harder. “Talk to me, Tegan.” I’m grateful she can’t see my eyes. “How can I help?”

“Tell me something funny.”

“Funny...okay. Hmm.” Anna sips at her coffee again. I wait. “Did I tell you about Caroline?” I shake my head. “No? Holy crap. You’re going to die...” Anna’s voice trails and she whispers, “Sorry.” Sometimes I think I’ll put together a spreadsheet of words people should avoid when in conversation with me. Words like death. And baby. Perhaps that’s how to prevent these uncomfortable, cringe-worthy moments. But it wouldn’t be for my benefit, because the truth is no words can make this worse—or better, for that matter. I put my hand on Anna’s, still on my thigh, and give it a squeeze to let her know it’s okay. She smiles, and I’m glad one of us feels relieved.

“Okay, so last week we had the fun fair, remember the one Principal Clayton planned for Valentine’s Day? So one of the stations was face painting, like always, but this year the kids got to paint the teachers’ faces.” Anna, like me, is a teacher—grade four. She says kids under the age of nine give her migraines. “Anyway, they did a great job but that’s not the part I think you’re going to like,” she says, her voice dropping for effect. “I’d gone to the little girl’s room and Caroline was leaving the staff room as I was coming back in...and, well, I let her walk out without taking her face paint off! I looked right at her and smiled without saying a word!” Anna laughs, snorting deeply again. “She went on the ‘L’ with cat whiskers...ears—” Anna laughs so hard she’s losing her breath “—and...and a bright pink nose!” The energy from her laughter is contagious, and I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes me. Caroline DuPont was one of the other kindergarten teachers, and always trying to show me up with her Martha Stewart–perfect craft ideas for her class. The thought of her sitting on the train in full costume makeup applied by a clumsy five-year-old’s hand did bring some light to my soul. For a moment.

Anna laughs again and I want to join her, but it’s just too much work. She realizes she’s laughing alone and stops. We drink our coffees in silence, and then I blurt out, “I think something’s wrong with me. Really wrong.”

She looks at me, surprise muddling her pretty features. “Why do you think that?” To her credit, she keeps her tone light. Perhaps trying not to alarm me. Or maybe, herself. “What do you mean?”

My voice is softer now. “I talk to him.” Barely a whisper. “Sometimes it feels like he’s still with me...right here...” I gulp back a sob and clutch my stomach, the pain that can no longer be blamed on physical wounds starting up again. “Like nothing happened.”

“Oh, Teg.” Anna clutches my arm. I see something flash across her face. Relief? “That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”

I can see she believes it, and I’m grateful for her certainty. Even though I don’t share it.

“It will get better, sweetie,” Anna soothes. “But not today. Or tomorrow, or probably even months from now. But I promise you, you won’t feel like this forever.”

Something inside me snaps. My chair scrapes the hardwood floor noisily and Anna jolts back, the sudden movement surprising her.

“You promise me?” My voice is loud and unrecognizable to my own ears. It’s filled with misplaced, toxic anger, which unfortunately for Anna, needs to be released right now. It’s bubbling up in me like boiling water inside a tightly lidded pot. Straining to break the seal. I start to laugh, but without joy. “I suggest not promising me anything.”

“Tegan, please sit down,” Anna says, pulling on my coat’s arm with some urgency. People look our way, anticipating something more interesting than whatever is on their laptop screens or on the lips of their coffee dates. Their curiosity sickens me. Although admittedly, only months ago I would have been doing exactly the same thing.

“This will never get better. Never.” I bite my lip, not to hold back my words but to feel physical pain. I learned while recovering from my surgery just how valuable physical hurt is in keeping emotional anguish at bay. But it would have to be extreme to counter what I’m feeling, because most days it feels like my insides are covered in a million paper cuts, and I’ve just swallowed a bottle of lemon juice.

I taste blood, and feel the rough edge of my lip where I’ve gone through the skin. “I lost... I lost my—” My voice cracks, and I can’t make the word pass my lips. “I lost everything. I am without a future now. At twenty-six. Do you know how that feels? No, you don’t. Because you still have the chance for all that.”

I suppose I do, too, although not in any way that makes sense to me now. I keep going, despite the stares of the coffee-shop patrons, despite the tears that stream down Anna’s cheeks, ruining her mascara.

“So, please. Please don’t promise me anything, Anna. Especially something you can’t control.” You see now? I want to add. No one can help me.

“I’m sorry,” Anna says, eyes downcast. Her voice is thick with emotion. For a second I feel guilty for making her cry. “I really thought...maybe if you could... You said you weren’t ready. I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you sorry about?” I’m giggling uncontrollably even though I know it isn’t the right reaction. I should be crying. Wailing. But for some strange reason I giggle, like a carefree schoolgirl.

I’m barely hanging on.

“You weren’t driving the car. You always drive the fucking speed limit anyway. I wish you had been driving instead of Gabe. Maybe then... Maybe...” The giggles shift to a full-body sob, but I can’t stop the words spilling from my tear-damp lips. “I hear it all the time. The crash. Have I told you that, what it sounded like? Did you know metal screams when it’s being ripped apart? Like, it actually screams.” Anna stands quickly, grabbing her stuff and then my arm as I sob around my words.

“Come on.” Anna ushers me through the now crowded tables. There are murmurs, chairs pulling in to accommodate our quick departure. She leads me outside, into the cold air. I concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out.

But I can’t catch my breath, my lungs rejecting the air. My vision narrows to a long, dark tunnel, and I drop to the sidewalk.

6

I wake up in the emergency room, a bright light piercing my vision.

“Ms. Lawson? That’s it, Tegan, open your eyes,” an unfamiliar voice says.

“Thank God.” Anna sounds like she has a terrible cold, her nose too stuffy to breathe through. Her face hovers over mine and I blink a few times. She’s quite blotchy, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

“How are you feeling?” The voice belongs to a middle-aged man in muted green scrubs. He has on glasses that make him look quite Clark Kent–like. Cute and nerdy. His hands hold either side of the stethoscope hanging around his neck and he’s watching me closely. I wonder if Anna notices how handsome he is. He’s exactly her type—a decade older and brainy enough to have made it through medical school.

“Better, I guess,” I say, my throat dry. I clear it a few times. “What happened?”

“You just dropped!” Anna says, seeming quite frazzled. Her obvious panic adds volume to her words. “Like one second you were standing in front of me, and the next you were on the sidewalk.”

“Sorry. I’m okay, I promise.” I hold the hand she puts on my shoulder, and watch her fiddle with the cell phone in her other hand. “You didn’t call anyone, did you?” She shakes her head, but she’s a terrible liar.

“Anna?”

“It went to voice mail. Twice.” I glare at her, hoping Gabe’s with a client and hasn’t picked up his voice mail yet. I don’t need anyone else looking at me the way Anna is at the moment. “Sorry, Teg, but you scared the crap out of me.”

“Has this ever happened to you before?” The doctor asks. Now I see his name, embroidered over his scrub shirt pocket. Dr. Wallace.

“No,” I say, shaking my head, which feels leaden. I’m glad I’m lying down. “But I haven’t been, um, sleeping well.” I swallow hard. In an instant everything lands back on me, like a boulder falling directly onto my chest. I try to breathe around the heaviness. “I was in a car accident a few months ago.”

“Were you injured?”

“Yes,” I say without elaboration. He waits, but I don’t add anything more.

“It was quite serious,” Anna interjects. “She had to have surgery and was in the hospital for almost three weeks.”

“What kind of surgery?” handsome Dr. Wallace asks, casually, like he’s asking how I take my coffee. He looks up from the chart and waits again for a response.

It’s as if someone has sewn my lips together. I can’t get the words out.

Anna looks at me, waiting, too, then at the doctor. “She, uh...” Anna glances my way again and I try to tell her it’s okay, she can tell him. The message must have come across despite my lack of voice, because she keeps going without taking her eyes off me. “She had a hysterectomy,” Anna says, adding more quietly, “and she was just over six months pregnant at the time.”

Dr. Wallace stops writing and gives me the most excellent sympathetic look. One I’ve seen before. From my surgeon, who cut out my uterus right after the accident, along with any chance I had of becoming a mother.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dr. Wallace says, and I can tell he means it. His voice is smooth, confident, yet it carries an appropriate amount of compassion. They must practice that, doctors—how to convince a complete stranger you really care in one minute or less. “You mentioned you haven’t been sleeping. Any other changes to your health?”

“She’s not been eating much, either,” Anna offers, before I can answer “No, nothing,” like I’d planned to.

“Well, that could explain why you fainted,” he says. He licks his finger, which I find odd for an emergency room doctor to do, and flips over a page on the chart. I think about all the germs his hands must come in contact with during a single shift. I’d be wearing gloves, or carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer in my back pocket, but I guess he’s not all that concerned about getting sick. “Also, that patch on your upper arm? Nicotine patch?”

