Sleeping Alone (16 page)

“Want some music?”

“If you do.”

He didn’t. What he wanted was to get her to talk to him, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards. Although something was obviously bothering her, he knew Alex well enough now to know that whatever it was, she’d tell him in her own time. Or not.

They drove in silence. He focused all of his concentration on the road and tried to ignore the fact that next to him the woman he loved was crying as if her heart would break.

* * *

“You can’t stay here,” John said as Alex let him into her house two hours later. “It’s like a meat locker.” He could actually see his breath.

“This is where I live,” she said, turning on the lights in the living room. “Where else would I stay?”

“Stay with me.”

She sidestepped a small pile of snow in the middle of the living-room carpet. “No, thank you.”

“You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’d feel better if you stayed at my place.”

“Listen to me, John.” She met his eyes. “All I want to do right now is sleep.”

“Sleep at my place,” he persisted. “It’s a hell of a lot warmer.”

She checked the thermostat in the hall. “Mystery solved. The contractor must have turned off the heat while he was putting up the temporary roof.” She turned the dial to the left, and he heard the burner click on. “See? It’ll be warm in here in no time.”

“Okay,” he said. “You go take a nap. I’ll sit out here and watch TV.”

“You’ve been away all night. I’d feel better if you went home and checked on Eddie.”

“I’ll make sure he’s okay.” He kissed her gently. “Get some sleep. I’ll bring supper back with me.”

Her expression softened. “I’m counting on that.”

* * *

The phone rang five minutes after John left to check up on Eddie. Alex’s hands were shaking so badly she had trouble lifting the receiver from the cradle.

“Hold please for Dr. Bradley.”

She closed her eyes, wishing the buzz inside her head would stop. She was cold, so cold she doubted if she’d ever be warm again.

“Ms. Curry?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she sank down onto a kitchen chair. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, God—”

“... the name of your doctor, and I’ll fax your records.”

She forced herself to pay attention. “I’m new here,” she said. “A friend mentioned someone b-but I can’t member—”

“Tomorrow will be fine,” he said. “You’ll want to have a complete prenatal workup. There was a slight amount of spotting, which isn’t uncommon in the early stages of pregnancy, but you’ll need to have it checked.” He told her to get plenty of rest the next few days and to avoid alcohol, caffeine, and tobacco. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” she managed. “How far along am I?”

“I can’t be certain,” he said. “My guess is three months, give or take. Your obstetrician will be able to tell you more.”

She sat alone in the kitchen for a very long time, her hands clasped protectively across her belly in that age-old female gesture. For ten years she’d prayed for a miracle, and now, when she least expected it, God had seen fit to answer her prayers. Would it be asking too much she prayed the baby was John’s?

It took a while to convince Eddie that Alex was really okay.

“It was a fender bender,” he told his father. “She was more shook up than anything.”

But the memory of another accident, another time, was right there in front of them, and neither man could make it go away.

“I’m going to call her,” Eddie said, reaching for the phone. “I’ve gotta hear for myself.”

“She’s asleep,” John said. “Why don’t I have her call you later?”

Eddie wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but he gave in. “Give her a kiss for me,” he said. “Tell her I was worried about her.”

John took a quick shower, dressed, then went out to pick up some Chinese takeout. Hot-and-sour soup. Some kung po chicken and moo shu pork. He got to Alex’s around seven o’clock and let himself in the front door. She wasn’t in the living room.

“Alex.” He started for the kitchen. “Hunan Dragon. We deliver.”

She was sitting at the kitchen table. Her freshly washed hair hung wet about her shoulders. She wore a pale pink terrycloth robe, belted at the waist. Her feet were nestled in thick white socks. She’d removed the bandage from her forehead. The two-inch cut looked angry and painful.

He put the bag of food down on the table, then nuzzled her neck. “You smell good.”

She leaned into his touch. “You smell like Chinese food.”

“How does some hot-and-sour soup sound? I had them add extra scallions.”

Her eyes closed briefly. “I don’t think I’m up to hot and sour tonight.”

“Kung po chicken? Moo shu?”

“I think I’ll just have some tea and toast.”

“You look pale,” he said, squatting down next to her so he could see her face. “Did you get some sleep?”

She nodded. “I guess the accident took more out of me than I thought.”

