Megan's Way Page 6

  Megan unlocked the wooden door to her hotel room, and turned to find Lawrence standing very close—so close she could smell the wine on his breath. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Lawrence.” She looked up at him through her thick curls, hanging seductively in her eyes. Her fingers nervously played with her room key.

  Lawrence leaned toward her, placed his hands on the wall behind her, and looked deep into her eyes. “I’m sorry— for this,” he whispered, and he leaned in to kiss her. His tongue found its way around her mouth, circling inside her upper lip and then licking her lower lip ever so gently.

  He closed his eyes and slowly backed away from her. Megan’s eyes remained closed. She was afraid to open

  them, afraid if she lifted her lids he would see her lust-filled heart beating fast and hard within them.

  Lawrence ran his hand slowly down his face, fearing he’d made a horrible mistake. He whispered again, “I’m sorry,” and began to turn to walk away.

  Megan’s body moved as if it belonged to someone else.

  In the space of a single breath, she opened her eyes, arched her chest hard against his, and brought her shaking hand softly around his neck. She pulled him into her and disappeared into his kiss. He backed her against the wall, his eagerness hard against her belly, aching to be set free. His mouth moved to her neck, further igniting her desire.

  Lawrence pulled her into her dark room. His mouth never left her body as they moved to the bed. Megan’s hands trembled as she unbuttoned his trousers and he removed his shirt. He moved quickly back to Megan, kissing her neck, his heart beat hard against his chest, and he fumbled with her dress as he lifted it over her head, exposing her supple breasts and silk panties. He breathed heavily, taking in her beauty. His desire was almost too much to bear. A moan escaped his lips as he lowered her to the bed and his mouth found her heaving breast.

  When the sensation became too much, she rolled him over, straddled him, and took him inside her. She gasped with pleasure as they joined together. His throbbing organ and their insatiable hunger burned deep within her loins.

  Chapter Two

  Megan awoke to an empty room, warm with her memories of Lawrence, even after all those years. She got up, the memories of the evening before slowly moving through her mind. She closed her eyes against them, wondering when Holly had left, and as much as she loved Holly, she was glad to be alone. Megan sighed, slid off the bed and crept into her daughter’s room, noticing that it was three A.M. as she walked by the antique clock that hung in the hallway. Her calm focus had only lasted an hour, and then fear and confusion had set in, making it impossible for her to sleep. Emotions of guilt and frustration swirled in her head, clouded by love in her heart. She needed to be near her daughter—needed to feel her energy.

  She hesitated in front of Olivia’s computer, and then settled into the chair. She sat with a blanket pulled close around her shoulders and her journal in her lap. As she watched her daughter sleep, she began to write.

  Her heart poured onto the paper, the apologies for all she’d done wrong as a mother, for her need to slip away.

  She uncovered her darkest secret and the reasons why it had been held for so long. She wrote until her fingers hurt and her tears ran dry. Then she carefully tore the sheets, dappled with tears, from the journal and folded them carefully.

  Megan had spent years dodging Olivia’s questions about the identity of her father. When Olivia was little, she had told her, “Some children have a mommy and a daddy. Some children have two mommies or two daddies, and you have just one mommy.” That had stopped the questions for a while. As she had entered puberty, she had asked about her biological father more often. Megan’s typical response, “He was a wonderful man, but we weren’t in love with each other,” had bought Megan time, but had never stopped the inevitable, “I want to meet him!” from Olivia. Megan’s standard answer seemed to have worked thus far, “You will, honey, when you’re older.”

  Now, Megan realized, she would not be the one to hold Olivia tight when she was exposed to the truth about her father. She would not be there to field her questions, or make her understand the validity of why her father’s identity had been kept from her, from everyone. Still, Megan remained unable to hand Olivia the information that she herself, fourteen years later, could not figure out the right way to expose. She knew how many lives it would affect, and she wasn’t willing to risk losing those closest to her when she was so close to the end of her own life.

  Megan thought of Olivia growing into her twenties, and of all of the mother-daughter conversations she would miss.

  She thought of writing more—all of the maternal advice that Olivia may need throughout those chaotic, finding-yourself years, but the thought overwhelmed her. How could she possibly think of every situation? Without knowing what Olivia’s personality would be like at the time, how could she give her any insight into hypothetical situations? no, she decided, those conversations would be between Olivia and Holly, or whomever Olivia trusted at the time. Trust—the word stung. Megan knew she was breaking the biggest trust of all—to Olivia, to her dearest friends, and to her mother. She could not bring herself to call her mother. The last time she had visited, her mother had barely been able to move and had been on so many medications that her cognition had wavered. No, she’d rather remember her mother as she used to be, and she could not bring herself to confuse her mother any further than she already was.