I shake my head. “It’s an estrogen patch. They also removed my ovaries when I had the hysterectomy.” I say it as matter-of-factly as I can, but we all know what it means. I will never have a child. And every week, when I take off the old patch and put on a fresh one, the reminder of that makes me want to throw something, or punch someone, or collapse into a heap on my bathroom floor and never get up.

The good doctor nods, and gives me another sympathetic smile. “I’m going to do a few more tests, just to be sure there isn’t something else going on, okay?”

“Thank you,” Anna, my spokeswoman, says.

“You bet...sorry, I missed your name. Miss?” he asks, his smile for Anna this time.

“Anna,” she says, extending her hand. “Anna Cheng.”

“Okay, so if everything checks out we’ll have you out of here soon. Sound good, Tegan?” I nod, and he pats my shoulder. “Just try and relax.”

Three hours later Anna pushes me out of the hospital in a wheelchair—hospital policy, apparently—with a good handful of sleeping pills to get me through the next few nights until I can see my family doctor. A short cab ride later, I’m home and manage a pitiful thank-you when Anna strips me of my clothes and tucks me back into bed in new pajamas. The hollow welcomes me back like an old lover, and I settle in as Anna heads to the kitchen to make me soup and toast. A few minutes later I hear the front door open and close, and I brace myself for company, presuming Anna made that call after all.

I roll over, settling deeper in the mattress, and feel the cool comfort of the pendant as the weight of my body presses it into my skin. For a moment, I indulge my grief-weary brain a reprieve and imagine what life would have looked like if the car had spun out thirty seconds later, after the row of steel lampposts.

If only Gabe kept both his hands on the wheel.

If only I stopped him from what he was doing under my skirt.

If only the de-icing trucks had already been out.

I close my eyes, only then remembering I left my hat and gloves at Starbucks.

“Tegan.” Gabe’s voice startles me. Guess he got the voice mails.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

He lies down beside me, barely disturbing the covers, but doesn’t touch me. He knows me so well.

I keep my eyes tightly closed. “Let’s just say I may not be welcome back at the Starbucks at Michigan and Lake.”

Gabe sighs. “But you’re okay. Right?”

I nod against the pillow. His voice softens. “What happened?”

“I had a fucking meltdown, Gabe. An embarrassing, who-let-the-crazy-lady-out kinda meltdown. Then I passed out on the sidewalk and ended up in the ER.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I was with a client.” Gabe shifts closer to me. “I should have been there.”

“You can’t be here every second of every day,” I say. “Anna took care of me.”

“I know. I’m glad she was there,” he says. His hand caresses my cheek; his fingers brush the hair back from my face. Still, I keep my eyes shut. “You need to eat something.”

“I’m sure Anna will force-feed me the soup she’s making. Or my mom will when she gets here in, oh, twenty minutes,” I say, finally looking over at him. He’s wearing my favorite suit—gray herringbone, cut perfectly for his lean, muscular body—with a white shirt and mint-green tie. “I assume she called my parents?”

Gabe shrugs and smiles. “You know Anna, she’s not known for her secret-keeping abilities.”

I sigh. Gabe and I often joked that the best time to share something with Anna was immediately after telling everyone else.

“I completely freaked her out,” I say. “She didn’t even comment on how cute the doctor was.”

“Man, that is serious,” Gabe says, his tone light. I smile. But a moment later, the smile drops from my face and Gabe’s laughter fades.

“It’s okay, Tegan. You’re just not ready yet,” Gabe finally says, when the silence becomes uncomfortable. “You need more time.”

“That’s what I told Anna.” I’m weary now. I really want to be alone. “I wish you could explain it to her. I think you could make her understand.”

“She’s doing exactly what you would do for her, Tegan.”

I nod, rolling onto my side. I can hear Anna in the kitchen, as drawers open and close, and the microwave timer beeps. A salty, fragrant smell hits my nose and I know the boxed chicken noodle soup—the extent of Anna’s cooking repertoire—is bubbling away on the stove. I hope I can get some of it down, if for no other reason than to appease everyone.

“I want to talk to you about that night,” Gabe says, pulling me back from thoughts of my churning stomach. “We need to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t,” I reply.

“It’s okay to be angry with me,” Gabe says. “You can’t possibly hate me as much as I...hate myself.” My strong husband, as broken as I am.

“I don’t hate you, Gabe.”

Oh, but I’m lying to you, my love. I do hate you. You ruined everything.

“Well, you should.”

I say nothing.

“I have an idea,” he says at last. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Teg?”

This is an interesting question. Six months ago I wouldn’t have hesitated.

“We need the jar of spontaneity.” His voice has regained its familiar positivity.

“I don’t know where it is, Gabe,” I say, although that’s not at all true. It’s on the top shelf of our closet, tucked out of sight behind stacks of unread magazines I’ll never get to. “I think Mom may have tossed it when she was cleaning up last week.”

“It’s in the closet behind your magazines,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll get it later.”

“I think you should get it now.”

With an angry sigh, I throw back the covers and step onto the plastic footstool in our closet. The jar can’t help. The jar is the last thing I need. But I grab the stack of magazines and drop them to the floor, the sound of their weight hitting the hardwood echoing harshly inside our small bedroom.

“You okay in there?” Anna calls out from the kitchen.

“Fine,” I say as loudly and confidently as I can, hoping she doesn’t come in to check on us. “Just dropped some magazines.”

“Okay. Soup is almost ready,” she says.

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute,” I call back. Then, stretching my arms, I reach for the jar, a large glass vase, really, and tuck it into the crook of my arm.

I let the vase drop onto the duvet and some of its contents spill out. “Here’s the fucking jar, Gabe. What would you like me to do with it?”

“Now,” he says, pausing for a moment. “Now we choose.”

7

Six months before the accident

“I like it,” Gabe said, his fingers caressing my ear with a gentle grace that belied their size. Self-consciously I touched where his fingers had just been, trying to tame a stray piece of bang. “It’s different, but it suits you.”

“I’m not sure what happened,” I said. “I asked for a trim but then I thought about all the blow-drying and told her to just chop it off.” My hair, best described as the color of mud except for when the summer’s sun added golden touches, had been just below shoulder length since high school. It was my safe length—long enough to feel feminine, but not so long I couldn’t quickly blow-dry it if whatever I was doing called for more than a finger-swept ponytail. I ran a hand through it again, still surprised at how quickly my fingers moved through the now short strands.

“Actually, it’s really hot,” Gabe murmured, his hand sliding down my bare neck, to my shoulder, to my breast, where it lingered. “I bet it looks even better when you’re naked.” I laughed until his lips met mine, warm, full and soft. I sighed and pressed closer to him, letting my sundress drop to our bedroom floor after he swiftly untied the neck strap.

“Just like I thought.” Gabe’s eyes trailed down my body, then back to my face. “It really suits you.”

Afterward we lay tangled in our sheets, and I rested my head against his chest. His heart thumped furiously.

“I have an idea,” he said, his fingers tickling up and down my spine. I shivered and snuggled in closer.

“Oh, yeah?” I tilted my head back to look at him. He kissed the tip of my nose and I breathed in his scent. Sweat mixed with the woodsy smell of his deodorant. “You really do like this haircut, don’t you?”

“That’s not it,” he said, smiling. “Although I would like you to hold that thought.”

“Tell me.” I settled back against his chest and closed my eyes. Contented. Happy.

“Well, seeing as we’re getting married in a few months, I thought we should think about what we want that to look like.”

“What do you mean? Everything’s already planned.”

He shook his head. “I don’t mean the wedding. I’m talking about life after that.”

“I already picture that all the time.” I smiled. I couldn’t wait for that wedding band to slide over my knuckle.

“I know we won’t be able to do this right away, with work and everything, but I had this idea to create a list of all the things we want to do, the places we want to travel to,” he said. “A list of experiences we can share.”

“So, sort of like a bucket list?”

“Yeah, sort of,” he said. “But that’s kind of grim, right? More like a wish list, you know?”

I kissed him hard on the lips. Again and again, my lips meeting his teeth as he laughed. “Tegan and Gabe’s wish list. I love it. Let’s do it,” I finally said.

“Now here’s the thing.” He jumped out of bed and grabbed a pad of paper and pen from his briefcase. “We’re going to write out each thing on a piece of paper, fold it up and stick it in a jar or something.” I nodded, grinning. “Then when we have vacation time or feel like life is dragging us down, we’ll pick something out and do that.”

I laughed. Gabe was going to have his work cut out for him; I wasn’t exactly spontaneous. He was the adventure-seeker, which was one reason why we balanced each other so beautifully. He pushed when I pulled.

“Okay,” I said, tousling his dark brown hair, which was curling from sweat.

Gabe smiled. “You go first.”

Over the next half hour we created a list of ten things, then folded the papers and put them in a giant crystal vase one of Gabe’s parents’ friends had sent as an engagement gift.

