An unexpected journey leads one woman to discover that life after loss is possible, if only you can find the courage to let go…

One minute, Tegan Lawson has everything she could hope for: an adoring husband, Gabe, and a baby on the way. The next, a patch of black ice causes a devastating accident that will change her life in ways she never could have imagined.

Tegan is consumed by grief—not to mention her anger toward Gabe, who was driving on the night of the crash. But just when she thinks she’s hit rock bottom, Gabe reminds her of their Jar of Spontaneity, a collection of their dream destinations and experiences, and so begins an adventure of a lifetime.

From the bustling markets of Thailand to the flavors of Italy to the ocean waves in Hawaii, Tegan and Gabe embark on a journey to escape the tragedy and search for forgiveness. But they soon learn that grief follows you no matter how far away you run, and that acceptance comes when you least expect it. Heartbreaking, hopeful and utterly transporting, Come Away with Me is an unforgettable debut and a luminous celebration of the strength of the human spirit.

Come Away with Me

Karma Brown

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Praise for Come Away with Me

“One woman’s journey through grief becomes the journey of a lifetime… This emotional love story will stick with you long after you’ve turned the final page.”

—Colleen Oakley, author of Before I Go

“[A] heartbreaking yet hopeful tale… Karma Brown is a talented new voice in women’s fiction.”

—Lori Nelson Spielman, author of The Life List

“Full of lush locations [and] memorable characters…nothing short of jaw-dropping.”

—Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of Forever, Interrupted and After I Do

“[A] beautifully written story of love and loss…Come Away with Me had me smiling through my tears.”

—Tracey Garvis Graves, New York Times bestselling author of On the Island

KARMA BROWN is an award-winning journalist and freelance writer who probably spends too much time on her laptop in coffee shops. When not writing, she can be found running with her husband, coloring (outside the lines) with her daughter or baking yet another batch of banana muffins. Karma lives just outside Toronto with her family. Come Away with Me is her first novel.

www.KarmaKBrown.com

www.MIRABooks.com

For Adam & Addison, the greatest loves of my life.

And to anyone who has been handed the proverbial lemons of life and made lemonade with them, this book is also for you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Praise

About the Author

Dedication

Quote

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two

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five

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Acknowledgments

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Karma Brown

Copyright

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

—From a headstone in Ireland

one

Chicago

1

Even now, the smell of peppermint still makes me cry...

2

We drive the dark streets a little too fast for the weather. Beside me, Gabe crunches a candy cane and drums his thumbs against the steering wheel, singing along to his favorite holiday tune on the radio.

He reaches for the second half of the candy cane with one hand and uses the other to turn up the radio. I tell him to keep his hands on the wheel, but I’m not sure he hears me above the music.

If only he listened, if only I said it louder.

It’s 6:56 p.m. I watch the clock nervously...6:57 p.m. We’re going to be late, and my mother-in-law hates it when we’re late.

At this hour the sky has already turned black, a particularly depressing fact about winter in Chicago. But the twinkling Christmas lights that wind around the lampposts almost make up for it. On vacation from the law firm, with a whole six days of freedom, Gabe is in a feisty and festive mood. Plus, it’s Christmas Eve and we have so many reasons to celebrate this year. He crunches the candy cane enthusiastically, too impatient to savor it. The candy’s sweet, refreshing scent fills the car.

“Your mom is going to lose it,” I say, eyeing the Jetta’s dashboard clock. “We’re going to be so late.”

“Five minutes. Ten tops,” Gabe says. “She’ll live.”

“Wonder if we will.” I give him a wry glance. After eight years of being part of the Lawson family, there are three things I can count on. One, they love to eat, and dropping by for lunch generally means a six-course meal, prepared from scratch by his Italian mother. Two, Gabe inherited his love of life and unwavering positivity from his dad, which I am grateful for. And three, you never, ever, show up late to a Lawson family event...or without a good bottle of red wine.

“You need to relax, my love.” Gabe takes his right hand off the wheel and rests it on my knee briefly, before sliding it up my thigh. His calloused palm—rough from sanding the antique cradle he’s been refinishing, the one I slept in as a baby—scratches against my tights as it works its way along my thigh. The bottle of wine tumbles off my lap.

“Gabe!” I laugh and playfully swat at him. I right the wine bottle and place it between my suede winter boots on the floor. “Get your hand back on the wheel. If this bottle breaks, you’re done for.”

But he keeps his hand where it is. “Trust me,” he murmurs, his smile widening. “This will do the trick.”

“We’re almost there,” I protest, pressing my hand down hard on his, temporarily stopping its climb. “Let’s save this for later, okay? When we’re not late and you’re not driving.”

“Don’t worry, I’m an expert one-handed driver,” he says, inching his hand higher despite my efforts. “Besides, I don’t want you going into my parents’ house all wound up. You know how my mom smells fear.” He turns and winks at me, and I melt. Like always.

His fingers hook the thick waistband of my tights, which sit just underneath my newly swelling belly, and I stop protesting.

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree...have a happy holiday...

