The Other Life (37 page)

“DON’T START WITHOUT ME!��� QUINN SHOUTED FROM THE kitchen. Everyone else was seated at the dining room table—Hayden and Cordell (the guests of honor); Edward and Brett (their best friends); her father and Jillian; Georgette and Roger; Meredith and Michael (her current lover); Cordell’s sister, Tamara, and her seven-year-old son, Devin; and, of course, Lewis and Isaac.

Quinn’s father had suggested they go around the table and toast the newlyweds, which she thought was a great idea. First, though, she needed to tell the kitchen staff to hold off serving until the final speech had been made.

The dinner party had been Quinn’s idea. She wanted to do her part to help celebrate Hayden and Cordell’s wedding, since she hadn’t been able to attend the service. They had decided not to wait until summer after all, insisting they had simply changed their minds about having a big, elaborate affair. But Quinn suspected it had more to do with the uncertainty over the baby. And she couldn’t blame them. The possibility of a critically ill infant—or worse—could have certainly laid their plans to ruins.

So in April the two men drove to Connecticut, where same-sex marriage was also legal, and had a small private ceremony. Quinn was in her ninth month and prohibited from traveling, so she couldn’t be there. When she suggested a celebratory dinner at her house, Lewis agreed, on the condition that they cater it, as he knew cooking such a big meal would place too much physical stress on her.

“Okay,” Quinn said, when she came back into the dining room. “Let’s start.” As she lowered her now massive body into the chair, she felt her panties dampen, which wasn’t all that surprising. The baby was big and pressing on her bladder, necessitating frequent trips to the bathroom. She didn’t want to delay the party again, so she squeezed her legs together, figuring she could hold it in until they were done. She had her little speech all prepared and wanted to go last, wrapping it up with a toast to the grooms, her guests, and to the one person she knew was watching over the whole affair.

Her father started. He stood and addressed his son. “I don’t know if you remember this, Hayden, but when you came out of the closet to your mother and me, the first thing she did was turn to me and say, ‘Don’t be a macho jerk about this, Phil.’ ”

“I remember,” Hayden interrupted. “Only she didn’t use the word ‘jerk.’ ”

Everyone laughed, including Phil. “I’m censoring,” he said, with a nod toward the two children, Isaac and Devin. He needn’t have bothered, as the boys were huddled together, whispering and writing secret notes on a pad.

“Anyway,” Phil continued, “my point is that I don’t think I was ever especially macho. Still, as enlightened as I like to think of myself, it was hard news to hear. Soon, though—thanks to your mother—I was able to let go of whatever prejudices had been ingrained over the years and accept it. But . . . I was scared. I worried about your future, Hayden. I didn’t know if you would be able to find someone to share your life with—a partner who would love you and appreciate you as much as you deserved. Today, that fear is laid to rest as we celebrate your marriage and welcome Cordell into our crazy family.... God help him!” He lifted his wineglass and all the others did the same, including Quinn and the boys, whose glasses were filled with white grape juice. “To Hayden and Cordell!”

Everyone drank and, as if to punctuate the toast, Naomi kicked her heel into Quinn’s lower rib cage, where it remained lodged. The discomfort was hard to tolerate, and Quinn tried to alleviate it by pressing down against her ribs. No luck. She knew from her previous pregnancy that these last days could get unbearably uncomfortable. It was, she imagined, nature’s way of making the mother eager to push the new life into this world.

Her father’s girlfriend, Jillian, stood and made a toast, telling Cordell what a great choice he had made marrying into this family. Edward and Brett went next, making a speech so filled with private jokes that no one but Cordell and Hayden knew what they were talking about. Still, everyone laughed, appreciating the sentiments. Meredith told the couple they were an inspiration, and her date acknowledged that while he didn’t know them, their commitment to each other was evident, and he was honored to be a part of the celebration. Georgette talked about love and quoted from a George Eliot poem about two human souls joining together to strengthen each other. Her husband raised his glass and wished the couple a marriage as strong as his, which prompted Quinn to give Georgette a look.

Still uncomfortable, Quinn arched her back in an effort to elongate her body and relieve the pressure against her rib cage. But the shift in position put stress on her bladder again, and a bit more urine leaked out. She cursed her incontinence—yet another indignity of pregnancy no one talked about—and hoped the rest of the speeches would be brief.

Cordell’s sister was up next. She cried happily, telling everyone how much she loved Hayden, and how exciting it was to see them tie the knot just as her brother was on the brink of becoming a famous actor.

Then it was Lewis’s turn. “First of all,” he said, rising, “I want to thank Quinn for putting together this party at a time when she could have been a complete couch potato and no one would have blamed her. But that’s my Quinn. Thank you, sweetheart!”

All the guests raised their glasses and drank to that. Lewis turned to Cordell. “Now, I know you think Quinn and I can be a pain in the neck,” he began.

“Don’t be silly,” Cordell said, “I think you and Quinn are a pain in the
ass.
”

The group laughed, but Hayden poked him and nodded toward the children. Cordell, realizing his gaffe, covered his mouth and looked toward Quinn, who couldn’t find it in her heart to be angry. In fact, if she hadn’t been afraid of losing bladder control completely, she would have burst out laughing like everyone else.

