From the second they got home, Marah seemed to sense that something was wrong with Daddy, and no amount of cuddling could comfort her. More often than not, she woke screaming in the middle of the night and wouldn't fall silent until Kate brought her into bed with them (a practice which made Mom roll her eyes, light a smoke, and say, "You'll be sorry.")
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When the holidays came around, Kate decorated extensively, hoping the sight of their treasured collectibles would somehow knit them all together again and make them the family they'd been before.
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As bad as that year was, Kate knew every moment that it could have been so much worse. The man she brought home from Germany bore only the merest resemblance to her husband in those first few months. His brain was slow in healing, and sometimes he lost patience with himself when a word outran him or an idea couldn't be latched on to. She spent endless hours with him in rehab, both working with him and his physical therapist and waiting in the lobby with Marah.
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During the girlfriend hour, while she sipped her glass of wine and told Aunt Georgia and Mom that she was holding up well, she started to cry.
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The doorbell rang.
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But she was afraid to do that. "I'm fine," she said. "It's been a difficult year, that's all."
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Aunt Georgia got up. "That's probably Rick and Kelli."
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"And miss Christmas? Hardly." She set the presents down beneath the tree and pulled Kate into a hug.
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Mom took her hand. "It's okay, honey. Let it out."
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It was Tully. Standing on the porch, wearing a winter-white three-quarter-length cashmere coat and matching pants, she looked drop-dead gorgeous. There were enough presents in her arms for three families. "Don't tell me you started girlfriend hour without me. If you did, you'll have to start it over."
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"You said you had to go to Berlin," Kate said, wishing she'd dressed a little better and put on some makeup.
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Kate hadn't realized how much she'd missed her friend until right then.
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Tully turned the quiet girlfriend hour into a party. At one o'clock, long after they were supposed to have put the turkey in the oven, Mom and Aunt Georgia and Tully were still dancing to ABBA and Elton John, singing at the top of their lungs.
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She peeled back the paper, plucked off the bow, and found a blue velvet box inside. Opening it, she gasped. There lay a fine gold necklace and a diamond-encrusted heart-shaped locket. "Johnny…"
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"Hey."
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Johnny came up to Kate. She noticed that he was barely limping. "Hey, you," he said.
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Johnny reached down beneath the tree and found a small box, wrapped in silver and gold paper, with Scotch tape showing along the seams and a red foil bow that was too big. He handed it to her.
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All around them, people were talking and singing. Aunt Georgia was doing "The Time Warp" with Sean, his girlfriend, and Uncle Ralph. Mom and Dad were talking to Tully, who was swaying to the music with Marah in her arms.
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"I've done some stupid things in my life, Katie, and for most of them I've paid the price. Lately, you've paid the price, too. I know how hard it's been on you, this past year. And I want you to know this: you are the one thing I've done right in this life." He took the necklace out of the box and put it on her. "I've taken a new job at my old station. You won't have to worry about me anymore. You're my heart, Katie Scarlett, and I'll always be here for you. I love you."
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He nodded.
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Kate stood by the tree. The room seemed lit from within suddenly. How was it that Tully could be the life of any party so easily? Maybe it was because she didn't do any of the scut work -- no cleaning or cooking or laundry for Tully.
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"You want me to open it now?"
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Every time Kate saw a new hairdo, she winced at how fast time was moving. The years weren't just passing, they were flying by. Already it was the last day of August, 1997. In a little more than a week her baby would be starting second grade.
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During college, the cherry trees in the Quad had marked the passing of time. Every season came and went on those spindly gray-brown branches. In the eighties, time had been marked by the streetlamps on the cobblestoned street in front of the Public Market. When the first SEASON'S GREETINGS flag fluttered beneath the lamps, she knew another year had gone by.
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Kate's throat tightened with emotion. "I love you, too."
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In the nineties it was Tully's hair. Every morning, while Kate fed and bathed Marah, she watched the morning show on TV. Like clockwork, Tully's hairdos changed twice a year. First there had been the Jane Pauley extra-short bangs, then the Meg Ryan messy look, then the pixie cut that made her look impossibly young, and most recently, she'd chosen the most talked-about cut in the country -- the Rachel.
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She hated to admit how much she'd been looking forward to this day.
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But as the months turned into years, she'd begun to feel a tiny itch of dissatisfaction. At first she'd kept it bottled inside of her -- after all, what did she have to complain about? She loved her life. She spent what spare hours she did have volunteering in the classroom and at Helper House, the local center that provided assistance to women in need. She even took a few art classes.