My breath catches as Gabe’s fingers work their way past the waistband and into my not sexy, but quite practical, maternity underwear. I look over at him but he stares straight ahead, a smile playing on his lips. I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest, as Gabe’s hand moves lower...

Then, suddenly, too much movement in all the wrong directions. Like riding a roller coaster with closed eyes, unable to figure out which turn is coming next. Except there’s no exhilaration—only panic at the realization Gabe no longer has control over the car. The tires lose their grip on the road and Gabe’s fingers wrench from between my legs. I gasp out his name and brace my hands against the edges of my seat. We fishtail side to side, and for a moment it seems as though Gabe is back in control. I allow myself a split second of relief. One quick thought that being late to dinner isn’t the worst thing that could happen, after all. An instant to contemplate how lucky we are.

Then, with a sickening lurch, the car swerves. The momentum is so great it tosses me sideways like a rag doll, and my head cracks against the window. Stars explode behind my eyes, mingling with the lampposts’ twinkle lights and creating a dizzying kaleidoscope. I feel like I’m watching a lit Ferris wheel, spinning high in the night sky.

As our car smashes into the lamppost, steel meets steel and everything slows down. I wonder if the bottle of wine will be okay. I think that at least now we have a good excuse for being late for dinner. And I’m amazed the radio continues playing, as if nothing has changed.

After the impact comes the shriek of metal as our sturdy car rips practically in two. And still, the music plays. When the airbag explodes into my face and chest I worry I may suffocate. But then a rush of pain, deep and frightening, crushes my belly—where the most important thing to both of us is nestled—and it takes my breath away.

Seconds later, everything goes quiet.

I try to call out for Gabe, but have no air left to make a sound. With my left hand I reach out, hoping to feel him beside me. I need to tell him something is wrong. My head hurts terribly.

He’ll know what to do.

But there’s nothing beside me except cold, empty space.

Then I realize it’s snowing inside the car.

We will not be lucky this time.

3

The biscotto shatters into a million pieces, the butter knife clanging against the fine china plate I’d planned to use for Christmas dinner. Back when I was looking forward to Christmas. Or to anything. Staring into the crumbs, I realize how closely they resemble my life. No one piece big enough to be satisfying; too many that even if you try to gather them all, a few will be left behind. Lost forever in the cracks.

“I don’t know why you insist on trying to cut that stuff.” Gabe leans against the doorjamb between our kitchen and the hallway.

“Because I only want half,” I say. “Why do they have to make them so damn long?”

“So you don’t burn your fingers when you dip them in your coffee,” he replies, shrugging. Obviously, his expression adds, though he doesn’t say anything out loud.

I sigh, tucking a stringy piece of dark hair behind my ear. “Why are you still here anyway?” It’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, the middle of a workday. It’s been a long time since I went to work, nearly three months. I pick up a small chunk of the broken biscotto and dip it in my coffee, appreciating the hot liquid’s burn against my skin. Physical pain is good. It dulls the ache that won’t leave my chest.

Gabe moves into the kitchen and sits on the empty stool beside me at the island. “I live here,” he says, his tone purposefully light. He’s trying to bring a smile to my face, I know, like he used to so easily.

The soggy corner of the cookie falls from my fingers and disappears below the surface of the coffee. “Besides, you need me,” he adds with a resigned sigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I look back into my mug, oily dots popping to the surface, and grab another piece of biscotto. My mother-in-law, Rosa, brought it over earlier, a whole tray’s worth, because she believes eating dilutes grief. But the cookies are Gabe’s favorite, not mine. To be honest, I don’t much care for them although I didn’t have the heart to tell his mom. Especially not now.

I put the thick, crusty cookie on the plate and pick up the knife again. Gabe raises an eyebrow but I ignore him, cutting the piece in half, once again unsuccessfully.

My mother bustles into the kitchen and I glance up at the stack of tiny folded blankets, covered in green turtles and fuzzy brown teddy bears, she holds in her arms. “What would you like me to do with these?” She looks uncomfortable to be asking the question, even though I’ve asked her here specifically to help pack up the nursery—something Gabe and I are incapable of facing alone.

“Get rid of them, please,” I say as if I’m talking about tomato soup cans in our trash bin. “Give them away or something.”

My mom opens her mouth, then closes it as she fingers the fine, muslin blanket on top of the pile—the one I imagined swaddling our son in before rocking him to sleep. “I could just put them in storage, until you’re sure.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. The air in the kitchen is charged with tension. No one knows how to deal with me these days; I can’t say I blame them. If I could escape my body and mind, I wouldn’t look back. “Give them away. Or throw them out. I don’t really care, as long as they’re gone.”

“Are you sure?” Gabe asks. He looks sad. But I’m sure I look worse. I tuck my hair behind my ear again, smelling how long it’s been since my last shower.

My mom hasn’t moved. She’s standing on the other side of the island and staring down at the blankets, sweeping her hands across the top one to try and straighten out the wrinkles. It occurs to me she imagined wrapping her grandson in that blanket, too.

