The Lies That Bind(90)

A cold, damp wind blows across the river, taking my breath away. I shiver, then stand and head home—which won’t be home for much longer. I feel myself start to panic about where I’m going to live. Although I know Matthew would let me live with him in the short term, I don’t feel right about doing it amid so much uncertainty. It crosses my mind to call my landlord, see if he’ll still let me renew my lease or at least extend it a few months—but staying in New York also feels wrong, and so overwhelming. There’s just no way I’ll be able to raise a baby alone in the city on my salary. In the light of day, Wisconsin still feels like the best, if not only, option. I decide that, at the very least, I need to book a trip home this week to talk to my family about everything.

By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m a complete mess, and even more distraught when I check my answering machine and see that Matthew hasn’t called. I take off my coat and gloves, throwing them down on a kitchen chair, before washing my hands and putting the kettle on. Meanwhile, I tell myself to calm down. I remind myself that plenty of women do this motherhood thing alone. I recently read that J. K. Rowling wrote her first Harry Potter book as a struggling single mother. So it can be done, and I will find a way if that’s what’s in the cards for me. I make a cup of tea, add lemon and honey, then sit down at my desk with fresh determination.

    No matter what, even if Matthew and I end up working things out, I can’t stay here if it means languishing in a job I hate. I need to find professional fulfillment and real stability for my child’s sake and my own. With this in mind, I refocus, spending the rest of the morning and afternoon revising my résumé and perusing job listings online.

I check reporting jobs in Milwaukee at first, but then expand my search to include any and all positions for which I’m even vaguely qualified, regardless of geography, finding openings in Chicago, St. Louis, Washington, D.C., and Columbus, Ohio. Although I’m soothed by the idea of moving back home, I don’t want to rule anything out. I don’t want to be ruled by fear—whether of failure or of the unknown.

I remember who I was four years ago, when I came to New York, determined to retain the best of that bright, hopeful, hardworking girl, while jettisoning some of the blind idealism. Things didn’t turn out as I planned—not even close—but that doesn’t mean I have to start settling.

With that in mind, I pull the wedding binder Amy made out of my briefcase. It takes me a few seconds, but I finally open it. As I flip through the pages, I’m filled with so many mixed emotions. It’s sad letting go of long-held dreams, but it’s also a relief to realize that they no longer seem so important to me. Maybe one day all of that will still happen. But if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.

I’m going to be a mother—and that is so much more important than anything else. I close the binder and walk to my kitchen wastebasket, but decide that disposing of the notebook there doesn’t feel final or symbolic enough. So I walk out to the hallway and toss it down the trash chute, listening to the echoing thud as it falls into the basement bin.

When I return to my kitchen, the phone is ringing. I screen the call, then listen to Scottie leave a long message about very little. Later that day, I also screen calls from Jasmine and my mother. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to them—it’s just that I’m not ready to share everything that’s happened. I don’t want their advice, even if it’s solid. I just want to figure things out on my own, for once.

    Later that night, as I’m getting ready for bed, I still haven’t heard from Matthew. So I sit down at my computer to write him a letter. The words come more easily than I thought they would, and afterward, I read them, picturing his face as he reads them, too.


Dear Matthew,

I’m so sorry, again, for not being honest with you from the beginning. I don’t blame you for being hurt and angry with me, and I agree that we should put our wedding plans on hold. There’s just too much uncertainty right now.

But regardless of what happens down the road, I want you to know that I will always love and respect you. I respect that you are true to yourself and never feel pressured to do things on anyone else’s timetable. I respect that you always try to do the right thing. I respect your honesty and integrity. For these reasons—and so many others—I hope and pray that my child gets to have you as his or her father.

But even if the baby does turn out to be yours biologically, and we end up marrying, I need to know for sure that we are together for the right reasons. Because you truly want to be with me, and I truly want to be with you.

By the same token, it seems to me that if we’re meant to be together, we should be together even if the baby isn’t yours. I wish we both wanted to run down to City Hall and say I do and I will, forever and no matter what. Instead it all feels so fragile. Perhaps romantic love is always this tenuous. Maybe it always comes with conditions. They say in “sickness and in health” and “for richer or for poorer,” but that’s the easy stuff. I mean, only a really weak relationship would fall apart if someone got sick or met with financial ruin, right? But what do we do when we’re hurt or betrayed or lied to? What then? Do we throw in the towel? Or do we stay and fight?

     I need to know how resilient we are. What we’re made of. How true and deep our love is. I want to be sure that it’s really about two people who are in love and want to be together.