Before I Let You Go(36)

That’s exactly how I felt about playing with Annie. I wanted her to win, so every move of the game was the opposite to my winning strategy: I’d buy single properties and pass up opportunities to get the whole color; I’d never buy the railroads or the more expensive properties; I’d go to jail and sit there trying to roll double figures and I’d tell her it was because I wanted to save the fifty dollars.

Annie still approaches the game as if she’s six years old. She squeals with delight when she gets a chance card, and she grins mischievously when she enforces the rent charges.

But the game doesn’t matter. It’s just a vehicle—something to focus our attention on. The important part of the morning is our conversation between turns.

“So, tell me about Sam,” Annie asks at one point.

“What do you want to know?”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“At a lecture on keyhole surgery. I held back after to ask him a question about a particular patient, and we started chatting . . .” I smile at the memory. I had no ulterior motive when I approached Sam, but it was only moments into our chat that I started to wonder if there was something there. “He asked if I wanted to meet up with him for coffee later that day. Things kind of fell into place from there.”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that you found your first long-term partner as soon as you threw me out?” It takes a moment for me to recognize the guilt in her voice, and when I do, I glance at her in surprise.

“Of course it is, Annie,” I say gently.

“Hmm. Not so sure.” Annie shrugs, and she rolls the dice in silence as I ponder her simple statement. She lands on yet another random property and immediately reaches for her cash. Annie now owns a good portion of the board, but still no complete color sets, and she’s still excited to be adding still another color to her collection.

“How could it be anything other than a coincidence?”

“I’ve taken a lot of your energy over the years, Lex.”

“So has my training,” I point out.

“Yeah,” Annie concedes, then she passes me the dice.

“Plus . . . you know, there’s something about Sam . . .” I say softly. “I’d never met anyone who fit me the way Sam does. He gets me. We have the same tastes, the same interests, the same patterns and routines and habits and . . . I mean—we have plenty of differences, too, trust me, but—we fit perfectly on all of the key things, you know? I never really believed in ‘the one,’ but . . . Sam makes me happy, and I think I make him happy, too. I dated a bit when I was studying, but no one ever checked the boxes the way Sam does.”

“That’s nice, Lex. That’s really nice.”

I can hear her jealousy, and it feels awkward to acknowledge it to myself. When we argued over the years, she’d always accused me of thinking I’m perfect, but she’s wrong about that—I don’t. I’m achingly aware of my flaws—my need to control my own life was a huge barrier to my relationship with Sam in the early days. I felt like he was too perfect for someone like me—like my baggage was immense enough to be an insurmountable wall between us. It has taken two years of very hard work to get my relationship with Sam to the place it is now, and two long years to convince myself that I do deserve happiness. The guilt I feel at having failed to help Annie until now has been like a creeping vine, winding its way through my entire life at times.

I roll the dice and buy the electric company I land on, then pass the dice back to Annie as I ask hesitantly, “And . . . you said the baby’s father was in prison . . .?”

“His name is Dale. And yes, there was a sting . . . just after I became pregnant I guess. He was with a bunch of guys we know . . . they had a shitload of gear on them, splitting it up to sell. I don’t think he was actually the kingpin the DEA said he was, but he got twenty years.”

“Does he know? About the baby?”

“I did send him a letter . . . he didn’t write back. But the thing is . . . Dale has a bunch of kids he pretty much ignores already, and we weren’t exactly in love, so I think I can say with reasonable confidence that his interest level in this baby is bound to be low.” Annie snorts as if she’s angry, but her eyes fill with tears. “I should have had an abortion, maybe. But I knew it was probably too late anyway and . . . I don’t know. I was kind of excited. I just thought everything would work itself out better than it has. I’ve gotten off the smack before, you know. I thought this time I could stay off if I was doing it for the baby. I tried a bunch of times to get clean, but the sickness seemed to come earlier and it was more intense than I’d remembered. I tried again last week, that’s when my feet swelled up—I thought it was just the withdrawals, but then I took a hit and it didn’t get better . . . that’s when I called you.”

“And . . . about the baby . . . were you imagining that you’d raise it alone, then?” I ask her, then add hesitantly, “In the . . . in that trailer?”

Annie raises her eyebrows at me.

“Like this would be the only kid in Alabama raised in a trailer.”

“It’s not ideal.”

“Nothing in life is ideal, Lexie. I thought if I could get my shit together, I could get a job and we’d be okay.”

I decide to drop the subject, although the urge to point out to her how unprepared she seems is almost overwhelming. What I’ve just gleaned from this conversation is that Annie does not have a plan—that she is just assuming things are going to magically get better—and she’s probably expecting that I’ll be the magic bean that solves all of her problems. I clamp down the resentment I feel. I want to connect with her today—I can’t let my indignation get in the way of that.