The Mothers(67)

A flock of angels skipped by in shimmery white dresses. This was a strange, lopsided universe, all saints but no sinners, angels but no demons. An off-kilter world where girls mothered old women and betrayed their best friends.

“We don’t have to be sad anymore. Dave says he’s in heaven right now.” Luke smiled, reaching for her hand. “And your mom’s holding him.”

Luke gazed out the window, and under the faint moonlight, he looked almost peaceful when he talked about their baby, who, like their love, was miraculous and fleeting. She squeezed Luke’s hand. If this was what he needed, she wanted him to believe it. She wanted him to believe it all.

—

THAT SUNDAY MORNING, Aubrey saw a Marine in the receiving line. She ordinarily didn’t notice faces when she helped greet the congregation, still overwhelmed by the crowds who gathered to shake hands with the first family, a family she now belonged to, and she shuffled mechanically, repeating the same greeting, offering hugs, agreeing to coffee dates she would soon forget. She wouldn’t have noticed the Marine at all if not for his uniform: dress blues, hat tucked under his arm, gold buttons glinting in the light. When he stepped forward, she glanced up into his face and snatched her hand back.

“Oh,” she said.

Russell Miller smiled, the same purposeful smile she’d seen on the beach years ago, the smile of a man who knew sadness and spent great energy warding it away. She knew that smile, because it was a smile she’d long practiced and perfected. She hid behind that smile, but no one saw it in her the way she saw it in Russell. He reached past her to shake Pastor Sheppard’s hand.

“Great message, Reverend,” he said.

She suddenly felt exposed, like the whole church would notice her standing beside Russell and know. Know what? That once upon a time, days before her wedding, she had kissed him in a beach bathroom stall? That after she’d gotten married, when Russell should’ve been banished to her memory, she still wrote him?

“Let’s talk outside,” she said.

Months ago, Russell had e-mailed her and announced that his tour overseas was ending. Coming back to the States soon, wanna grab lunch? She’d hated the fake casualness of it, as if he were an old high school friend in town who just wanted to catch up. Of course she wanted to see him again, but they both knew she couldn’t. She was married. She was loved by one man and it was wrong—greedy, really—to ask for more.

“What’re you doing here?” she said, once they’d stepped behind the church.

Russell shrugged. “You didn’t answer my e-mail, so I figured I’d come by.”

“Maybe I didn’t answer for a reason.”

“Which is?”

“I’m married.”

“Married women can’t eat lunch?”

“Not with strange men.”

“I’m a strange man?”

She sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I been halfway around the world and back and all I want to do is take you to lunch. I don’t mean nothin’ funny by it. You just kept my spirits up while I was gone and I want to thank you. Your husband can even come if he wants.”

She told Russell she would mention his invitation to Luke, but on their silent drive home from church, she stared out the window, imagining Russell beneath her on the bathroom floor, his large hands gripping her waist.

“What’re you thinking about?” Luke said.

“Me?”

He smiled. “Of course you.”

“I don’t know. I’m not thinking anything.”

He eased onto the brakes as he pulled up to a traffic light. Then he pried her hand from her lap, guided it to his mouth, and bit one of her fingers.

“What’re you doing?” she said.

He grinned and bit another one.

“Ouch,” she said, laughing. “Stop, you goof.”

Then Luke kissed her hand and held it between his, and for the rest of the drive, she imagined her life caught between his teeth, her trusting him not to bite.

Two days later, she met Russell at Ruby’s Diner on the pier. Even though he wore a blue gingham shirt with a tie and stood when she approached the booth, she reminded herself that this wasn’t a date. Nothing intimate or romantic about lunch on the pier, where seagulls cawed and swooped overhead. Russell ordered a beer with his fish and chips. She ordered a Coke and a chicken salad, then later, a piece of lemon meringue pie to split, not because she was still hungry, but because she wanted their lunch to last longer. She’d worried at first that she’d feel awkward around him, but she was surprised by how natural she felt, chatting about mundane things, like the church picnic or her sister. Then Russell asked how her fertility appointment had gone.

“Fine,” she said. She had received a message, weeks ago, from Dr. Yavari’s office to confirm her follow-up appointment. She’d deleted the message. What would be the point of going back? Of consulting an expert to help make a baby that Luke didn’t even want? No wonder he’d never cared while she’d obsessed over their inability to conceive. He only cared about the baby he’d lost years ago. He only cared about the baby he’d made with Nadia.

“You think your husband wants a boy?” Russell asked.

“I don’t know. He never said.” Had their baby been a boy or girl? Did it matter? The baby had probably been whatever Luke wanted.