“So when do we get to pull our first one?” I asked, shaking the vase with some difficulty due to its weight, the little packets of paper dancing inside.

“Why not right now? Whatever it is, we’ll do it after the wedding, okay? Wish number one can be our honeymoon.”

“Deal!” I tilted the vase slightly so I could reach into its depths, then stuck my arm in up to my elbow and stirred the papers around.

“You pick.” I took out my arm and extended the vase toward Gabe.

“Ladies first,” he said, taking the vase from my hands. I closed my eyes and reached in, feeling the sharp edges of the folded paper scratch against my skin. I dug down to the bottom. I kissed the paper before opening it up.

Gabe’s eyes, blue like a midwinter sky, were wide and his smile generous. I felt bubbly inside, like I’d had a glass of champagne. “What does it say?” he asked. “What are we doing?”

I cleared my throat, pausing purposefully. Gabe bounced the mattress impatiently, which made me laugh. “Come on!” he said. “Tell me.”

I read it out loud, and Gabe cheered like we’d won the lottery. Then he pushed me back against the mattress. I laughed again as he kissed me all over.

“I love you more than life itself,” I said.

“Ditto,” he said. “You are my forever.”

We cast the vase aside and tangled our bedsheets again. Then Gabe grabbed a permanent black marker and wrote Tegan & Gabe’s Jar of Spontaneity on the vase’s crystal-clear surface.

8

Holding the vase now, I don’t feel giddy or joyful. I feel heavy, sluggish with misery.

“Pick something out,” Gabe says softly. “Actually, pick three things, okay?”

“Why?” I ask, my bitterness seeping out. “What’s the point, Gabe?”

“The point is life, Tegan. It’s going to carry on, whether you want it to or not. And eventually you need to join back in.”

“No one understands.” I’m crying now. “Trust me, if there were some kind of switch I could flick I would. In a second. I want my life back, too.”

“I know you do, love. I know.” Gabe’s voice lulls me, the gentleness of his tone washing over me.

“But even if I hop a plane somewhere far from here, I can’t get away from it,” I say. “I can’t run away from my broken heart, Gabe. Or my broken body.”

“You’re right. So don’t think about it as running away from something. More running toward something,” he suggests. The look on my face says it all. “I know, I know. Hear me out, okay?” I shrug, keeping my eyes on the jar.

“Nothing can change...” His voice cracks and I imagine his Adam’s apple bobbing repeatedly, the way it does when he tries to swallow his emotions. “Nothing can change what happened. And staying here, reliving it every moment of every day, is breaking you, Tegan. You’re disappearing on us, and I’m afraid soon there won’t be any of you left.”

I don’t say it out loud, but that’s exactly what I’m hoping for. One day I’ll simply cease to exist, like a puff of smoke. There one moment, gone the next.

“But pulling something out of that vase? It’s going to force you to live. To create a new memory. And I feel like if you can do that, just make one new memory that isn’t sad, it will be easier to make another one. Then another one. And soon you’ll have a stack of happy memories to help balance the sad ones.”

As much as I’ve committed to my disappearing act, Gabe’s words spark in me the tiniest flicker of something. I’m not sure, but it feels different. Fresh, like a clean, fluffy towel, or biting into a tomato straight off the vine.

“And there’s all that money from my parents from the wedding, just sitting in our bank account. Doing nothing but gathering a pathetic amount of interest,” he says.

“I think your parents expected us to do something a little more grown-up with that money,” I reply. Gabe’s parents wrote us a check for $200,000 as a wedding gift, surely intending it to go into a house in the suburbs. A proper place to raise their grandson.

“Who cares what they want us to do with it? I can’t think of a more perfect way to spend some of it.”

I give a small smile and run my fingers gently over the black lettering on the vase, taking care not to rub it off.

“You need a change of scenery, Teg,” Gabe says. “You’re going to lose yourself if you stay here. And I can’t let that happen.” He sighs heavily. “Besides, school’s out in a few months and then you have the summer off.” Not that I’m going back to work anytime soon. Medical leave has turned into stress leave, buying me at least the rest of the school year. “The timing couldn’t be better.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “The thought of leaving this apartment exhausts me. Getting on a plane?” I shake my head.

“We can do this,” he says. “I’ll be with you the whole time. And I promise not to let you snore or drool if you fall asleep on the plane.” He laughs, and I feel the familiar pull of love, despite everything. “You need this, Teg. We need this.”

I look at him, then take a deep breath as I dig into the vase, stirring the papers. “Three things?”

Gabe nods.

I pull out the first one and set it down on the duvet, hands shaking. It’s the one we agreed on for our honeymoon. The trip we put off when we found out I was pregnant.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Gabe says, surprise in his voice. “Think it’s a sign?”

I shrug. Maybe. Though I don’t believe in that much anymore.

Reaching back in the vase, I pull out another one, and then one more. I carefully unfold the last two papers and smooth out the folds, taking my time lining up the small squares side by side.

Gabe starts humming a tune I recognize, breaking into song for the chorus. “We’re leaving...on a jet plane...”

There’s so much optimism in his voice, and I can’t stomach it.

I put my head in my hands and sob.

9

Three weeks before the accident

I stared at the gift and chewed my lip distractedly as I tried to sort out how to wrap it. It was Gabe’s twenty-seventh birthday, and I’d gone way over our agreed-upon budget for presents. We had two rules about birthday gifts: they had to be sentimental in some way, and they couldn’t cost more than a hundred dollars. We started the rules way back when we were broke, just out of school and looking for jobs. At the time, even a hundred had seemed extravagant. But now that we were properly husband and wife, with a bank account a lot more flush thanks to Gabe’s parents, I felt justified breaking the rule.

The guitar was a limited edition—a flame-red Gibson Les Paul. I couldn’t wait for him to open it. I knew once he saw it he wouldn’t care how much it cost—which, for the record, was way over the hundred-dollar limit. If only I could figure out how to wrap a guitar—and an amp—with the one roll of paper I had on hand.

Gabe would likely say he wasn’t good enough yet to deserve such a guitar, but he’d been taking lessons every week with the beat-up, secondhand acoustic guitar my brother Jason had given him.

I unrolled the jumbo-sized roll of wrapping paper and laid it out on our bedroom floor. Gabe would be home soon from work, and I wanted to have everything ready. The beef bourguignon simmered on the stove, its rich, heady aroma filling the apartment, and the garlic-and-blue-cheese mashed potatoes were ready to go. I’d picked up Gabe’s favorite dessert from a little bakery down the street—a meringue pavlova, piled high with clouds of whipped cream and strawberries, which looked amazingly fresh and succulent despite the winter season.

A few minutes and a lot of tape later I’d managed to wrap the awkwardly shaped present, adding a silver bow on top. There was no way Gabe wouldn’t know exactly what it was when he saw it, which made me think I should have saved the paper—and my knees, from kneeling on the hardwood floor—and just gone with the bow. I grabbed another bow from the package, a red one, and stuck it to the amp, which by this point I’d wisely decided against wrapping.

The front door’s lock clicked open and Gabe’s voice echoed down the hall. “Teg? I’m home, babe.”

I leaned the wrapped guitar beside the amp and went to greet him, shutting the bedroom door behind me.

“Hey there, birthday boy,” I said, letting him gather me in his arms. His face was cold from the winter’s wind, and I put my hands to his cheeks to warm them. We kissed deeply and I tightened my grip, feeling the fullness of my stomach press into him. “How was your day?”

“Just fine,” he said, kissing me again. Then he bent down and kissed my belly a few times before giving it a little rub. I ran my hands through his thick, dark hair, feeling the swell of love inside me while he layered me and my protruding stomach with a few more kisses.

“It smells amazing in here,” he said, finally standing. “Let me guess, beef bourguignon?” He crossed his fingers, a hopeful look on his face.

I laughed. “Yes, it’s beef bourguignon. With those blue-cheese mashed potatoes you love and a special surprise for dessert.”

“Sounds so good. I’m starving.” He loosened his tie, his eyes carrying a playful look I recognized. “Just wondering, though. Think everything will hold for say, fifteen minutes?” He unbuttoned his shirt and pants, and was undressed before I could answer.

I looked him up and down, appreciating his well-toned body and the beautiful olive skin he’d inherited from his Italian mother. I never tired of Gabe. “Of course,” I murmured, lifting my arms so he could pull my red-and-black striped jersey dress over my head. “Take all the time you need.”

He swept me up in his arms and I burst out laughing, protesting I was far too heavy for such a move.

“You are perfect,” he said, laying me gently on the couch. “Here...let me show you what I mean.”

Sixteen minutes later we sat down to eat his birthday dinner, both of us flush-faced and relaxed. And still naked.

“This is delicious,” Gabe said, his mouth full of the stewed, wine-laden beef and mashed potatoes. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Hold that thought.” I pushed my chair back and headed down the hall. “Now close your eyes,” I shouted from inside our bedroom. “Are they closed?”