“Get rid of them,” I say with an edge this time. But I keep my eyes on Gabe, who has gotten up and is now standing beside my mom. I’m challenging him to argue. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

“Okay, hon, okay,” Mom says, looking apologetic before leaving us to finish the conversation I don’t want to have.

“I’m sorry, Tegan.” Gabe’s voice carries a sadness I understand but don’t want to deal with.

I pick up another biscotto and put it on the plate full of broken cookie pieces. “I know,” I reply, setting the knife directly in the middle of the cookie. I press down firmly and a large chunk of the biscotto flies off the plate, still intact. Finally. “But it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”

4

“I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.” Gabe is beside me on our couch. I’m looking at the collection of photos on my lap that have yet to make it to a scrapbook or album. I shuffle through the photos, stopping at one of Gabe and me in Millennium Park, in front of Cloud Gate, or what Chicagoans call “the Bean.” In it Gabe kisses my cheek, my one foot kicked up and my hands holding the dress’s frothy layers of material in a sashay move. Our image is reflected back in the Bean’s smooth, shiny steel surface, along with the Chicago skyline and a slew of strangers, now part of our memories. A day I’ll never forget.

“Aside from the tinge of green on my face,” I say. Remembering. It’s only been six months, but feels like a lifetime.

We were married at dusk, during an early September heat wave. The ceremony was on the rooftop of the Wit hotel under the glass roof, which, along with the potted magnolia bushes that were somehow in bloom despite the season, made it feel as though we were inside a terrarium. Glowing lanterns lined the aisle and guests sat on low, white couches that would later become seating for the reception. It was all much more than we could afford, me a kindergarten teacher and Gabe just out of law school. But his well-off parents insisted—and paid—so the Wit it was.

I was horribly sick at the wedding, throwing up most of the day—including right after the picture at the Bean, in a bag Gabe wisely tucked in his suit pocket, “just in case”—and only five minutes before I walked down the lantern-lit aisle. Luckily my best friend and maid of honor, Anna, grabbed a wine bucket just in time. My mother-in-law blamed the catering from the rehearsal dinner the night before, which my parents had organized. My mom, bristling at Gabe’s mother’s implication, suggested it was nerves, telling all who would listen I’d always had a weak stomach when I was nervous. As a child that was quite true. I did my fair share of vomiting before important school exams, anytime I had to public speak and, most unfortunately, onstage when I was one of the three little pigs in the school play. But I had outgrown my “nervous stomach,” and figured I’d just caught a bug from school. When you teach five-and six-year-olds all day you spend a good part of the year ill.

Gabe was so sweet that morning. Sending me a prewedding gift of a dozen yellow roses, a bottle of pink bismuth for my stomach and a card that read:

You’ve always looked good in green—ha-ha. You are my forever.

G xo

Even sick, it was the best day of my life.

We found out a week later it had nothing to do with food poisoning, or nerves, or a virus. I was pregnant. I’d never seen Gabe happier than when he opened the envelope I gave him, telling him it was a leftover wedding card previously misplaced. When he pulled out the card, which had a baby rattle and “Congratulations” printed on its front, at first he looked confused. Then I handed him the pregnancy test stick, with a bright pink plus sign, and he burst into tears. He grabbed me and spun me around, laughing and hollering with joy, until I couldn’t see straight. There is nothing like being able to give your husband, the man you’ve loved since the day you laid eyes on him, a dream come true.

We met at Northwestern in our first year, during frosh week. My dorm was having an unsanctioned floor crawl. Gabe, who had been invited by a friend who lived in my dorm, had backed into me coming out of the Purple Jesus room, his giant Slurpee-sized cup of grape Kool-Aid mixed with high-proof vodka spilling all over both of us. Shocked at the cold, rubbing-alcohol-scented drink sopping into my white T-shirt and shorts, I simply stared at him, my mouth open. But then we burst out laughing, and he offered to help clean me up in the women’s washroom, which also happened to be the orgasm shooter room for the night.

“How apropos,” Gabe said, wiggling his eyebrows at me and handing me a shot glass. I laughed again, tossing back the sickly sweet shooter.

“Thanks,” I said. “That was the best one I’ve ever had.”

While we’d been together for so many years after that, our lives intertwined, the day we were married was the day it all really began. If only we’d had more time to bask in that happiness. There was a carton of orange juice in our fridge that had lasted nearly as long.

I stack the photos back together, not bothering to wipe away my tears.

“Teg, please don’t cry.” Gabe shifts closer to me, but I can barely feel his touch. I’m so numb.

“Do you think I’ll ever be happy again?” I close the lid on the box of photos. Saving them for the same time tomorrow night. “I mean, really happy?”

“I know it,” he says. “You’re just not ready yet, love.”

I touch my necklace, still trying to get used to it. It’s a white-gold, round pendant, about the size of a quarter and a half-inch thick. It hangs from a delicate chain. And while the pendant was hollow when the necklace arrived, via a white-and-orange FedEx box nowhere near special enough for its cargo, it’s now filled with the ashes of a broken dream.