He understood. He felt as if he’d lived one hundred years in the last twenty-four hours.

“So where’s the bread?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood. “If I’m going to make that toast for you, I need to have some supplies.”

“The bread’s on the counter, John.” She sounded amused. “Right in front of your nose.”

“What about the tea bags?”

“In that canister marked ‘tea bags.’”

“So I’d make a lousy short-order cook,” he said, sticking two slices of white into Marge Winslow’s ancient toaster.

“John,” she said, “we need to talk.”

He lit the burner under the teakettle. “I thought that’s what we were doing.”

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “Are you okay?”

“The doctor called,” she said.

“The doctor—” His stomach catapulted into his throat.

“No, no!” She took his hand as an uncertain smile lit up her face. “It isn’t bad news—at least I don’t think you’ll think it’s bad news. It’s the best possible news, John, and—”

“Damn it, Alex, spit it out.”

“I’m pregnant.”

His brain emptied of all rational thought. “What?”

That uncertain smile quivered and almost disappeared. “I’m pregnant, John.” He could barely hear the words. All he could hear was the sound of his heart slamming against his rib cage.

“But you said—”

“I know.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “I can’t believe it’s true.”

Neither could he. Turning, he walked out the back door.

* * *

“John!” Alex called out from the doorway. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. He kept walking, crunching his way across the snow-covered yard toward the marina. She shoved her feet into a pair of boots, slipped her coat on over her robe, then ran after him. A full moon shone brightly overhead, reflecting off the newly fallen snow and making it easy to follow his trail.

She found him at the end of the dock. He was leaning against a piling, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. She should have brought his jacket; she shivered just looking at the threadbare Penn State sweatshirt. Her footsteps crunched loudly as she broke the icy top layer of snow. He must have heard her coming but he didn’t turn around. His shoulders were hunched, his head down. He looked more alone than anyone she had ever seen.

She stopped a few inches away from him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking, John?”
Talk to me. Don’t shut me out.
She could stand anything but that. She’d spent ten years of her life being shielded from real emotions, both her own and her husband’s, and she wasn’t going to let that happen ever again. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“Nothing.” His voice sounded flat and old, and it filled her with fear. “I’m feeling nothing.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I never lied to you,” she whispered, as much for herself as for him. “I didn’t think this could happen. I thought a baby was a dream that couldn’t possibly come true.” She waited for him to say something, but his silence filled her heart with despair. “But it did, John. My dream came true. I know it’s asking a lot for you to feel the way I feel about the baby. Neither one of us was looking for any kind of commitment. I’ll understand if you don’t—” Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away.
Tell him about Griffin, Alex. Now is the time.

The water was calm as black silk. The full moon was reflected in its depths. Yesterday’s storm was forgotten. The scene was beautiful, so beautiful it made her heart ache even more. This was her home, and it would be her child’s home as well.

I can do this,
she told herself as she gathered up her courage to tell John everything. She would find a way to live without him if her truth was more than he could handle. She was strong, stronger than she’d ever imagined. She had a home of her own. She had a job. She even had friends. She couldn’t imagine her life without John, but if she had to do this alone, she would.

Loving John was a miracle. So was this baby. Maybe she’d been asking too much to think she could be so lucky, so blessed, as to have them both.

Hours passed—or maybe only minutes; she couldn’t be sure. She felt as if her life were turning in on itself, blurring her perception of time and space.

“John,” she said at last. Her courage was rapidly disappearing. “We need to—” She stopped at the look of anguish in his eyes. He couldn’t possibly know what she was going to say.

“There’s something I have to... tell you.” His voice was etched with such terrible pain and loss she wondered that he didn’t die of it.

Every instinct in her body warned her to run as fast and as far as she possibly could, but somehow she managed to stand there, waiting. “I’m here,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Tell me.”

It was a simple story. A familiar one. One of those college love stories that was supposed to have a happy ending. But she knew this one wasn’t going to end happily at all. John Gallagher had met Libby Pace the first day of college when they fought over the last copy of the Western Civ text on the bookstore shelf.

From that moment on they’d been inseparable. They’d dated all through college, then married the day after graduation. Libby had worked as a receptionist at a publishing house while he attended law school. They had their lives planned out down to the last detail and had been young enough—and naive enough—to believe life would cooperate with them right down the line.