“Yup!”

I carefully held the pathetically wrapped guitar with both hands and made my way back to the kitchen. “Shit!” I said, when my fingers ripped the paper a little.

“You okay?” Gabe asked, keeping his eyes closed.

“Fine. Although I definitely should not go into gift wrapping as a career.” He laughed. “Okay, now open!”

I stood naked in front of him, one hand on my hip and the other holding the neck of the guitar. “Happy birthday!”

“Holy shit!” Gabe pushed his chair back so quickly it toppled over. He didn’t even bother to pick it up, but instead walked over to where I stood.

“I know,” I said, teasingly. “I’m irresistible.”

“I’m pretty much living out a fantasy here.” Gabe’s eyes were wide. He looked like a little boy who’d just discovered the toy he wanted most in the world was under the Christmas tree with his name on it. “Seriously.”

I handed him the present, and let him kiss my neck, then my lips. “Happy birthday, Gabe,” I said softly. “Go on, open it.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. He ripped the wrapping paper off in one pull and whistled deeply. “Tegan, what the hell have you done?” He looked at me in awe for a brief moment, then back at the guitar. “It’s a fucking Les Paul.” He ran his hands over the guitar’s edges, gently, like he had over my curves earlier.

“I know,” I said, shrugging. “I decided that hundred-dollar rule was stupid.”

“I can see that.” His eyes were still on the guitar. Then he looked up at me. “But this is like, way, way over the budget. So you know what that means, right?”

“What?”

“It’s open season on presents now,” he said, winking. “I hope you can handle it.”

I laughed. “Take it easy, tough guy.”

He grabbed me with his free hand and pulled me into him. “This is the best gift ever,” he said. “Thank you, Teg. I love it.”

“You’re welcome.” I tilted my head up so his lips could meet mine. “You deserve it.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but what do you think about seeing what this thing can do?”

“Let’s do it,” I said. “Do you want to get dressed first?”

“Hell, no! I’ve always wanted to play a Les Paul in the nude.”

“The other thing you’ll need is in the bedroom. It’s unwrapped. I gave up.” I allowed him to pull me over to the couch before he ran to our room to grab the amp.

I shivered, the heat of our lovemaking and the excitement of the present now fading. I grabbed a blanket from the arm of the couch and tucked it around me while Gabe plugged the guitar into the amp.

“Okay, hot stuff,” I said. “Show me whatcha got.”

He wiggled his eyebrows up and down a few times, then pursed his lips in what he surely thought was a sexy rock star face, and slammed his hand down against the strings. The room filled with an ear-splitting whine that sort of resembled music, and Gabe laughed when I put my hands to my ears. He reached over and fiddled with the amp, then moved his fingers more deftly over the strings, this time producing a sound that would certainly be called a tune.

As he awkwardly played his way through a classic rock song I recognized but couldn’t name—I was the worst with remembering song titles—stopping every few notes to make a correction, I took a mental snapshot of the moment. Things were perfect. We were beyond happy, and not just because we were newlyweds. We’d been together long enough to know how we felt about one another had little to do with the shiny white-gold bands on our left ring fingers. We had good jobs, healthy families that loved us, great friends, an apartment that was on the small side, sure, but stuffed full of memories. And soon, we’d have a baby. A son.

Watching Gabe play his birthday guitar, in the nude nonetheless, I wanted nothing more than to stop time. To press the pause button and live in this moment indefinitely. Perhaps I knew deep down what was coming. Or maybe it’s simply that the moment you realize just how perfect everything feels is the moment it’s all about to change. In the blink of an eye, as they say.

I started to cry. Gabe, still focused on the chords, was oblivious. Until he looked up, a huge smile on his face that wilted the moment he saw the tears.

“What’s up? What’s wrong?” he asked, hand poised with a guitar pick over the strings. The last note reverberated through the living room. When I didn’t answer right away, he lifted the strap from around his neck and put the guitar down on the ottoman. He kneeled in front of me.

“Tegan, talk to me,” he said, worry creeping into his voice. “What’s the matter?” Of course his concern only made me cry harder. I tried to stop, but couldn’t.

“Shh, shh,” he said, sitting beside me to rub my back. “Babe, talk to me. You’re freaking me out.”

“Sorry,” I blubbered. “I’m just so...so happy.”

He stopped rubbing, his hand resting in the hollow between my shoulder blades. “Huh,” he said, wrapping an arm around my naked shoulders that now trembled, like the rest of me, with the release of emotion. “This is sort of a funny way to show it, don’t you think?” I laughed, and then hiccupped through my tears. “I thought maybe it was my guitar playing.”

“Nope,” I said, wiping the tears best I could with my hands. “It wasn’t great, but definitely not tear-worthy.”

“Good to know,” he said. “Maybe I still have a future as a rock star?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I teased, blowing my nose with the tissue I grabbed from the side table.

“So now you’re crying with happiness?” Gabe shifted to the edge of the cushion so he could turn and look at me. “This should be a long few months.” He eyed my belly and raised an eyebrow.

“I know, it’s so stupid,” I said. “But I just had this moment where everything felt so perfect and I didn’t want it to ever end.”

“Well, I have good news and bad news for you. What do you want first?”

“Good news, always.”

“Okay, the good news is we are going to have plenty of moments like this one. And I guarantee you I’ll play you naked guitar songs even when we’re old and wrinkled.” I scrunched up my nose. “Oh, you just wait,” he added. “This body is going to age well.”

“Lucky me,” I said. “So what’s the bad news?”

“You’ll have to put up with my terrible guitar playing for a long time yet. Don’t they say you need to put in ten thousand hours to get good at something?”

“Something like that. Which reminds me, I just thought of something you can get me for Christmas.”

“What?”

“Earplugs.”

Gabe gave a “Ha-ha, you’re funny,” and then gently pushed me back against the couch cushions. His hands roamed my body, pulling the blanket off me as they traveled across my skin. My belly was noticeable now and my breasts were fuller than they’d ever been.

Pregnancy suited me, which surprised me. Before, I would have described myself as semi-body-confident, meaning I would wear a bikini to the beach but I’d spend a lot of time worrying about the padding in my bikini top and the small spare tire I carried around my narrow hips. Now I felt beautiful in my roundness, with the softness of my body. Especially when Gabe looked at me in that way. Like a goddess, about to be worshipped.

“I’d like to collect part two of my birthday present, please.” Gabe carefully held his body over mine, and I shifted to the side so he could lie beside me.

“Part two?” I asked, my hand tickling over his hip bone, reaching lower...

Gabe groaned and closed his eyes. “This is the best birthday ever.”

10

Today I have one thing to do. One task; I promised Gabe before he left for work. To call the travel agent and book flights. I told myself “first thing” in the morning, but it’s almost noon and I’m still in bed.

It’s amazing how one-dimensional my grief is. I am only capable of feeling numb. Even the pain, which used to be so sharp, has gone dull.

Mom’s set to arrive in about an hour for her daily visit, which means fresh sheets and towels, and because it’s Monday, a restocked refrigerator. She’s turned Sundays into cooking marathons—as much for her freezer as ours, she claims, though I know how much she hates to cook. I’m subsisting mostly on Ritz crackers and peanut butter, but am appreciative of her effort, even if I barely touch the shepherd’s pie, chicken à la king or barbecue chili—Gabe’s favorite—she regularly brings over.

Anna will stop by not long after Mom, once school’s out, to bring me a coffee and some gossip from work. Gabe usually leaves us alone for these visits, knowing if I’m going to confide in anyone, it will be Anna. And the phone will ring a lot. My in-laws, checking in; Dad, wondering if anything in the apartment needs fixing. He lives for a leaky tap or squeaking door these days, because those are things he can do something about, even though Gabe is pretty good with his hands, and we have a landlord who deals with such things.

I prop myself up in bed, at least considering getting up. My phone is right beside me, on my nightstand, so it’s not like I have much of an excuse.

It was another crappy night of sleep. I’m sure my family and friends think all I do is sleep, which is fair enough based on how many hours of each day I spend in bed. But I’m asleep very little of that time—the nightmares make sure of it. And when I’m not lucky enough to be unconscious and dreamless, I usually lie in the dark, crying softly so Gabe doesn’t hear me, and wonder what I did to deserve such suffering.

I long for small problems, like not having the money to take a five-star vacation, or not getting two seats together at a sold-out movie, or waking up with a giant pimple on my nose the day of staff photos.

Reaching for my phone, determined to complete one thing today, I jerk my hand back when it rings. A normal person would just answer it, but I’m far from normal these days. It rings five times and then goes to voice mail. I recognize the number—Rosa, Gabe’s mom. I decide to listen to the message because if I don’t respond there will be another call soon.