I chose the necklace off the internet shortly after I was released from the hospital, one late night when sleep was impossible. I considered an urn, but somehow it felt wrong. That’s how my grandma had kept Gramps’s ashes, in an ornate brass urn on her kitchen windowsill. “Where we can still kiss him every day, the sun and me,” she liked to say.

In truth, twenty-six felt too young to keep—or need, for that matter—an urn of any kind. I casually mentioned the idea of something a little more intimate to Anna, hoping she’d tell me wearing a necklace filled with ashes wasn’t at all weird, but her frown and pinched look suggested otherwise. Gabe hadn’t been much help, either. None of us wanted to deal with the horror, but I didn’t have that luxury because it was my body that was now hollow. Empty, like my gold necklace used to be.

Gabe glances at the pendant. “You don’t have to wear it all the time, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Does it...make you feel better?” he asks, shifting sideways so he can face me straight on.

I pause for a moment. “No.” Then I turn my head and look at him before quickly turning away. I don’t like his look. It’s a complex mix of concern, sorrow and frustration.

“I’m worried it’s making things worse, Tegan.”

Anger burns in my belly. The last thing I should have to do is explain myself. Especially after what he’s done to us, to me. “How could anything make this worse?” My voice is low, unsteady.

“You know what I mean,” he says.

“Obviously I don’t.” I slam the box of photos on the coffee table and stand up so quickly I feel woozy.

“Hey, hey, Tegan,” he soothes, and I know if I were still on the couch he’d reach for me. But I’m just out of his grasp, and neither of us tries to close the distance. “I want to understand. I’m just trying to help.”

How do you explain that if you could, you’d cut your chest open and pour the ashes right inside so they could forever lie next to your heart? Like a blanket to smother the chill of sorrow. You can’t, so you don’t.

Gabe and I are the only ones who know exactly what’s in the necklace. Well, us and the funeral director, who filled it at my request. Close to my heart. It’s the only way I can keep breathing.

“I’m going to bed,” I say. My muscles ache as I walk slowly to the bedroom, making the space between us even greater. I’m so fragile these days, paper-thin. Even though I’m only halfway through my twenties, I feel more like a ninety-year-old. Probably because for the past couple of months I’ve done little aside from move in a daze from couch, to bed and back.

I barely remember what it feels like to get up and get ready for work. To enjoy takeout during one of the nature shows Gabe loves to watch, to shop for shoes or bags or the very short dresses Anna likes to fill her closet with, hopeful for date nights. I forget what it’s like to have a purpose that gets me up each morning.

These days I care little about what’s happening beyond my four apartment walls. I don’t remember what fresh air smells like, except for when Mom opens one of the apartment windows, touting fresh air as effective an elixir as anything else. The late winter chill that tickles my senses always feels good, but I don’t want to feel good. Not yet. It has only been seventy-nine days. So I ask her to shut the window and she sighs, but she always does it. That’s the thing about going through something like this. People will do anything to try and make you happy again; they’ll give you whatever you want. Except that the thing you really want you can never have again, and no one can bring it back.

“I’ll come with you,” Gabe says, from behind me.

“You don’t have to,” I reply, although I don’t mean it. As much as I am still so angry with Gabe, still full of rage and blame, I don’t like to sleep alone.

“I want to.”

“Fine,” I say, pushing the door to our bedroom open. As I do, I glance into the guest room to my right. The door is supposed to be closed—I’ve been quite clear about that—but it’s wide-open. Beckoning me.

The pile of baby blankets rests on the dresser, which would have doubled as a change table to save precious space in our not-so-spacious apartment. My mom must have forgotten to close the door when she left. Casting my eyes around the dim room, the bile rises in the back of my throat. Pushed up against one wall, the crib is still covered by a white sheet, with the mobile—plush baseballs and baseball bats, which Gabe had picked out as soon as we found out it was a boy—creating a peak in the sheet’s middle like a circus tent. In another corner I see the cradle, which Gabe had restored beautifully, waiting for a final coat of stain. Even though we still had months to go, we had been ready for our boy’s arrival.

Feeling sick, I turn away and shut the door firmly. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll agree to the crib being taken apart. It will have been eighty days, nearly three months, and I know I’ll soon have to accept no baby will ever sleep here, gazing with wide, curious eyes as the mobile circles soothingly overhead.

As I settle into our bed, pulling the sheets—which smell clean and fresh, thanks to Gabe, or my mom, or someone else who takes care of the things I no longer seem able to—up to my chin, I try to pretend none of it happened.

But the nightmares won’t let me forget, not even while I sleep.

5

Anna has her hands on her tiny hips in a way that looks more cutesy than angry, despite her best efforts. Her nearly black, almond-shaped eyes narrow. “I’m not taking no for an answer,” she says. I pull the duvet over my head, and weakly fight her as she pulls it down again. “You have to eat,” she continues. “Lunch. I promise.” She makes an air cross over her chest, eyes earnest. “Only for lunch and then you can come right back here to bed.”

