Page 23 - 2017 WTP Special Edition

a childless couple, and now you want to find one of your own.”
“That’s another phrase I’ve had enough of.” Peter pulls his hand away, reminded of that awful night, some three weeks after Helen’s death, when either he or Marianne reached for the other, and for a few moments they were in each other’s arms. Thank god, one or the other of them had the presence of mind to stop things from going any further, for what a disaster that would have been.
“We have the embryos, Marianne, don’t forget that. It’s not like this wasn’t our idea in the first place.”
“But Helen was going to carry the child, her child. She was the mother—” Only now does Mari- anne’s voice waver.
Marianne’s elbows are back on the table, and she is scrutinizing him closely, her eyes as blue as Helen’s, though Helen alone had those dazzling gold flecks. “Tell me this: how are you going to pay for a surrogate? It’s going to be phenomenally expensive.”
“And she did carry that child, our daughter. If that fucked up kid hadn’t—” If Helen hadn’t been in the supermarket at eight forty-five at night, buy- ing butter, apples, and a tin of tuna, she would still be here, and they would have their daughter, Louisa Marie. Peter, despite every reason not to,
“I’ve already considered that,” he says, though in reality his calculations have been pretty minimal. “I’ll forego my sabbatical next year and take on summer teaching. The Subaru’s old, but it’s in good shape. I could even take in a renter,” he adds hur- riedly, though this he has in fact not considered.
“What Agnes never expected is the
“You can’t possibly do that,” Marianne says. Peter frowns. “Why not?”
“You love your privacy way too much.”
“I want a child, Helen’s child, more.”
e ect Shakespeare’s plays would have on her.”
still keeps the picture from the last ultrasound in the nightstand drawer.
They stare at each other for a while, and Peter senses that Marianne is waiting for him to look away first. Another lawyer’s tactic.
More staring from the couple in black.
Marianne sinks back into the red leather booth, closes her eyes. “Oh Peter.”
“I don’t think I told you that I didn’t give away the cradle,” Peter says at last, his gaze still riveted on Marianne. “It’s in the walk-in-closet in Helen’s study, along with the other things I could not bear to give away.
“Don’t talk to me about moving on,” Peter says, a razor sharpness coming into his voice. “Every single day I wake up, and I can’t believe she isn’t here. I reread the books she loved, trying to find her in the margins. People say it’s going to get easier, but,” he glares at the couple at the next table, “that’s bullshit.”
Marianne looks down at her hands, very briefly, and then back at Peter again. She was with them when they bought that cradle, having found it in an antiques store in some small town outside the city. And Marianne, with her elephant’s memory, must remember the care with which both Peter and Helen refinished the cradle, even stenciling in
“God, Peter, I miss her, too. But raising a child on your own? Really, you need to give this more time.” Marianne reaches out, covers his hand with her own.
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