“Tegan, amore, I wanted to... I saw the calendar this morning.” Rosa sounds strange. Like her words are strangling her. “This was supposed to be the happiest day for all of us...a blessing...” Her voice trails, and for a moment I wonder if she’s hung up. “I’ll try you later tonight, okay? Ti penso, bella.”

I frown, tapping the phone’s calendar icon. What’s the date? It pops up right away, big and bold across my screen. March 27th. I stare at it, and for a moment nothing happens, even though I now know exactly why Rosa called.

Then I stand so quickly I’m light-headed, and my phone drops softly to the carpet under my feet. A moan escapes me, and I claw for things to keep me upright as I stumble clumsily toward the bathroom like I’ve had one too many. My hand finds Gabe’s guitar, and a layer of dust transfers from it to my hand. It hasn’t been touched since before the accident; now just another piece of furniture in our bedroom.

Today was my due date.

I can’t breathe or see through my tears. The guilt of losing track of the days, of this day, socks me in the stomach like a punch. Gagging, I fall heavily to my knees in front of the toilet and vomit violently, though there’s little to leave my stomach. After I’m done, I sit on the bathroom mat and rock back and forth. My hands clutch my now concave belly, which will never swell with a child again.

All I want is to sleep, to escape all this for even a few hours. I lean against the toilet’s lid and get to my feet, shaky from the purging. Opening the medicine cabinet, I scan the bottles until I find what I’m looking for. The sleeping pills. I am one of those people who will suffer through a blinding migraine rather than take a pill, so the bottle is still full.

Wrapping my fingers around the small narrow bottle, I use the other hand to fill a glass with water from the bathroom sink. Staring into the mirror, I see a woman who used to care about how she looked, who others might have called pretty, whose stringy hair now hangs in front of vacant eyes, her face full of dark shadows and hollows. I don’t want to be this woman anymore.

I open the cabinet again and take out another bottle, then make my way back to bed with the glass of water in one hand and two pill bottles clutched in the other.

First, I swallow the morphine left over from my surgery. The bottle is nearly half-full, so it takes a while to get them all down. I don’t rush, because I don’t want to throw up again. Then I put the empty morphine bottle in my nightstand drawer, tucked deeply into a box of tissues, and pop the lid of the other bottle. The label says to take one pill at bedtime, and not if pregnant or breastfeeding. No problem there. I shake out two little white pills, which I swallow easily with a sip of water. Then I take out two more, and do the same. And then, just to be sure they work, shake out the last one and down it goes. Sleep will not elude me today.

They say it was good my mom showed up when she did.

11

As strange as it sounds, I like being here. It’s busy, which means plenty of distractions. And unless I have a visitor, there are no reminders of what has put me here in the first place.

Like any other floor on the hospital, the linoleum tiles carry black scuff marks; the beeps and bells work tirelessly to disturb even the deepest, most pharmaceutically induced sleep; and the smells of rubbing alcohol and cafeteria food permeate the air. The only difference on this floor is how one gets in, or out of, the unit: through windowless doors, with high security locks. While some might feel captive here, I feel safe.

Welcome to the psychiatric ward.

It has been just over a week since I swallowed the pills. I wasn’t really trying to kill myself, despite what it says on my chart. I was simply searching for a moment of peace from the grief. I wanted to sleep without having nightmares. I was tired of the pain that lives in my chest. That’s all it was. But when you end up in the ER, rushed by ambulance and barely breathing because of a bellyful of painkillers and sleeping pills, you get a good old-fashioned stomach pumping, a charcoal chaser and two weeks in the psych ward.

Also, you get to talk a lot about how you’re feeling to perfect strangers.

“How are things today?” Dr. Rakesh, an extremely tall and thin man, midfifties I figure, with a musical accent, asks. His kind, chocolate-brown eyes are unblinking behind his wire-rimmed glasses, which are too small for his features. He takes a sip from the mug of tea beside him and waits. The tea’s peppermint notes clog my nose, reminding me of candy canes. I don’t want to think about candy canes.

Dr. Rakesh asks me this question every morning, at the beginning of our hour-long sessions. Then I hear it again, by whichever on-call doctor has the luck to be on the ward that day. Then by the nurse drawing blood to check my medication levels, by the food services delivery person and by any visitors I have. “Better” has become my response of choice. It seems positive enough, without being completely dishonest.

“Good, good,” Dr. Rakesh says. “Better is what we hope for.” I nod, and he smiles, displaying two rows of quite straight but yellowing teeth. Along with the tea’s mint, his breath carries the sour smell of a not-long-ago-smoked cigarette.

“Do you think I can get my necklace and rings back today?” The ER staff removed all my jewelry when I was admitted. And although it seems highly unlikely I’ll be able to strangle myself with my necklace, and certainly my rings pose no threat, the staff here are firm. I’ll get it all back in a week when they let me out.

As I expect, he shakes his head. “Sorry, Tegan, but we can’t give them to you until you’re released.” He sips his tea again.

I run my right thumb around the base of my left ring finger, the skin still holding a slight indentation from my engagement and wedding bands. Which makes me think of Gabe.

As if sensing the mental shift to my husband, Dr. Rakesh jumps right in. “I’d like to talk about Gabe today, if that’s okay with you?”

“Okay,” I say, pressing my thumb more deeply into the skin of my ring finger. My heart batters my chest wall with sudden fury. I don’t want to talk about Gabe. I don’t want to think about Gabe.

“Tell me your favorite story about your husband,” Dr. Rakesh says. I stare at him, and he offers a warm smile, but this time without teeth. It’s a better look for him. “I’d like you to tell me something about Gabe that makes you happy.”

I close my eyes, letting the anger dissipate before speaking. I know exactly which story to tell.

“We went to Maui after Gabe passed the bar exam. It was a gift from his parents,” I say, eyes still closed to soak up the memory without distraction. “We had surf lessons planned for the end of the trip, but then the pig thing happened.”

“The pig thing?” Dr. Rakesh asks. “I’m intrigued.”

I open my eyes. Dr. Rakesh sits forward, notepad resting on one thigh. Aside from the date at the top of the page, he has only scrawled two words. Gabe-accident. I pull my gaze away and float back to Hawaii.

“It was the day before our first surf lesson and we decided to do the drive to Hana. Have you been to Maui?”

Dr. Rakesh shakes his head. “It’s on my bucket list, though,” he says.

“You really should go,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Anyway, Hana is a town in Maui that is completely isolated from the rest of the island. To get there you drive this superwindy highway, which is really only a narrow two-lane road,” I say. “It takes about four hours but it’s worth it. Unless you get carsick.”

Dr. Rakesh raises an eyebrow. “Noted,” he says.

“There are so many cool stops along the way, and one is this general store that’s been there since the early nineteen hundreds.” I spell the store’s Hawaiian name out when he asks so he can write it down. He’s good at feigning interest, no question.

“It’s a family business and carries everything you could ever imagine. They also have this amazing banana bread. Like, the best banana bread I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, I do love banana bread,” Dr. Rakesh says, writing the two words underneath the store’s name, and underlining them twice for good measure.

“Me, too.” I swallow against the sadness creeping up. It was such a happy time. Stuffed full of buttery banana bread and boundless love. “We were getting back into the car when we heard this high-pitched squeal. But we had no clue what it was.”

Dr. Rakesh shifts and crosses one leg over the other, leaning back in his chair. He rests the notepad against his knee and waits for me to go on.

“There was this tiny potbellied pig, no bigger than a kitten. A bunch of motorcycles were driving into the parking lot and the pig was freaking out because of the noise,” I say. “It ran in circles, squealing, and for a second it looked like it was going to become bacon.”

Dr. Rakesh grimaces slightly. “I’m a vegetarian,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, but he waves the apology away.

“Did they stop?” he asks, leaning forward now.

I nod. “Just, and Gabe managed to catch the pig. Turns out it was the family pet. We got five loaves of banana bread as a thank-you,” I say, smiling.

“Do you blame Gabe for the accident?” Dr. Rakesh asks, and I’m irritated by the way he suddenly shifts gears in what I assume is an attempt to throw off my guard.

“Yes,” I respond without pause. “He was going too fast.”

He writes something down, but I can’t see what because he’s shifted the notepad up. “There was black ice that night, wasn’t there?”

I nod. He must have seen the accident report. Also, he didn’t have both hands on the wheel because one of them was up my skirt—which I was happy about.

“If he’d been driving the speed limit and the accident had happened, would you still feel it was his fault?”

Pause. “I don’t know, but that isn’t what happened.”

More writing, more nodding from the sneaky Dr. Rakesh.

“I told him to slow down,” I say, noting how weak my voice sounds. “But we were late for his parents’ party.”

“Tegan, were you trying to hurt yourself with the pills?”

I’m getting whiplash from the change in direction with his questions.

“No. I told you that already,” I say. “It wasn’t about that. I was still having pain from my injuries, and I was exhausted. I just wanted to sleep. That’s all.” I consider asking him if he’s trying to kill himself with the cigarettes.