“Anna, stop,” I say, finally allowing her to strip me of the covers. The flannel pajamas I’m wearing are rumpled and smell like they need a wash. “I don’t want to go out.”

She sits on the bed beside me, her lithe body barely making a dent in the mattress, and crosses her arms. “Listen, I promised your mom I’d get you to eat today so don’t make me look bad, okay?” When I say nothing, keeping my eyes on the ceiling, she bends toward me and kisses me on the cheek. “Besides, Gabe would be pissed if I let you stay in bed all day. Best-friend duties and all that.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter what Gabe wants, does it?” My voice is sharp, but frustratingly weak. Anna sighs, looking ready to argue some more, but then waves her hands about like she’s trying to shoo a fly away.

“Scootch over then,” she says. I don’t move. “Come on, Teg. Scootch.”

I shift my body over the foot or so she needs to lay her petite frame beside me. It forces me onto Gabe’s side of the bed, which is cold. Anna’s thick, silky black hair tickles the side of my face, but I don’t move away. Head to head, her feet only reach the middle of my calves.

“Look,” she begins, “I know the last thing you want to do is go out there. To see people all happy and shit. I get it. And I’d be exactly the same way.” She rolls toward me, but not without difficulty. I’ve spent so much time on this mattress, wishing I’d disappear if I lay still enough, that I’ve left a hollow the length and shape of my body. A depression to match my depression.

She sinks her elbow into the mattress’s pillow top, above the hollow, and rests her head in her palm. “But it’s been three months, Teg. You’ve not even left the apartment. You’ve lost so much weight you look like a freakin’ supermodel, and, no, that is not a compliment. There’s a hole in this mattress so big we’ll have to call the firemen to rescue you...by the way, let me make that call if we have to, okay?” Anna winks and I smile despite myself. “As your best friend, it’s my job to make you do the things you don’t want to do because they’re good for you. I would expect nothing less from you.”

It’s essentially the same speech she’s been giving me for the past month. She’s made it her mission to get me out of my apartment for something other than a doctor’s appointment—because no one else has been able to, including Gabe, my brothers or our parents—and I have a feeling she isn’t going to relent anytime soon. I stare up at the ceiling again, at the small crack running from the light fixture over our bed to the corner where a cobweb dangles, swaying in the current of warm, forced air coming from the vent. If I could only shrink and suspend myself from that cobweb, out of sight...

“And as my zu mu always says, talk does not cook rice. So please, get out of this freaking bed, okay?” Anna is endlessly quoting her Chinese grandmother, who seems to have a proverb for any situation one could think up.

“Tegan, I love you.”

“I know.”

“Then let me help you. Please.”

I sit up, without looking her way. “Fine.”

A second later Anna and her tackle-hug slam me back into the mattress. For such a small person she really knows how to throw her size around.

* * *

There’s nothing like strolling down Michigan Avenue on a sunny day. Even if it’s cold enough to freeze nose hairs within seconds. People hold tight to bursting shopping bags full of treasures sure to at least temporarily make their lives better. They laugh often, debating over whether to go into another shop or stop for lunch. Their lives are full of small problems.

I used to love people watching on the Miracle Mile, but now all I want to do is escape. It’s too vibrant. Damn Anna and her fucking best-friend speech. I long for the dullness of my pewter-colored apartment walls. For Gabe and my mom’s acceptance—however hard-fought—that I’ll leave the bed when I’m good and ready.

“Anna...” I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, like a tourist with no appreciation for the flow of foot traffic all around. “I need to go home.” This must be how agoraphobics feel. The open spaces around me seem dangerous, unpredictable, and I have the sudden urge to lie down and let the gently falling snow cover me until no one can see me anymore.

Anna tries to escape the chill by snuggling farther down into her chunky mauve wool scarf. She shivers a little then turns her attention back my way, giving me a critical look. Like she’s trying to sort out how to react to what I’ve said. We’ve been friends forever. Well, for three years actually, but Anna has a way of making you feel like she’s known you since the first moment you can remember.

She takes the few steps back to where I am and tugs me gently out of the way of the shoppers, who barely break stride. “Screw lunch. Food is overrated anyway,” she says with a most unladylike snort—a classic Anna-ism, which helps to remind me that at least some things don’t change. “Let’s just get a coffee, okay?” I allow her to pull me into the Starbucks in front of us.

It’s warm inside, and familiar. Both things that make me feel instantly better.

While Anna orders us coffee I grab a table near the back. I take off my gloves and lay my snow-damp wool hat on the chair across from me, knowing Anna will take the seat beside me. She has this thing about sitting side by side. She thinks it’s easier to talk naturally if you aren’t forced to stare into each other’s eyes. She says it’s a Chinese thing, even though she was born and raised in Chicago.

“Here,” she says, pushing a venti cup across the table and into my idle hands. Without thought, my fingers close around the cardboard sleeve, the heat coming through just enough to make me never want to let go. “I got you a vanilla latte...with whole milk and whip on top.” My regular order is a skinny vanilla latte, hold the whip. “If I can’t get you to eat the least I can do is make your coffee more caloric.”