“Libby found out she was pregnant the day I passed my bar exam. We thought we were on our way.”

“You don’t have to do this, John.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “You don’t need to—”

But he did need to, and she knew it.
Let me say the right thing,
she prayed.
Let me know how to comfort him.
Because in her deepest heart, she knew how this story would end.

“We decided to have our kids close together,” he said, staring at something only he could see. “We wanted them to be friends, to have each other to rely on.” And they wanted to be young with their kids. For some reason that had seemed important to them.

Michael and Jake Gallagher were born right on schedule, thirteen months apart, two perfect clones of their father. They liked chocolate ice cream, blueberry pancakes, and chicken soup. They hated lima beans, tuna fish, and slimy scrambled eggs. Both boys thought pizza was the best thing since chocolate cake with icing.

“Michael was the athlete,” John said, staring out at the ocean. “He could hit a ball by the time he was three. Pop used to say—” His voice broke, and he paused. “Pop used to say he’d be a major leaguer one day.”

There was nothing she could say. No words that would ever ease his pain. All she could do was listen.

“Jake didn’t like baseball, but he was reading by the time he started kindergarten. He questioned everything, wanted to know why and how and where—” He shook his head, a half-smile on his face. “Another Gallagher lawyer in the making.”

“You must miss them so much,” she said. Her baby was months away from being born, and already she understood his pain in a way she couldn’t have last week.

“When the cops showed up at the door, I refused to believe them. I called them liars. I tried to throw them out.” He lowered his head. “They weren’t lying. They took me to the morgue—it was so fucking cold in there.... I’ll never forget how cold—they took me to the morgue and pulled open the drawer—”

“Don’t,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as if she could absorb some of his pain. “You don’t have to do this.”

“—and they pulled down this heavy plastic, and Libby—Jesus, they said Libby was in there, and I said there was some kind of mistake, there had to be some kind of mistake, that my wife wasn’t dead and then they opened two other drawers and pulled back that fucking plastic and I saw Michael and I saw Jake... what was left of them...”

Libby Gallagher was two weeks short of her thirtieth birthday when she died. Michael David Gallagher was seven years old. Jake Edward Gallagher was going on six.

John told her about the lost year after their deaths. He’d walked away from his fancy job and his fancy house, from everything but the towering guilt that tore at his gut every minute of every day.

“I drank,” he said bluntly. “Whiskey, vodka, rum—whatever got me through the night.” It was Eddie who pulled him back from the edge. His father dragged him out of the rathole motel he’d been living in, tossed away the booze, forced him back into the sometimes painful, sometimes wonderful world. “He was still hurting from losing my mom, but he put it all aside to make room for me. My old man saved my life.”

She understood so much more now. So many pieces of the puzzle snapped into place as he spoke. You didn’t hear much about the father-and-son connection. If you believed what you saw in movies and on television, you’d think a father’s job was over the minute his son could field a line drive. But you couldn’t tell that by Eddie Gallagher and his son John.

“That’s the kind of father I wanted to be,” he said, looking at her for the first time since he began telling his story. “Eddie was there for me when I needed him most.”

“And now you’re here for Eddie.”

The look in his eyes warmed her heart. “Not everyone gets it.”

“I do,” she said, and she loved him for it. She thought of how different her life might have been if she’d been lucky enough to have parents who actually cared about her happiness. Her child would never doubt she or he was loved and wanted.

“I’ll be a good father,” John said quietly. “I’ve had a pretty damn good role model to follow.”

Now, Alex. Tell him now.

But she couldn’t do it. Not when he was looking at her like that, as if she’d handed him the keys to heaven. She couldn’t tell him that the baby she carried might not be his. He had managed to survive the worst thing that could happen to a man. He deserved to be happy again and—God forgive her—her baby deserved a father who understood what being a father was all about. Her baby would be part of a family of men who understood what love was all about. Her baby would grow up knowing where he or she fit in the scheme of things. Her baby would grow up with a father who knew how to love.

He placed his hands against her belly, and a womb-deep sense of destiny filled her heart.
Yes,
she thought, pushing away the sense that she was making a terrible mistake.
This is the way it’s meant to be.