Mercifully, Lewis cut quickly to the end of his speech, toasting the newlyweds as the best brothers-in-law he could ever hope for. After everyone drank, he told Quinn it was her turn.

“Wait a minute,” Isaac said, “what about us?”

“You guys have a toast?” Hayden said.

“We wrote it down,” Devin said, waving a piece of paper.

“Let’s hear it,” Cordell said.

The boys read in unison, “Over the teeth, pass the guns, look out stomach, here it comes!”

“Guns?” Phil said, laughing. “It’s supposed to be gums.”

Meredith’s writer friend chimed in. “I always heard of little boys creating guns from toast . . . but never toasts from guns.”

Quinn smiled. “I don’t know if I can top that,” she said, “but I’ll give it a shot.” She looked at the empty seat at the table and pictured her mother sitting there. This dinner would have meant so much to her. I’m not going to cry, she thought. I’m not.

Quinn picked up her juice-filled glass and stood. Before she could utter a word, though, her bladder gave way completely, drenching her pants, the chair and floor. As she looked down, horrified, a painful cramp spread through her and all at once she realized it wasn’t her bladder after all. Her amniotic sac had broken. Quinn was in labor.

This is it, she thought, and felt a rush of love for the child she knew she would be holding in her arms in a matter of hours. She looked over at her son and felt the same beautiful ache. This wasn’t just a feeling. It was a restructuring of her DNA—a permanent change in who she would forever be. Her children were the beating of her heart, the flow of her blood, the hardness of her bones, and the softness of her flesh. It drove her to accomplish the hardest thing she had ever done—crossing through the portal to get back.

For the longest time, Quinn wondered if her mother had felt the same way. It seemed impossible for someone who truly loved her children to make the decision to kill herself. But Quinn had been to the place where the black veil drops with an opaqueness so complete no light can get in. And so she knew.

She also knew that once the veil was lifted, her mother had felt the same love for her that Quinn felt for her own children. Maybe even more. Because in the end, Nan had looked into the light just as she had at the moment of Quinn’s birth. And again, the choice she made was out of nothing but love. Only this time it was harder. The ultimate sacrifice.

She had let her daughter go.

“Are you okay, honey?” Lewis asked.

Quinn nodded and placed her hand on her belly. “It’s time.”

This book would not have been possible without the advice, encouragement, and generosity of three spectacularly talented writers: Myfanwy Collins, Susan Henderson, and Saralee Rosenberg. Again and again, I went back to these women for help, and they always had the time and wisdom to find the light switch and turn it on for me. Thank you, my friends.

Additional illumination was provided by the medical professionals and other experts who patiently untangled technical information and sometimes even offered creative input. In particular, I thank Dr. Robert W. Marion for contributing such clear answers on the difficult subject of encephaloceles. Others who generously provided their expertise include Dr. Robin Cohen, Dr. David Cruvant, Alicia Gifford, Dr. Charles Goldberg, Michael Kitay, Melissa Michaels Meister, Roch Preite, Dr. Eric Shultheis, and Mindy Silverman.

I’m lucky to have friends in the writing community, both online and (gasp!) in person, who have given their support and advice, including Mary Akers, Terri Brown-Davidson, Don Capone, Louis Catron, Ramon Collins, Ron Currie Jr., Katrina Denza, Susan DiPlacido, Kathy Fish, Kelly Flanigan, Karin Gillespie, Bonnie Glover, Ceci Grant, Andrew Gross, Carol Hoenig, Debbi Honorof, Tony Iovino, Brenda Janowitz, Elinor Lipman, Lisa McMann, Pam Mosher, Michael Palmer, Ellen Parker, Patricia Parkinson, Jordan Rosenfeld, Robin Slick, Maryanne Stahl, Vivian Swift, Amy Wallen, and Liz Willard.

Humblest thanks to my agents, Andrea Cirillo and Annelise Robey, who responded with such ebullience to the sharp turn my writing took with this novel. I’m a lucky author to have such champions. Indeed, the whole Jane Rotrosen team—including Don Cleary, Peggy Gordijn, Christina Hogrebe, Lindsay Klemas, Mike McCormack, Meg Ruley, and the rest—deserves a cheer. Ditto Joel Gotler . . . So glad you’re on board.

Galaxies of gratitude to mission control, aka Rachel Kahan, my superstar editor, who understands readers as well as she understands writers. Without her wit, wisdom, and sage guidance, I’d be lost.

To Lauren Kaplan and the rest of the astounding gang at Putnam (whose names I hope to learn by the time you’re reading this), thanks for moving mountains.

To my parents, Marilyn and Gerard Meister, thank you for believing I could walk on water, even as I struggled to stay afloat. To the smarty-pants trio, thanks for putting up with a mom who sometimes straddles two different lives herself. And finally, to my husband, Mike, who endures my mood changes round the clock and still manages to love me, a kiss and a squeeze.