  She held the letter against her heart and rested for another moment as she remembered the doctor’s words, This medication will only buy you time. She once again felt the piercing pain that shot through her heart when she had been told that the cancer was not only back, but had spread. There was no beating the beast that gnawed away inside of her, silently stealing her life.

  She knew that she could not put Olivia through any more turmoil than she’d already endured. The weeks of chemo and radiation, the surgery and recovery—they were all too much for Olivia, and she had clung to Megan and still had not let go. Thank goodness for Holly. Holly had been there to nurture and love Olivia when she, Olivia’s own mother, had been unable to open her eyes, when all she had been able to do was throw up and sleep. Holly had made sure Olivia had been well cared for, had taken her to school, had checked her homework, had cooked her dinner, and had even kept their home clean. She had been there for Olivia when she had needed to be held, or needed a diversion from her mother’s illness. Holly had, in Megan’s eyes, already started to become Olivia’s mother.

  Megan watched Olivia sleep, the note still held tightly in her grasp. I don’t want you to remember me dying, she thought. I want you to remember my love for life. She sighed, disgusted at her frail limbs. Don’t remember me like this, my mind and body withering away. Don’t remember me sick. And please, Baby, forgive me. Forgive me for taking myself away sooner than I had hoped. Forgive me for making this decision for the both of us. Forgive me for not telling you the truth about your father while I am still here to explain. Despite her best efforts to withhold her emotions, she sobbed, overwhelmed with the magnitude of the truth—she was dying.

  Megan sat on her bed with the small mahogany chest in her lap, her letter to Olivia safely locked inside. Her fingers lingered over the smooth surface, the dips and angles of its elegant design comfortably familiar. She closed her eyes as a single tear slid down her cheek, landing on her sleeve and spreading like a snowflake, deep in the center and soft on the fringes. She thought of the next time the box would be opened and the contents set free, and she was overwhelmed by sadness.

  She set the box next to her and stared at it, stood, and took a few steps away. Her cotton dress swayed as she turned back to look at the box. She furrowed her brow, wrapped her arms tightly around her body, and continued staring, as if the box would give her the answers she so desperately sought. After a moment, she stood up straight, smoothed her dress with her hands, and took another deep breath. She let the air out of her lungs slowly. She pursed her lips and moved forwa
rd, taking the chest into her small hands. She carried the box carefully, coddling it as if it were a newborn, fragile and trusting. She placed it gently back on the top shelf of her closet, tucked between her thick sweaters and old pocketbooks. She sighed, steepled her hands together at her chin, and silently said another prayer, this one for Olivia—that the letter would offer answers and bring with it relief, without inflicting torment and anguish to those she loved.

  Megan lit candles around her room, turned on her meditation CD, and allowed her body to relax. She sat with her palms facing up to release the bad energy and accept the good, her legs crossed. She welcomed the emptying of her mind and replenishing of her soul. She fought the thoughts of her earlier spat with Olivia, bidding them to be gone as if they had never existed, and willed away the pains in her stomach—pains that she knew she was experiencing as they lingered in Olivia’s body and not her own, angst from earlier in the day. She smiled as they gently subsided. The music weaved its way through the air and she took it in with each breath, consoled by its life-affirming comfort. At last, her mind settled peacefully into acceptance.

  Music vibrated off the walls of Megan’s client’s office. Her body swayed to the rhythm, enjoying the freedom and release it provided. She was mid-spin with a paintbrush held high in the air when she saw Peter in the doorway.

  She laughed, “Hey!” She smiled, turned the volume down, and hugged Peter’s slim waist.

  “How’s my girl?” Peter kissed her cheek.

  “Awesome! How are you?” Megan realized, suddenly, that today she did feel awesome. Her body didn’t hurt quite so much. She hadn’t thrown up or had diarrhea yet, as she had most days since discontinuing her medication, and Olivia had actually said good morning with a slight smile instead of a grunt.

  “Great. I had to come by and see how the Bourbon Street scene was turning out.” He was visibly pleased with what he saw, smiling with little nods as he took in the mural. “You are an amazing painter.”

  “Yeah, well, I had good direction.” Megan watched Peter’s eyes dance over her artwork. She’d known Peter since their second week at college. His boyish good looks had been the first thing that had caught her attention. It had only taken one conversation for her to learn that he was gay, which had suited her just fine.