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For the past seven years, she'd been the best mother she knew how to be. She'd diligently recorded every milestone in Marah's baby album and took enough photographs to scientifically document a new life-form. More than that, she enjoyed her daughter so much that she sometimes felt lost in the sea of love that surrounded them. She and Johnny had tried for years to conceive another child, but they had not been so blessed. It had been difficult for Kate to handle; in time, though, she'd accepted her small family and poured herself into making every moment perfect. Finally, she'd found something she was passionate about: motherhood.
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Shaking her head, she turned away from the view and went to the television, turning it on. As soon as Marah woke up, she was going to make her daughter march outside and pick up the toys. A temper tantrum was sure to follow.
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It wasn't enough, didn't fill the invisible void, but it made her feel productive and useful. And though the people who loved her -- Johnny, Tully, and Mom -- repeatedly commented that she seemed to be looking for something more, she ignored them all. It was so much easier to focus on the present, on her daughter. There would be plenty of time later on to search for herself.
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The television came on with a thump. A BREAKING NEWS banner ran beneath Bernard Shaw's grave face. Behind him, a montage of Princess Diana photographs reeled off, one after another. "For those of you just tuning in," Bernard said, "the news from France is that Princess Diana is dead…"
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Now she stood at the living room window, dressed in her flannel pajamas, staring out at the still-dark backyard. Even in the shadows she could see toys strewn about the deck and yard. Barbies. Beanie Babies. A tricycle lying on its side. A pink plastic Corvette was washing back and forth on the incoming tide.
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Maybe she'd waited too long to try. Kate knew about that, about how frightening it could be to watch your children grow up and your husband go off to work and to wonder what you'd do with the sliver of life that was yours.
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Beside her, the phone rang. Without looking away from the TV, she answered it. "Hello?"
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"She was just starting to come into her own, too."
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"It can be over so fast," Kate said, more to herself than to Tully. She realized a moment too late that Tully had been talking and she'd interrupted her.
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"It's true?"
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"Oh, my God." Kate stared at the images on the TV -- young, shy Diana in her plaid skirt and bomber-type jacket, with her eyes downcast; pregnant Diana, looking hopeful and radiantly happy; elegant Diana, in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder gown, dancing with John Travolta at the White House; laughing Diana, on a ride at Disneyland with her boys; and finally, Diana alone, in a hospital far from home, holding a malnourished black baby.
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In those few images were the whole of a woman's life.
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Kate stared at the screen, not quite comprehending.
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The princess. Their princess. Dead?
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"You're watching the news?"
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"I'm in London to cover it."
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"Really? That's great. You always were a kick-ass writer."
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"Kate? Are you okay?"
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Familiar photographs filled the screen: Diana, walking alone at some event, waving to the crowd, then the image changed to the front gates of one of the castles, where flowers were beginning to pile up in remembrance. Life could change so quickly. She'd forgotten that somehow.
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Kate didn't respond. She sank down to the sofa and just stared at the TV, surprised when she began to cry.
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Almost immediately, Kate regretted the decision she'd made. Well, that wasn't entirely true. What she actually regretted was that she'd told Tully, who'd told Mom, who'd told Johnny.
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"I think I'll sign up for a writing class at UW," she said slowly. The words felt pulled out of her somehow.
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"You know, it's a great idea," Johnny said a few nights later as they lay in bed, watching television. "I'll help out with whatever you need me to do."
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Kate wanted to give him a laundry list of reasons that it was too burdensome for her schedule. He and Tully made everything sound so easy, as if life were a combo plate you could order and pay for. She knew how wrong they were, how it felt to find that you weren't good enough.
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"I can't do it," she whined to her husband, feeling sick to her stomach on the day of the first class.
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For the next week, she was a nervous wreck.
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In the end, though, she could lie to herself and make excuses for only so long. When Marah went off to school, waving wildly, Kate was left with the empty hours of her day. Chores and obligations could only fill some of her time.
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So, on a hot Indian summer day in mid-September, she dropped Marah off at school, drove onto the midmorning ferry, and merged into the downtown Seattle traffic. At ten-thirty she parked in the visitors' lot at the University of Washington, walked to the Registration Building, and signed up for a single class: Introduction to Fiction Writing.
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"You can do it. I'll take Marah to school so you won't be stressed about catching the ferry."