He nods, and I’m not sure how to take it. Does he believe me? Is he placating me? “I’ve read the accident report,” he continues. “And the police seemed to feel it was exactly as it was called. An accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, Tegan. Yours included.”

“Of course it wasn’t my fault,” I snap. “I wasn’t driving the car.”

“Do you blame yourself for losing the baby?”

“No.” What a stupid question.

Dr. Rakesh observes me for a moment, pen poised above the notepad. “In situations like these, the mother often feels guilty for the loss of the pregnancy.”

“Gabe was driving too fast,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I told him to slow down.”

“It’s okay to be angry, Tegan,” Dr. Rakesh says. “It’s part of the healing process. But at some point you need to decide if you can forgive Gabe, and yourself, for what happened.”

You don’t understand this at all, I think at him. But I keep my mouth shut. No matter how many fancy-looking degrees line his boring, almond-colored office walls, Dr. Rakesh is clueless.

“I think we’re done now,” I say, eyes darting to the clock behind him.

He glances at his watch. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe try to get outside for some fresh air today?”

I nod and push the cheap, vinyl-covered chair back. Without looking at Dr. Rakesh, I leave the room, rubbing my thumb around my ring finger, feeling the indentation again.

I take back what I thought this morning.

I hate this place.

12

I’ve only been home a few days, but between Gabe, both our sets of parents, my brothers and Anna, I feel more captive in my own apartment than I did in the locked-down psych ward. It takes a sweep of our medicine cabinet to make sure there’s nothing stronger than acetaminophen and cough syrup, along with promises to check in hourly via text and phone to get them all to leave me alone, but finally it’s quiet again. Aside from Gabe, who reiterates he’s not going anywhere.

At my second-to-last session with Dr. Rakesh I had what he called “an important step in the right direction.” Just shy of a breakthrough, I suppose, but good enough for the yellow-toothed doctor to sign the papers for my release. Of course, what he didn’t realize was that it was mostly fabricated. The tears were real, but the proclamations of forgiveness I knew he wanted to hear were rehearsed the night before, as I tried to fall sleep under my overstarched, scratchy hospital bedsheets. Back in his office, I felt the way my kindergarteners must when they’re trying to give me the answer they think I want, rather than the one that feels most true to them.

They released me with an antidepressant with so many side effects I’m not sure the pills are better than the depression, and two follow-up appointments with Dr. Rakesh over the next couple of weeks.

But I’m not about to forgive anyone yet, least of all Gabe.

“What are you doing?” Gabe asks, watching me pull out a large white melamine bowl from the bowels of our deep pantry. I hold it up to the kitchen’s halogen lights, then wipe the dusty inside of the bowl with a paper towel.

“I’m making banana bread,” I say, cracking the freckled skin on one of the squishy bananas. I glance at the recipe, the one Gabe coaxed out of the general store owner after he returned the pig, written on the back of a postcard picturing Maui’s black sand beach. I continue peeling the ripe, fragrant fruit until three mushy bananas pile up in the bottom of the bowl.

The oven beeps, letting me know it’s warm and ready, and I methodically drive the potato masher into the bananas before pouring in the whisked eggs and oil, and an overflowing cup of sugar. Setting the wet ingredients aside, I concentrate on the flour and baking soda, using my thumb to level the teaspoon full of soda.

“It probably won’t taste the same,” Gabe says. “Where are those from?”

I tilt my head to read the sticker from one of the discarded banana peels. “Costa Rica.”

I measure out another half teaspoon of baking soda, which I toss into the flour mixture.

I stir the flour, soda and salt around and around with the large wooden spoon Gabe’s mom gave me last Christmas, in the hopes I’d start making her Italian family’s famous tomato sauce. She’s chastised me continuously about my sauce spoons, reminding me the metal and plastic versions I typically use will ruin the taste.

I tried to make the sauce once, even using exorbitantly priced canned tomatoes imported directly from Italy and sweet basil from Rosa’s garden, but it had none of the flavor or depth of her sauce. Gabe said I was crazy, but I was sure Rosa left a critical ingredient off the recipe card she attached to the spoon. Just to make sure I couldn’t make it taste exactly like hers.

With a few quick stirs to blend the wet and dry ingredients together, I spatula-level the mixture into the pans coated with a healthy smear of butter, and set the timer. I sit at the kitchen island and pull out a magazine from the stack Anna brought over and flip the pages without commitment.

“I’m sure it will be good, even without the Maui bananas.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on the glossy pages without reading a word.

“I’m glad you’re baking again,” he says, keeping his voice light. I recognize the tone. It’s the one he uses when I’ve had a stressful day at work, or when our neighbor’s miniature dachshund howls at three in the morning and I threaten to storm over there and tell him exactly what I think he should do with the dog. “You look different, you know?”

“Do I?” I try to sound disinterested. But I’m actually curious. Different how? In a good way? Less depressed, maybe? I wonder what that looks like.

“Tegan?”

“Yeah?” I don’t look up. I can’t look up, because if I do, I know I’ll be back in bed for days. If someone told me you could love and hate a person so completely, at the same time, I would have said no way. But I would have been wrong.

My hate for Gabe drives as deeply into my body as my love for him does. And it’s tearing me in half, like my seat belt almost did when we hit that metal pole.

“Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again.”

“Like what?” I ask, knowing exactly what he means.

“Don’t do that, okay? This is serious.”

I sigh and slam the magazine shut. “Oh, this is serious? Wow, thanks, I didn’t realize that.”

“Stop fucking around, Tegan!” His blue eyes blaze with anger. “Do you even care what would have happened if your mom hadn’t found you? Do you know what that would have done to the people who love you?”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, Gabe. It was an accident.”

“No. No,” he says, voice rising. “An accident is pulling pink sheets that used to be white out of the washing machine because you forgot to double-check if those red socks were mixed in, or adding salt to cookies instead of sugar because they look the—”

“Or hitting black ice and killing our baby?” I shout, shaking with fury. I try to hold eye contact, but my rage makes it hard to focus on his face.

Gabe says nothing, his beautiful eyes filling with sadness. I turn my back and will him to disappear.

The timer starts its incessant beeping, and only then do I notice how glorious the kitchen smells. But instead of feeling comfort, the sweet smell turns my stomach. I choke back a sob and slam on the oven mitts so I can pull out the perfectly browned loaves. Gabe must have understood my wish, because when I turn to put the hot pans on the cooling rack, he’s not in the room anymore.

Alone again, I sit at the island and shove handfuls of the still hot, moist bread into my mouth, barely chewing. The heat ravages my tongue and lips, but I don’t stop until the whole loaf is gone. It turns out a dash of sorrow and a teaspoon of bitterness really will ruin even the best recipe.

Gabe’s right. It doesn’t taste the same.

13

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

I have the worst stomachache, likely from the loaf of banana bread I gorged on; I’ve been nauseous ever since. But it may also be the argument that’s turning my guts. As much as I hate to admit it, my mom is right when it comes to my stomach. It’s sensitive to nerves and anything too spicy, as well as angry words I wish I could take back.

Gabe sighs at my apology, but doesn’t seem too angry. Though he really should be, after what I said. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know you didn’t mean it.”

I bite my tongue, because words I don’t want to say are trying to get out.

I did mean it. But that doesn’t change that I probably shouldn’t have said it.

We’re on the couch, watching television. Feeling guilty, and getting no relief from nearly an entire bottle of pink bismuth—the same bottle left over from our wedding day, coincidentally—I flip on a nature show Gabe loves and try to come up with the right words to convey my regret.

The television is muted, but on it a lion stalks a sick antelope that has been separated from its herd. At least I can’t hear the antelope’s screams when it realizes what’s happening, left alone to try and fight off the too fast, too strong lion. I understand how the antelope feels.

“I know Dr. Rakesh thinks I’m depressed,” I say, keeping my eyes on the antelope’s final moments. Solidarity with the abandoned, weak animal. “But I don’t feel depressed exactly. I feel...angry.” I take another swill of the thick, pink liquid and grimace as it coats my throat. “Doesn’t depression come after anger?”

“I can’t remember,” Gabe says. “Isn’t depression at the beginning?”

“No, anger comes before depression. I think. Or is it depression, anger and then acceptance?” I sigh. “I have no fucking idea. But no matter what order they come in, Dr. Rakesh was pretty clear there are no shortcuts.”

“I don’t know about that.” Gabe smiles at me. “You’re one smart cookie. I think if anyone can find a shortcut it would be you.”

“I don’t think I’m that special.”

“That’s your opinion,” Gabe says. “But I know you can do whatever you put your mind to, Teg. I’ve seen you in action, and it’s pretty freakin’ scary when you’re committed. Like that lion.” I look back at the screen, where the lion is tearing apart its prey, and grimace.

