Home > Under the Southern Sky(9)

Under the Southern Sky(9)
Author: Kristy Woodson Harvey

“You could adopt them out,” I suggested warily.

He shot me a look. “Are you serious? They’re Greer’s. I can’t give them to a stranger.”

I shook my head. “Well,” I said quietly, “there are a lot of people who donate theirs to science. I bet they could be used for something really targeted, maybe even ovarian cancer research, something that would honor Greer’s memory.”

Parker nodded. He leaned forward and rubbed his temples. “Maybe so,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have told you, should I?” I whispered.

Parker opened his eyes, but he didn’t answer. “Aunt Tilley,” he called in the direction of the screen door. “I’m gonna need the rest of that pie!”

I smiled at him cautiously, one hundred percent sure that he was cracking up, but then cracking up myself when I saw that Aunt Tilley was actually delivering the entire pie pan—minus the two pieces we had already eaten—with a fork.

“I’m not sure pie is going to take care of the problem,” I said, smirking.

“You don’t know that,” Parker said, his mouth full.

“My pie can solve absolutely anything,” Aunt Tilley said.

Maybe she was right. Because by the time he had finished that pie (The whole thing. I’m serious.), I got the sneaking suspicion that, even though he hadn’t deemed it appropriate to share with me yet, Parker Thaysden knew exactly what he was going to do.

 

 

Parker

A LITTLE LIGHT

 


SITTING IN THE FRONT SEAT of my rental car, still in Amelia’s yard, I took three deep breaths. Sometimes it hit me hard, at moments like this, that I was alone. Really, truly alone.

What I was thinking about now was absolutely ridiculous. No, not ridiculous. Mad. Unhinged. They should put me in a twin bed across the room from Tilley so they could keep an eye on me.

I remembered being in church as a kid, and the minister told us that when we were struggling with something, we should pray really hard and then open the Bible to a random page. God would speak to us through that page and tell us what to do. Well, I figured that God had enough on his hands without having to prove himself to me through some game with the Bible.

But once Greer died, I figured she didn’t have as much going on as God, so maybe I could ask her to shed a little light through her journals. I had only brought one with me from Palm Beach. It was lying in the passenger seat like a therapy dog. And when I got back in the car after Amelia dropped the bomb on me, I said out loud, “G, if you can hear me thinking, then you’re probably thinking I’m crazy. I know I am. But if you could help me decide what to do, that really would help me out.”

I opened the notebook randomly. That’s when I realized that, even though I thought I had known everything about Greer, no one ever really knows all of anyone.

 

 

Greer

MAY 16, 2016

 


I ASKED TO SEE THEM today. I was supposed to go to the oncologist’s office, but at this point, I didn’t see a reason to: I was dying; it was as simple and as complicated as that. So, instead, I drove to the fertility clinic.

I walked through the double doors, past the front desk with its sliding glass windows, with several nurses protesting, down a hall with modern art and low lighting, and directly into Dr. Wright’s office. If he was surprised to see me, behind his imposing desk, a pair of giant computer monitors flanking his head, he didn’t let on.

I asked to see them, and he was like, “See what?”

My babies, obviously.

How was it that only a few short months ago making these embryos felt hopeful? It felt easy, like cancer would be a blip on my radar and, in no time, I would be back in action.

Dr. Wright didn’t argue with me. And, in retrospect, I’m sure that walking me into his lab must have wrecked his schedule, that the rest of the day was filled with angry women. I wondered briefly what Parker would have thought of this, of me there, standing over a microscope, my tears blurring the eyepiece as I asked Dr. Wright to switch the slides. They were just a few cells, my babies. But each one already looked different. One was a ladybug with its wings out. Another a beautiful flower about to bloom. A four-leaf clover. A teddy bear. They were actual, real-life embryos, a part of Parker and a part of me. One would have grown up to like her hair in braided pigtails, the other in sparkly clips. One would have wanted a basketball party when he turned five, another a firefighter party. One would hate peas, one would love carrots, one would be a gifted pianist, another not able to carry a tune. They were unique and they were special and they were beautiful. They were gifts. But they would never be.

I knew I was dying. I had made peace with that. But what I couldn’t reconcile is that they would die with me. I could imagine rocking them to sleep as babies, holding their chubby hands as they stepped into the ocean for the first time as toddlers, fighting over math homework and curfews, Parker teaching them to drive, even sitting in the front pew at their weddings. I wouldn’t get to do any of that, but what was so much worse, neither would they.

Pain and sadness drenched every part of me, making it difficult to breathe. I wouldn’t make a scene; I’d never do something like that. But this ache was so raw and so pure that I felt like I couldn’t move. I couldn’t walk away from them. When I did, my brief and painful attempt at motherhood, the one maternal thing I would ever do in my life, would be gone.

Dr. Wright put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I wanted him to call Parker. I sniffed and shook my head. I didn’t want Parker to know about this. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was going to have so much to deal with. I couldn’t ask him to share this pain and this loss, too. I hoped that he would never think about it again, although it hurt something deep and low and dark in my heart to think of my babies here in this freezer. My ladybug, flower, four-leaf clover, and teddy bear. My legacy. My family. All the life that nearly was.

It seems crazy now, but I almost took them with me. I almost put my babies in my pocket and carried them out of there. What did it matter? They were just going back into some cold, anonymous freezer. They would never know the warmth of my body. They would never grow inside of me, come out of me, be held in my arms. They would never know the two parents who loved them more than life. They would be yet another decision that poor Parker had to make once I was gone. What to do with the embryos. I had put a lot of clauses in my will to make things easier for him, but that was one I had left alone. A mother shouldn’t have to make such decisions.

And so back to the freezer they went. My ladybug, flower, clover, and bear. And I know that Parker will make the best decision he possibly can, that he will weigh all the information and do what he thinks is best, like he always does.

God, I love that man. I love our babies. I love the life we have together. And what I wouldn’t give for just a little more time.

 

 

Parker

GOOD GRACES

 


I COULDN’T MOVE, COULDN’T BREATHE. I just sat there, shaking a little, in the front seat of my rental car, in the grass lot outside the Saxtons’ house, Greer’s journal on my lap, tears pouring down my face like they hadn’t since her funeral. For a few minutes, Greer had been here in this car. Her soothing voice had been in my ear, telling me a secret. I didn’t know those cells had become such a part of her.

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