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He bent down and kissed her, then drew back, smiling. "Get your ass out of bed."
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After that, she moved on autopilot -- taking a shower, dressing, packing her backpack.
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"But I am stressed."
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All the way to UW she thought: What am I doing? I'm thirty-seven years old. I can't go back to college.
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She wasn't sure when she relaxed, but gradually, her stomachache eased. The more the professor talked about writing, about the gift of storytelling, the more Kate felt she belonged here.
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And then she was in the classroom, the only person in the room who was over thirty -- including the teacher.
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"Thanks."
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From her place at the news desk, Tully finished her on-air banter with the show's cohosts, then turned her attention to the TelePrompTer, reading the news seamlessly. "Chief Tom Koby of the Denver police conceded today that mistakes were made early in the JonBenét Ramsey investigation. Sources close to the case allege that…"
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When she was done, she gave the camera her trademark smile and turned the show back over to Bryant and Katie. As she was gathering her script and notes, an assistant producer came and whispered in her ear, "Your agent is on the phone, Tully. He says it's urgent."
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She talked to several members of the cast and crew as she made her way out of the studio and up to her office. There, she closed the door and picked up the phone, punching in line one. "This is Tully. Hi, George."
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"Touch up your makeup and move."
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"Thank you." She handed him a ten-dollar bill and went into the cream and gold marble lobby.
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He led her down the hallway filled with glass cases that held expensive items for sale from the various gift shops and the sparkling jewelry store, and into the airy, high-ceilinged restaurant.
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At the hotel, a liveried bellman appeared instantly to open the car door for her, saying, "Welcome to the Plaza, Ms. Hart."
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Her agent, George Davison, was waiting for her, looking elegant in a gray Armani suit. "Are you ready to make your dreams come true?"
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"There's a car waiting for you out front. I'll meet you at the Plaza in fifteen minutes."
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"You're finally going to do that, huh?"
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She hung up, told everyone who needed to know that she was leaving for a meeting, and left the building.
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She saw instantly who they were meeting. In a back corner of the room hidden behind the world-class buffet was the president of CBS.
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He stood at her arrival. "Hello, Tallulah, thank you for coming."
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"What's going on?"
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Tully felt as if she might float out of her chair. There was no way to contain her joy or make her smile anything other than huge. "I'm stunned. And honored."
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"Two million a year," George said.
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She missed a step but not her smile. "Hello." She took the seat across from him, watched George sit between them.
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What's the offer?" George said.
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"I won't beat around the bush. As you know, The Today Show is killing our morning show in the ratings."
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"Done. What do you say, Tully?"
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"Yes."
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"One million dollars a year for five years."
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"Thank you."
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"We'd like to offer you the cohost spot on our show, beginning with the first show in '98. Our market research indicates that viewers connect with you. They like and trust you. That's exactly what we need to get our ratings back. What do you say?"
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"At CBS, we think you're a big part of the show's success. I've particularly noticed your interviewing skills. Amy Fisher and Joey Buttafuoco, the survivors of the Oklahoma City bombing. O. J.'s defense team and Lyle Menendez. You were great."
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Tully didn't look at her agent. She didn't have to; they'd been dreaming about an offer like this for years. "I say hell, yes. And can I start tomorrow?"
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In writing, Kate found her voice again. She woke every morning at six and went into the office she'd set up in the spare bedroom. There, she worked diligently to craft and recraft her sentences, polishing each paragraph until it revealed all that she was trying to say. At some point in this first hour Johnny came in to kiss her goodbye, and then she was alone again until Marah woke and her real-life day began.
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She stood in the front of the classroom, with a green blackboard behind her. In the desk/chair sets in front of her, a dozen or so bored-looking kids slumped in their chairs; more than a few appeared to be sleeping. Beside her, the professor -- a young guy with long, shaggy hair, wearing Air Jordans and camouflage pants -- waited patiently.
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She had so much confidence when she was in that pseudo-office of hers, with her fingers on the computer's keyboard. If only she felt so sure of herself now.
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Kate took a deep breath and began to read: "The girl in the small room in the ramshackle house was all alone again. Or she thought she was. In this place where the lights didn't work and the windows were covered in black paper and duct tape, it was hard to tell the truth. Should she take a chance and try to escape? That was the question. The last time she'd tried to run, she'd miscalculated and it had cost her. Unconsciously she rubbed the still-tender area along her jaw…"
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No such luck.