She sits beside me and takes a sip from her own venti cup, which I know holds a soy chai tea latte, extra whip, then rests her other hand on my thigh. I jump from her touch, and she rubs my thigh harder. “Talk to me, Tegan.” I’m grateful she can’t see my eyes. “How can I help?”

“Tell me something funny.”

“Funny...okay. Hmm.” Anna sips at her coffee again. I wait. “Did I tell you about Caroline?” I shake my head. “No? Holy crap. You’re going to die...” Anna’s voice trails and she whispers, “Sorry.” Sometimes I think I’ll put together a spreadsheet of words people should avoid when in conversation with me. Words like death. And baby. Perhaps that’s how to prevent these uncomfortable, cringe-worthy moments. But it wouldn’t be for my benefit, because the truth is no words can make this worse—or better, for that matter. I put my hand on Anna’s, still on my thigh, and give it a squeeze to let her know it’s okay. She smiles, and I’m glad one of us feels relieved.

“Okay, so last week we had the fun fair, remember the one Principal Clayton planned for Valentine’s Day? So one of the stations was face painting, like always, but this year the kids got to paint the teachers’ faces.” Anna, like me, is a teacher—grade four. She says kids under the age of nine give her migraines. “Anyway, they did a great job but that’s not the part I think you’re going to like,” she says, her voice dropping for effect. “I’d gone to the little girl’s room and Caroline was leaving the staff room as I was coming back in...and, well, I let her walk out without taking her face paint off! I looked right at her and smiled without saying a word!” Anna laughs, snorting deeply again. “She went on the ‘L’ with cat whiskers...ears—” Anna laughs so hard she’s losing her breath “—and...and a bright pink nose!” The energy from her laughter is contagious, and I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes me. Caroline DuPont was one of the other kindergarten teachers, and always trying to show me up with her Martha Stewart–perfect craft ideas for her class. The thought of her sitting on the train in full costume makeup applied by a clumsy five-year-old’s hand did bring some light to my soul. For a moment.

Anna laughs again and I want to join her, but it’s just too much work. She realizes she’s laughing alone and stops. We drink our coffees in silence, and then I blurt out, “I think something’s wrong with me. Really wrong.”

She looks at me, surprise muddling her pretty features. “Why do you think that?” To her credit, she keeps her tone light. Perhaps trying not to alarm me. Or maybe, herself. “What do you mean?”

My voice is softer now. “I talk to him.” Barely a whisper. “Sometimes it feels like he’s still with me...right here...” I gulp back a sob and clutch my stomach, the pain that can no longer be blamed on physical wounds starting up again. “Like nothing happened.”

“Oh, Teg.” Anna clutches my arm. I see something flash across her face. Relief? “That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”

I can see she believes it, and I’m grateful for her certainty. Even though I don’t share it.

“It will get better, sweetie,” Anna soothes. “But not today. Or tomorrow, or probably even months from now. But I promise you, you won’t feel like this forever.”

Something inside me snaps. My chair scrapes the hardwood floor noisily and Anna jolts back, the sudden movement surprising her.

“You promise me?” My voice is loud and unrecognizable to my own ears. It’s filled with misplaced, toxic anger, which unfortunately for Anna, needs to be released right now. It’s bubbling up in me like boiling water inside a tightly lidded pot. Straining to break the seal. I start to laugh, but without joy. “I suggest not promising me anything.”

“Tegan, please sit down,” Anna says, pulling on my coat’s arm with some urgency. People look our way, anticipating something more interesting than whatever is on their laptop screens or on the lips of their coffee dates. Their curiosity sickens me. Although admittedly, only months ago I would have been doing exactly the same thing.

“This will never get better. Never.” I bite my lip, not to hold back my words but to feel physical pain. I learned while recovering from my surgery just how valuable physical hurt is in keeping emotional anguish at bay. But it would have to be extreme to counter what I’m feeling, because most days it feels like my insides are covered in a million paper cuts, and I’ve just swallowed a bottle of lemon juice.

I taste blood, and feel the rough edge of my lip where I’ve gone through the skin. “I lost... I lost my—” My voice cracks, and I can’t make the word pass my lips. “I lost everything. I am without a future now. At twenty-six. Do you know how that feels? No, you don’t. Because you still have the chance for all that.”

I suppose I do, too, although not in any way that makes sense to me now. I keep going, despite the stares of the coffee-shop patrons, despite the tears that stream down Anna’s cheeks, ruining her mascara.

“So, please. Please don’t promise me anything, Anna. Especially something you can’t control.” You see now? I want to add. No one can help me.

“I’m sorry,” Anna says, eyes downcast. Her voice is thick with emotion. For a second I feel guilty for making her cry. “I really thought...maybe if you could... You said you weren’t ready. I’m sorry.”

“What the hell are you sorry about?” I’m giggling uncontrollably even though I know it isn’t the right reaction. I should be crying. Wailing. But for some strange reason I giggle, like a carefree schoolgirl.

I’m barely hanging on.