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

Gabe smiles wider, one side of his mouth resting higher than the other, where a faint white line is the only remnant from a childhood dog bite that required two-dozen stitches inside his cheek. It’s adorably quirky, his smile.

“The old me might have agreed with you,” I say, tucking my knees up to my chest. I feel cold, but on the inside. No blanket or hot cup of tea can help with that. “But I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m...lost.” I dip my head and let the tears fall onto my pajama bottoms. “And I’m afraid I’m never coming back.”

I close my eyes and feel Gabe’s hand. His fingers intertwine with mine, and his thumb gently tickles my palm. I stay very still so as not to disturb the moment.

“You will make it back, Teg,” Gabe says, his tone gentle. “And I’m going to be here every step of the way. Promise.”

I nod and stay as I am, the sensation of Gabe’s hand pushing away some of the sadness and leaving something in its place. Something I haven’t felt in months—possibility.

14

“Is this all you’re bringing?” My brother Jason stands in the doorway of the master bedroom holding my backpack. I glance up from the customs forms I’m filling out at the kitchen island.

“Yup,” I say, flipping the page over and working on the back side. “I don’t need much.”

“But it’s like, six weeks. You used to pack a bag bigger than this for an afternoon at the beach.” He chuckles, and I roll my eyes. “Looks like I’m rubbing off on you. Jase style. Nice.”

“Jase style?” Connor says. “You mean a pair of boxers and a T-shirt for a week?” Connor, the youngest of the three of us, sits beside me, looking over my to-do list. “Let’s hope nothing about you is rubbing off on Tegan.”

I nudge Connor with my knee. “Be nice.”

“Whatever,” Connor mumbles, before pointing at items five through twelve, which are unchecked and range from acetaminophen to travel-sized bottles of shampoo. “Did you get all this stuff from the pharmacy?”

Connor is cautious, analytical, thoughtful and headed toward a successful career in engineering, whereas Jason, though brimming with enthusiasm and that hard to qualify “joie de vivre,” seems allergic to regular employment, rules and generally being an adult. Though opposite in personality, they look so similar they’re often mistaken for twins. Unlike my brothers, with their well-muscled height, eyes the color of fresh-cut grass and sunshiny good looks, I’m dark-haired and brown-eyed. I’ve also been blessed—as my perpetually dieting mother likes to remind me—with string-bean legs, narrow hips and small boobs.

“Mom came over earlier with all that stuff, including six freaking bottles of Pepto-Bismol.” I give Connor a wry glance. “She’s very committed to this weak stomach of mine.”

“Can I have a bottle?” Jase asks, bringing my backpack to the front door. “Last night was a rough one.” Gabe, who is a last-minute kind of packer, laughs from the couch, where he’s reading a magazine. If there’s one thing Jason excels at, it’s being the life of a party.

“Take two bottles, Jase,” Gabe says. “I think you’re going to need them more than Teg will.”

I push the bottles of bismuth to the edge of the island. “Here you go.”

“Thanks!” Jase tucks a bottle in each back pocket of his jeans.

“Did you get all your shots?” Connor asks me, ignoring Jase, as usual.

“You make me sound like a dog at the vet!” He doesn’t smile. “Yes, I got my shots.”

“Some of them anyway.” Gabe looks up from the magazine. I shoot him a warning glare and he shrugs. Connor isn’t exactly flexible when it comes to things like this, and the last thing I feel like doing is arguing with my baby brother. He always wins. Even though he’s the youngest, he’s the cleverest.

“Most of them,” I clarify. Connor’s expression tells me “most” isn’t going to cut it. “Don’t worry, okay? My doctor said as long as I’m careful about what I eat and do, I’m young, healthy and sure to be just fine.”

“What about the other medication?” Connor asks, carefully avoiding eye contact this time. “From Dr. Rakesh.” I don’t like to talk about the antidepressants, and everyone knows it. It makes me feel more depressed for some reason. Like, you feel totally fine, then someone comments on how flushed your cheeks are and asks if you’re okay, and suddenly you’re convinced you have a raging fever.

“In her bag already,” Gabe says. “I made sure.” I narrow my eyes and wish Gabe would let me handle this.

“I’m all set, Connor. Don’t stress, okay?”

Connor lays the pen down on the list and sighs. “Mom and Dad are worried, Teg,” he says, trying to keep his balance when Jason nudges him off the stool. He punches Jason’s arm in annoyance. But Jason seems to barely register the jab as he claims the stool, pushes his blond hair off his forehead and leans forward with hands on his thighs. He shifts to avoid crushing the small bottles in his back pockets. “We’re worried, too,” Jason says.

“I know you are.”

Gabe gets up and walks toward the bedroom. “Time for me to get packing,” he says, but I know it’s less about his empty backpack and more about giving me some alone time with my brothers.

After Gabe leaves I point to a small box on the kitchen counter. “Could you put that in the top of my bag, please?” Jason, who’s the closest, grabs the small box of note cards and zips it into the top flap of my backpack.

My parents’ concern is well intentioned but has been suffocating, an intrusion almost. And the box of already addressed note cards Mom gave me earlier, which came with a so-you-can-write-us-whenever-you-want speech, only made me feel more like an incapable child. But then Gabe reminded me it has only been two months since Mom found me unconscious in bed, barely breathing. ‘Right,’ I said, pulling the note cards out of the trash.

While Jason deals with the box and my backpack, Connor reclaims the bar stool and picks the pen back up to check off the drugstore items with precise, perfect checkmarks. I resist the urge to throw my arms around him and kiss him on the top of the head, like I used to when he was little. I’m beginning to realize how useless my family has felt during these past few months. And how far away I’ve kept them.

“Look, I’m sorry I scared you guys,” I say. Jason stands behind me and massages my shoulders with his strong fingers. I relax back against him.

“It’s okay, Teg,” he says, though Connor gives me a look that suggests he’s not quite as ready to let his guard down.

“Honestly, it was an accident. It was a bad day pain-wise, and I just wanted to get a few hours of sleep. That’s it.”

Jason continues massaging my shoulders, kneading the little balls of tension that have taken up permanent residence there. “We believe you, sis.” I reach my hands back to give his a quick, appreciative squeeze. “So, what else do you need us to do?” he asks.

“For the record, I didn’t ‘need’ you two to do anything, if you remember.” I tilt my head back so I can look at him. He smirks but keeps massaging. “I’m a big girl and you guys need to trust I’m going to be okay.” Tough sell, I know, based on what’s happened. Also, even though I’m the oldest and as scrappy as any kid who grew up with two brothers, Jason and Connor have always treated me like a rare and delicate bird. But I’m doing better now. Or at least, I’m close to doing better.

Jason holds his hands up in surrender, and then envelops me in a massive hug. He smells of some kind of coconut hair product and stale beer, likely from working at the bar the night before.

My breath leaves me the tighter Jason squeezes, and I finally wriggle out from inside the steel circle of his strong biceps and shoulders.

“What time’s the flight?” Jason asks, eyeing a plate of pastries on the counter. After a questioning look from him and a nod from me, he grabs one and sinks his teeth deeply into its round, doughnutlike surface. “God, are these good,” he says, mouth full of sweet dough oozing with a tangy, rich lemon cream. He takes another pastry before even finishing the first. “What are they?”

“I can’t remember the Italian name, but apparently it translates to virgin’s breast.”

“No wonder I like them so much,” he says, taking another huge bite. Connor sighs, eyes still on the list.

“Conn, you should try one. They’re fucking amazing,” Jason says, his mouth full.

“They really are. Rosa brought them over earlier. I suspect she’s trying to fatten me up.” Rosa is rail thin, probably because she spends more time pushing food on those she loves versus eating it herself. It used to bother me—the comments and frequent food drop-offs—because it felt almost accusatory, like I wasn’t capable of keeping Gabe as well fed as she could. But over the years I learned that for her, food and love were intertwined—the more she pushed, the more she loved.

Jason pops the last bite of the second pastry into his mouth, and then licks his fingers. “Tell her she can bring these over to my place while you’re gone.”

I laugh. “I’ll do that. Although be prepared, her pastries may be sweet but her judgment can be harsh,” I say, then notice Gabe standing in the doorway of our room.

“Be nice,” he mouths at me, eyes teasing. I smile and tilt my head, gesturing to him it’s okay to come back out.

Jason shrugs. “I’m good with the tough ones. Along with handsome I’m also often referred to as charming.”

Gabe laughs, and Connor snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“That you are,” I say to Jason. “Plus, if you eat a plate of her pastries in one sitting I’m sure you’ll be in her good books forever.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Gabe says, coming into the kitchen as I hand Jason a takeout container.

“Take them all,” I say, when he starts to close the lid, two pastries still on the plate.

“Are you sure? You are looking a little skinny.”

Gabe looks at me then. I’m swimming in the legging jeans I used to have to lie down to zip up, and I know what he’s thinking. Skinny isn’t good. Skinny equals sad.

