Saving Meghan(10)
I try to tell myself that we live in a McMansion because that’s the kind of thing my father does—he builds big homes; turns the ordinary into the extraordinary. He’s the Candy Man for grown-ups. My dad loves Willy Wonka, the ancient ’70s version, which is the only reason I know that dumb song. Instead of pounds of sweet treats, he leaves behind sparkling new kitchens with gleaming marble countertops, state-of-the-art appliances, and fancy-pants cabinets. Instead of taking the sunrise and sprinkling it with dew, my dad can take a shit-shack and turn it into a castle. That’s where we live, inside a castle that’s big enough for me to have four siblings and still not have to share a bedroom.
I wish I did have brothers and sisters, not only for the company, but also to have someone around to take the focus off me for a change.
Dad pulled the car into the garage, which was so neat and tidy, it looked like we hadn’t fully moved in yet. That was another drawback (or benefit?) to being an only child. There wasn’t a ton of crap (sports stuff, ski stuff, bike stuff, tool stuff, stuff stuff) to clutter up a space even a quarter the size of our garage. We trekked inside in a solemn processional, Dad in front, me in the middle, Mom behind me, her delicate hand perched on my shoulder as though ready to catch me should I faint again. We passed through the mudroom into a kitchen big enough to double as a ballroom.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Mom asked.
Of course I wasn’t. The idea of food made me sick to my stomach, but I knew what’d I get if I refused. I’d get that look from Dad, as if he were saying “Of course you’re hungry, but you think you have to say you’re not so you can keep up appearances for your mom.”
In a strange way, I could take it as a compliment that my dad thinks I’m far more crafty and clever than I really am, that I can think ten moves ahead like a chess player just to keep everyone fooled.
I compromised and agreed to a cup of Mom’s chicken soup, the only thing I could stomach these days. Even though I had agreed to some food, I could tell my dad wasn’t really convinced I wanted to eat. He knew that after I finished slurping unenthusiastically at the broth, I would send a pile of carrots and chicken down the disposal. It was as though he knew I was doing it to appease him, so he’d think I wasn’t playing any games—which, of course, is a game.
While waiting for the soup, I got my phone and checked out the Likes on a “get well soon” Instagram post that Addy had made, alerting the world that, once again, Meghan Gerard had been in the hospital. I noticed the Likes weren’t as many as when I first got sick. Same as my father, social media had a limit as to how long it would care.
“Need anything?” Dad said before kissing the top of my head.
Yes! I wanted to scream. I need you to pull me into your arms and tell me everything is going to be all right. I need your reassurance that someday soon, I’ll be able to kick a soccer ball around and not feel the ground drop out from under my feet. I need your love and unconditional support. But, most of all, I need you to believe me.
Those were my thoughts, but the only words I managed were: “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“I’m going to go to bed, then,” my dad said, giving me that look again.
As an objective observer, I got his problem. After all this time, there should have been some kind of diagnosis to explain my headaches, muscle weakness, heart palpitations, weight loss, my trouble concentrating, my general malaise—a word my mom uses with pretty much every doctor we see. I should be bedridden in a hospital, but I’m not sick enough to even get admitted. I’m not sick in any measurable way that he could understand. My dad thought if it could be measured, then it could be cut into a recognizable shape, and then, and only then, could it be put into its proper place. But my blood work was fine. My labs were fine. My vitals were fine. Everything about me was fine. But even though my tests said that I was fine, they couldn’t tell how I was actually feeling.
Nobody but me could feel what was happening inside my body when my arms and legs went tingly while kicking around a soccer ball. My dad wasn’t looking out of my eyes when I saw sunshine one second, blackness the next. But he could judge me based on those damn numbers, those stupid test results. He thought I was trying to get attention, or make my mom happy, or whatever. That’s the vibe I got from him. That’s the look he gave me. It wasn’t disappointment. It was a look of disbelief. He thought my biggest secret was that I was faking it. But we both knew that wasn’t true.
My biggest secret was that I knew his.
CHAPTER 5
BECKY
Two days after she brought Meghan home from the hospital, Becky was back in her tidy office that could have been a bedroom for another child if only Carl had gotten his wish. He had been open and honest about his desire to have more children, never fully accepting Becky’s insistence that Meghan would be the only one.
More children meant more chances of something going wrong, because when you lose a child, no matter the circumstances, every day comes with potential new dangers. Playgrounds cause tetanus. Toys are choking hazards. Pets carry disease. A cough portends the flu. A stomachache signals salmonella. Becky feared life’s mishaps and disasters like a child afraid of the dark.
Nobody in Becky’s current orbit knew of Sammy. She never talked of him to her friends. They had moved to Concord when Meghan was still an infant. They bought a quaint colonial, intentionally not sharing their forwarding address or new contact information with former friends and neighbors.