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She lost herself in the words she'd written, in the short story that was hers and hers alone. All too quickly it was over, the last sentence read, and she looked up, expecting to see a new respect in the faces that stared up at her.
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"Well," the professor said, coming forward. "That was entertaining. It seems we have a budding genre writer in our midst. Who has a comment?"
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For the next twenty minutes, they dissected Kate's story, looking for flaws. She listened carefully, refusing to let herself be stung by the criticisms. Who cared that she'd spent almost four weeks on these six pages? What mattered was that she could improve. She could tighten her story and try to master viewpoint and be more careful with her dialogue. By the end of class, instead of feeling wounded or dejected, she felt empowered, as if a heretofore unseen path had just been revealed. She couldn't wait to get home and try again.
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Beaming, she hurried out of the classroom. All the way across campus and through the student parking lot, she imagined new directions for the story, ways to fix it.
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As she packed up her stuff to leave, the professor came over to her, said, "You show real promise, Kate."
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At just past 1:20, she pulled into the parking stall under the cement viaduct and walked across the street to Ivar's Restaurant. Her mother was already seated at a table in the corner. Through the wall of windows, Elliott Bay sparkled in the sunlight. Seagulls wheeled and dropped and dove for french fries thrown by tourists on the pier outside.
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So caught up in her imagined world was she that she missed her exit and had to backtrack.
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"Sorry I'm late," Kate said, sitting down across from her mom, unhooking her fanny pack and letting it rest in her lap. "I hate driving in the city."
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"Thank you."
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"I ordered us both shrimp louies. I know you have to catch the two-ten boat." Mom leaned forward, put her elbows on the table. "Well? Did your professor think your story was better than John Grisham?"
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"Oh." Mom sat back, looking disappointed. "I think your story was brilliant. Even Daddy thought so."
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"Somewhat. But I love you for it."
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Kate couldn't help laughing at that. "He didn't use those exact words, no. But he did say I had talent."
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"Dad thinks I'm better than John Grisham, too? And on my very first story. I guess I'm a genius."
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"Are you saying our opinion is somewhat inflated?"
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"I'm proud of you, Katie," she said softly. "I always wanted to find something like that for me. I guess I made afghans instead."
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"You raised two great kids -- well, one great one and one pretty good one," Kate teased. "And you stayed married and made everyone happy. You should be proud of that."
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Kate placed her hand on her mother's. They both understood; every at-home mom in the world understood. Ultimately there were prices to be paid for the choices a woman made. "You're my hero, Mom," Kate said simply.
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"I am, but…"
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Mom looked at her, tears bright in her eyes. Before she could answer, the waitress returned with their salads and lemonades, put the lunch on the table, and left.
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"Excuse me," Kate mumbled, dropping her fork and clamping a hand over her mouth as she ran for the restroom. There, in a stiflingly small cubicle, she threw up.
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The nausea hit without warning.
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When there was nothing left in her stomach, she went to the sink and washed her hands and face, rinsed out her mouth.
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Kate picked up her fork and started eating.
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Her whole body felt trembly and weak. Her face in the mirror was bone-pale and drawn. For the first time she noticed the dark shadows under her eyes.
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"I'm fine," Kate said, taking her seat. "I took Marah to playgroup this weekend. All the kids were sick." She waited for her mother to respond. When the silence went on and on, Kate finally looked up. "What?"
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"Mayonnaise," her mother said. "It made you sick when you were pregnant with Marah, too."
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Still feeling shaky, she returned to the table, under her mother's watchful gaze.
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Maybe she was coming down with the stomach flu, she thought. Everyone at playgroup was sick this week.
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It felt as if the chair beneath Kate just evaporated -- poof! disappeared -- and she was falling fast. Several annoyances clicked into place and became clues: tender breasts even though she wasn't having her period; trouble sleeping; exhaustion. She closed her eyes and shook her head, sighing. She'd wanted another baby -- she and Johnny both did -- but it had been so long, they'd given up. And now everything was going so well with the writing. She didn't want to go back to sleepless nights and crying babies and days that left her too tired to answer a question at the dinner table, let alone write a story.
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"You'll just take a little longer to get published," her mother said. "You'll be able to do both."
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On Thursday, two days later, she found out she was having twins.
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"We wanted another baby," she said, trying to smile. "And I'll still keep writing. You'll see." She almost had herself convinced. "I can do it with two kids."
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