“I prefer svelte, thank you very much,” I say as much to Gabe as Jason. “Seriously, take them. And to answer your question, the plane leaves in about six hours.”

Jason kisses me on the cheek, leaving a hint of stickiness behind. “You’re the best, love ya.”

“Love you, too.” I hug him again. Then I hug Connor, who holds my face in his hands and kisses me on the forehead. The way my dad does. “Be good, you two,” I say.

“Ditto,” Connor says.

Jason salutes with his free hand. “Always am,” he says with a smile that suggests otherwise.

Gabe says his goodbyes, promising my brothers he’ll take great care of me like always, then heads off to take a shower.

I walk Connor and Jason to the front door, holding it open for them with my foot. “Come back in one piece, okay?” Connor says with worried eyes. My mother’s eyes.

“Of course,” I say, standing in the open front door as my brothers make their way to the stairwell.

Jason turns before heading down the stairs after Connor and holds up the takeout container. “Seriously, tell Rosa I’m available if she needs me to eat stuff while you’re gone.”

“I will.” I wave and start to shut the door.

“Tegan!” Jason calls out.

I poke my head back into the hall. “Yeah?”

“Have fun, kiddo.”

“That’s the plan,” I reply with as much enthusiasm as I can.

We wave at each other and I shut the door. For the hundredth time since booking the tickets, I try to convince myself I’m ready for this.

15

An hour later I share a tearful goodbye with Anna, complete with a bag of my favorite treat, caramel cheese popcorn, from Garrett Popcorn. The first, and only, time I convinced her to try the sweet and cheesy concoction she gagged so hard she vomited on the sidewalk outside the shop, which only proves how much she loves me. She also gives me a book for the plane she promises won’t make me cry, with an inscription of one of her grandmother’s famous proverbs on the inside cover—a book is like a garden carried in the pocket—which neither of us really get but pretend to be inspired by. After she’s gone, I change into my travel clothes of black yoga pants, a hoodie and tennis shoes, and sit on the couch. The airport limousine should be arriving in fifteen minutes, and my stomach feels sour. Maybe from the popcorn. Probably from everything else.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Gabe asks when I let out a deep sigh, scanning the tickets in front of me. The destinations are in the order we pulled them out of the jar.

“Is this a mistake? I’m not sure about the order.” I frown, flipping through the three itineraries. My fingertips leave faint neon-orange popcorn dust smudges on the papers.

“The order’s fine. You’re just nervous.”

“Of course I’m nervous,” I say, frustrated to have to admit it. “This feels fast. I don’t know if I’m ready.” I hold my fingers against the pendant, and it presses into my bony sternum. “I don’t know if this is going to work. I don’t know if—” My voice breaks as a sob catches in my throat. I take a deep breath before going on. “This is going to sound crazy, but maybe I don’t want to get over it.” I’m relieved to finally say it out loud. “Do I really want to feel better? To move on? Because...because...” I stop, gasping against my sorrow.

“Because you’re afraid you’ll forget?” Gabe’s voice is soft, understanding.

I nod, sucking in air. “What if I forget how much I loved...how much I love—”

“You won’t,” Gabe says, interrupting me. Determination floods his voice. “I won’t let you.”

I breathe out through pursed lips and focus on his words. “Thank you.” I rest my head back against the cushioned couch and close my eyes. “I love you, Gabe.”

It’s the first time in four months I’ve said those words.

two

Thailand

16

Almost twenty-four hours after leaving Chicago, with a short layover in Frankfurt—from which I was still trying to get the stench of cigarette smoke out of my hair—our plane is minutes away from touching down on the runway at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport. I keep my eyes shut, enjoying the few moments that exist between dead sleep and consciousness. Despite my exhaustion and having spent two days on airplanes with nothing to do but sit and wait for time to pass, sleep has been hard to come by. Especially because of Gloria, our seatmate on the left.

She introduced herself in the airport’s bathroom mirror while I brushed my teeth before takeoff, and as luck would have it, she ended up right beside me for the entire flight. She’s a single mom, late forties, with a generous smile and a wild mop of red hair that consistently reaches beyond her seat and into my face. She works for some travel company in Chicago I’ve never heard of, and is on her way to a conference in Bangkok.

I try to be polite, listening to stories and looking at pictures of her son, who has just been accepted to college, and her cat, that she’s incredibly stressed about leaving behind, seemingly more so than her son. Gabe chuckles in my other ear, because this is what always happens.

I’m a beacon for the talkers. It’s as if I have a flashing sign that reads, “I want to hear all your stories, especially about your pet or disgusting medical issue!” No matter where I am, whether on the “L” train or walking through a shopping mall or sitting at a picnic bench in the park, the talkers flock to me. “It’s your eyes,” Gabe says by way of explanation. “You have curious eyes.”

My eyes, the color of milk chocolate and maybe a little close together, have never seemed special enough to entice such attention. Plus, despite my “curious” eyes, Gabe is by far the more social of the two of us.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Gabe whispers. I smile but keep my eyes shut. “The fun’s about to start.”

I crack open one eye and glance out the window. It’s early morning in Bangkok, and a beautiful one at that, the sky just hanging on to the last of the sunrise.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Gloria asks, leaning into me to look out the window. I shift slightly to get out of the way of her hair. “I love Bangkok. The energy is palpable, you know? You’re going to have a great time.”

“That’s the plan,” Gabe and I say at the same time, and Gloria smiles at us and pats my arm.

“I love seeing young people heading out on adventures,” she says. “One of the reasons I adore my job so much. There’s nothing like your first time...in Thailand, that is!” She winks. I laugh, forgiving her for her hair and loose tongue.

“How are you feeling, love?” Gabe asks, as I shift Anna’s book off my lap. I still haven’t cracked the spine, but I had good intentions to.

“I’m looking forward to washing the plane off my face.” I rub my hands over my eyes and wipe out the crusty sleep.

“Here,” Gloria says, nudging me with her arm. She holds out what looks like a baby wipe. “I swear by these. Got them in Japan last time I was there. They smell strange but your face will thank you.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the moist, white disposable towel and holding it up to my nose. I have no idea what the scent is, but it’s not entirely terrible, just odd. I shrug and wipe my forehead, then my chin and nose.

“Make sure you wipe it around your eyes,” Gloria says, doing just that. “It has some sort of tightener that will make you look ten years younger. Not that you need that. But this old face certainly does.”

“You know it’s probably filled with bird-poop essence or something like that,” Gabe whispers. “Apparently the Japanese are fond of their bird-dropping facials. Superexpensive.” I wipe around and around my eyes while Gloria watches, hoping he’s wrong.

“Ah, that’s better, don’t you think?” Gloria asks. “Feel like I’ve slept all night.”

Just then the flight attendant walks by, handing out hot towels as we taxi down the runway toward the terminal. I grab one for myself and Gabe, but he waves it away.

“No, thanks. I like the plane’s grit. Makes me feel like an authentic traveler.”

“Whatever you do, don’t use this on your face,” Gloria says, unrolling her own towel so it’s a flat square. I look at the towel in my hands, hot and steaming, and see the row of people across from ours all doing just that—pressing the hot towel to their faces.

“Why?” I ask Gloria, thinking it’s probably because then I’ll wipe away the very expensive bird-shit essence I just rubbed around my eyes.

“Trust me,” she says, using her towel to wipe a spot of tomato sauce off her pants. We had lasagna for dinner, which was better than expected. “They’re really low-quality towels.”

I stifle a laugh. Looking at Gloria, with her denim leggings with exposed threads and long-sleeve cotton shirt that seems to have lost its shape many washes ago, I think that her caring about the quality of an airplane towel seems out of character.

“Thanks for the tip,” Gabe says, and I just smile at Gloria. But she doesn’t see it, as she’s still scrubbing at the spot on her pants.

“Listen, if you need anything, anything at all while you’re here, call me,” Gloria says a few minutes later, after she’s packed up her magazines and bottled water from her seat pocket. “I’ll be here for the rest of the week, and know Bangkok like the back of my hand.” I take the business card she holds out and murmur my thanks, though I’m certain we’ll never call. The cabin is full of rustling and action, as we get ready to deplane. My heart flutters and my legs are unsteady when I stand.

“Relax, love,” Gabe says. I take a deep breath. “Besides, if Red gets even a whiff of anxiety from you, we’ll never shake her.” I laugh loudly. Gloria turns and gives us a big grin.

“Sounds like I don’t need to tell you this, but have fun,” she says. Then she steps into the aisle after the other passengers filing out in a line.

“You, too, Gloria. Nice to meet you,” I reply, stepping out behind her. I turn my head to the side to avoid her unruly hair, which seems to have doubled in size since takeoff.

“I hope we’ve seen the last of that hair,” Gabe whispers, and I chuckle, amazed at how normal this all feels. I wonder how long it will last.

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