“You weren’t driving the car. You always drive the fucking speed limit anyway. I wish you had been driving instead of Gabe. Maybe then... Maybe...” The giggles shift to a full-body sob, but I can’t stop the words spilling from my tear-damp lips. “I hear it all the time. The crash. Have I told you that, what it sounded like? Did you know metal screams when it’s being ripped apart? Like, it actually screams.” Anna stands quickly, grabbing her stuff and then my arm as I sob around my words.

“Come on.” Anna ushers me through the now crowded tables. There are murmurs, chairs pulling in to accommodate our quick departure. She leads me outside, into the cold air. I concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out.

But I can’t catch my breath, my lungs rejecting the air. My vision narrows to a long, dark tunnel, and I drop to the sidewalk.

6

I wake up in the emergency room, a bright light piercing my vision.

“Ms. Lawson? That’s it, Tegan, open your eyes,” an unfamiliar voice says.

“Thank God.” Anna sounds like she has a terrible cold, her nose too stuffy to breathe through. Her face hovers over mine and I blink a few times. She’s quite blotchy, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

“How are you feeling?” The voice belongs to a middle-aged man in muted green scrubs. He has on glasses that make him look quite Clark Kent–like. Cute and nerdy. His hands hold either side of the stethoscope hanging around his neck and he’s watching me closely. I wonder if Anna notices how handsome he is. He’s exactly her type—a decade older and brainy enough to have made it through medical school.

“Better, I guess,” I say, my throat dry. I clear it a few times. “What happened?”

“You just dropped!” Anna says, seeming quite frazzled. Her obvious panic adds volume to her words. “Like one second you were standing in front of me, and the next you were on the sidewalk.”

“Sorry. I’m okay, I promise.” I hold the hand she puts on my shoulder, and watch her fiddle with the cell phone in her other hand. “You didn’t call anyone, did you?” She shakes her head, but she’s a terrible liar.

“Anna?”

“It went to voice mail. Twice.” I glare at her, hoping Gabe’s with a client and hasn’t picked up his voice mail yet. I don’t need anyone else looking at me the way Anna is at the moment. “Sorry, Teg, but you scared the crap out of me.”

“Has this ever happened to you before?” The doctor asks. Now I see his name, embroidered over his scrub shirt pocket. Dr. Wallace.

“No,” I say, shaking my head, which feels leaden. I’m glad I’m lying down. “But I haven’t been, um, sleeping well.” I swallow hard. In an instant everything lands back on me, like a boulder falling directly onto my chest. I try to breathe around the heaviness. “I was in a car accident a few months ago.”

“Were you injured?”

“Yes,” I say without elaboration. He waits, but I don’t add anything more.

“It was quite serious,” Anna interjects. “She had to have surgery and was in the hospital for almost three weeks.”

“What kind of surgery?” handsome Dr. Wallace asks, casually, like he’s asking how I take my coffee. He looks up from the chart and waits again for a response.

It’s as if someone has sewn my lips together. I can’t get the words out.

Anna looks at me, waiting, too, then at the doctor. “She, uh...” Anna glances my way again and I try to tell her it’s okay, she can tell him. The message must have come across despite my lack of voice, because she keeps going without taking her eyes off me. “She had a hysterectomy,” Anna says, adding more quietly, “and she was just over six months pregnant at the time.”

Dr. Wallace stops writing and gives me the most excellent sympathetic look. One I’ve seen before. From my surgeon, who cut out my uterus right after the accident, along with any chance I had of becoming a mother.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dr. Wallace says, and I can tell he means it. His voice is smooth, confident, yet it carries an appropriate amount of compassion. They must practice that, doctors—how to convince a complete stranger you really care in one minute or less. “You mentioned you haven’t been sleeping. Any other changes to your health?”

“She’s not been eating much, either,” Anna offers, before I can answer “No, nothing,” like I’d planned to.

“Well, that could explain why you fainted,” he says. He licks his finger, which I find odd for an emergency room doctor to do, and flips over a page on the chart. I think about all the germs his hands must come in contact with during a single shift. I’d be wearing gloves, or carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer in my back pocket, but I guess he’s not all that concerned about getting sick. “Also, that patch on your upper arm? Nicotine patch?”

I shake my head. “It’s an estrogen patch. They also removed my ovaries when I had the hysterectomy.” I say it as matter-of-factly as I can, but we all know what it means. I will never have a child. And every week, when I take off the old patch and put on a fresh one, the reminder of that makes me want to throw something, or punch someone, or collapse into a heap on my bathroom floor and never get up.

The good doctor nods, and gives me another sympathetic smile. “I’m going to do a few more tests, just to be sure there isn’t something else going on, okay?”

“Thank you,” Anna, my spokeswoman, says.

“You bet...sorry, I missed your name. Miss?” he asks, his smile for Anna this time.

“Anna,” she says, extending her hand. “Anna Cheng.”

“Okay, so if everything checks out we’ll have you out of here soon. Sound good, Tegan?” I nod, and he pats my shoulder. “Just try and relax.”

Three hours later Anna pushes me out of the hospital in a wheelchair—hospital policy, apparently—with a good handful of sleeping pills to get me through the next few nights until I can see my family doctor. A short cab ride later, I’m home and manage a pitiful thank-you when Anna strips me of my clothes and tucks me back into bed in new pajamas. The hollow welcomes me back like an old lover, and I settle in as Anna heads to the kitchen to make me soup and toast. A few minutes later I hear the front door open and close, and I brace myself for company, presuming Anna made that call after all.

I roll over, settling deeper in the mattress, and feel the cool comfort of the pendant as the weight of my body presses it into my skin. For a moment, I indulge my grief-weary brain a reprieve and imagine what life would have looked like if the car had spun out thirty seconds later, after the row of steel lampposts.

If only Gabe kept both his hands on the wheel.

If only I stopped him from what he was doing under my skirt.

If only the de-icing trucks had already been out.

I close my eyes, only then remembering I left my hat and gloves at Starbucks.

“Tegan.” Gabe’s voice startles me. Guess he got the voice mails.

“Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

He lies down beside me, barely disturbing the covers, but doesn’t touch me. He knows me so well.

I keep my eyes tightly closed. “Let’s just say I may not be welcome back at the Starbucks at Michigan and Lake.”

Gabe sighs. “But you’re okay. Right?”

I nod against the pillow. His voice softens. “What happened?”

“I had a fucking meltdown, Gabe. An embarrassing, who-let-the-crazy-lady-out kinda meltdown. Then I passed out on the sidewalk and ended up in the ER.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I was with a client.” Gabe shifts closer to me. “I should have been there.”

“You can’t be here every second of every day,” I say. “Anna took care of me.”

“I know. I’m glad she was there,” he says. His hand caresses my cheek; his fingers brush the hair back from my face. Still, I keep my eyes shut. “You need to eat something.”

“I’m sure Anna will force-feed me the soup she’s making. Or my mom will when she gets here in, oh, twenty minutes,” I say, finally looking over at him. He’s wearing my favorite suit—gray herringbone, cut perfectly for his lean, muscular body—with a white shirt and mint-green tie. “I assume she called my parents?”

Gabe shrugs and smiles. “You know Anna, she’s not known for her secret-keeping abilities.”

I sigh. Gabe and I often joked that the best time to share something with Anna was immediately after telling everyone else.

“I completely freaked her out,” I say. “She didn’t even comment on how cute the doctor was.”

“Man, that is serious,” Gabe says, his tone light. I smile. But a moment later, the smile drops from my face and Gabe’s laughter fades.

“It’s okay, Tegan. You’re just not ready yet,” Gabe finally says, when the silence becomes uncomfortable. “You need more time.”

“That’s what I told Anna.” I’m weary now. I really want to be alone. “I wish you could explain it to her. I think you could make her understand.”

“She’s doing exactly what you would do for her, Tegan.”

I nod, rolling onto my side. I can hear Anna in the kitchen, as drawers open and close, and the microwave timer beeps. A salty, fragrant smell hits my nose and I know the boxed chicken noodle soup—the extent of Anna’s cooking repertoire—is bubbling away on the stove. I hope I can get some of it down, if for no other reason than to appease everyone.

“I want to talk to you about that night,” Gabe says, pulling me back from thoughts of my churning stomach. “We need to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t,” I reply.

“It’s okay to be angry with me,” Gabe says. “You can’t possibly hate me as much as I...hate myself.” My strong husband, as broken as I am.

“I don’t hate you, Gabe.”

Oh, but I’m lying to you, my love. I do hate you. You ruined everything.

“Well, you should.”

I say nothing.

“I have an idea,” he says at last. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it, but I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Teg?”

This is an interesting question. Six months ago I wouldn’t have hesitated.

“We need the jar of spontaneity.” His voice has regained its familiar positivity.

“I don’t know where it is, Gabe,” I say, although that’s not at all true. It’s on the top shelf of our closet, tucked out of sight behind stacks of unread magazines I’ll never get to. “I think Mom may have tossed it when she was cleaning up last week.”

“It’s in the closet behind your magazines,” he says.

“Okay, I’ll get it later.”

“I think you should get it now.”

With an angry sigh, I throw back the covers and step onto the plastic footstool in our closet. The jar can’t help. The jar is the last thing I need. But I grab the stack of magazines and drop them to the floor, the sound of their weight hitting the hardwood echoing harshly inside our small bedroom.

“You okay in there?” Anna calls out from the kitchen.

“Fine,” I say as loudly and confidently as I can, hoping she doesn’t come in to check on us. “Just dropped some magazines.”

“Okay. Soup is almost ready,” she says.

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a minute,” I call back. Then, stretching my arms, I reach for the jar, a large glass vase, really, and tuck it into the crook of my arm.

I let the vase drop onto the duvet and some of its contents spill out. “Here’s the fucking jar, Gabe. What would you like me to do with it?”

“Now,” he says, pausing for a moment. “Now we choose.”

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