  It had been Peter who had wheedled his way into her and Holly’s tight friendship. He had bumped into Holly in the hallway outside her english class. They had both dropped their books and laughed. Peter, always the gentleman, had walked Holly to her class, and it seemed he had tagged along with her and Megan everywhere after that fateful day. They didn’t mind. They loved his insight on clothing and art, his quick wit, and the convenience of his willingness to act as if he was their boyfriend when undesirable men approached them.

  He had complemented their friendship with his ability to add calm to Megan’s far-beyond-the-norm views, and quell Holly’s obsessive need for perfection, which eventually subsided. Holly’s calm demeanor fit well with Peter’s rightfully-owned chip on his shoulder. When Peter spouted off about women’s inability to get men and their constant wrongdoings, Holly would soothe his hurt soul, knowing that Peter’s own mother had left him and his father when Peter was only five years old. Her loving touch had a way of soothing even the angriest of souls.

  Megan and Holly’s schedules had often conflicted, leaving little time for each other. Even as roommates they had felt as though they bumped in the night rather than spent any quality time together, which was why they had begun their weekly roommate dates.

  They had met faithfully every Tuesday and Thursday at the local coffee shop that doubled as a literary nook, the Women’s nest. Originally opened as a gathering place for women in the 1970s, the Women’s nest was quickly infiltrated by the opposite sex, who, rightly so, knew it was an ideal place to meet women.

  Peter had slipped his way into those private meetings and seamlessly become an intimate part of their weekly get-togethers, and therefore, their lives. The Women’s nest offered coffee and baked goods. The walls were lined with shelf after shelf of donated books that the patrons could read while relaxing in the oversized armchairs and fluffy sofas. Music played in the background, as warm and soothing as the soft hues of the walls.

  It had been during those weekly gatherings that their friendship had blossomed and wrapped its roots around them until they could practically read each other’s thoughts. They helped each other pick up the pieces of many fallen relationships and failed exams. The three of them were each other’s lifelines. Why, Megan wondered, wasn’t she confiding in them now, at her most fearful moment?

  Megan was lost in thought when she felt Peter’s hand on her arm. “Meg? Hello?”

  She shook her head, “Sorry.” She smiled. A funny feeling came over her—not one of sickness, but a feeling of being lost, confused, as if she were standing amidst smoke and clouds, and not sure where she was. She grabbed Peter’s arm, unsure if she was going to lose her footing.

  “Meg? What is it?” he asked. Fear stretched across his face as Megan lowered herself to the floor. He wrapped his arm protectively around her. “Meg, what is it? Are you okay?”

  Megan’s eyes stared straight ahead. She struggled for the right words. “It’s…It’s not me. It’s Olivia.” Her limbs tingled, her chest ached.

  “Livi? What? What is it?” Peter’s words rush out.

  “I don’t know. There’s no pain. It’s like she’s…lost or something.” She shook her head as the feeling faded. “It’s probably nothing. She’s at school. We had a fight the other night. I’m probably just worrying too much.”

  “You guys have such a strange connection, Meg. Are you sure she’s okay? Do you want me to run over to the school and make sure?” Peter took Megan’s hand.

  “No. She’s fine.” Megan smiled as the feeling dissipated, lingering just enough to make the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Megan laughed, “How on earth did she and I become so connected?”

  “She was inside of you! of course you are connected!” Peter said.

  “Yeah, but you were inside your mother, and…” her words hung in the air like dirty laundry.

  Peter’s face strained.

  “I’m so sorry,” Megan said quickly. “That wasn’t meant to hurt you, just to make a point. I mean, really, mothers and their children usually don’t feel things for each other!”

  Peter’s face softened. “I know, Meg, no hard feelings.”

  He took a deep breath, and said, cheerily, “It is weird. You’re just a freak, I guess, and I’m just used to it. I’m surprised you aren’t.”

  “I didn’t even feel anything weird until two days after she was born, until after Holly’s baby—” she turned away, unable to finish the sentence.

  The silence between them was filled with grief from long ago. Megan busied her hands organizing her brushes, and Peter gazed out the window. When he felt the sorrow subside, he carefully eased into the subject he was there to discuss, “By the way, are you doing alright these days?”

  “Uh-oh, Holly got to you, right?” Megan asked. She stood up and admired her painting.

  “No.” Peter walked to the window and looked out at the busy street. “Okay, yes, she’s worried about you.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m fine, really.” Megan felt a pull to tell Peter the truth, but squelched it, knowing he would try to change her mind. She feared that if he told Holly, she would not be able to remain true to her decision. “Peter, if you knew you could save someone you loved heartache, would you do it?”

  “Of course I would.” Peter paced along the hardwood floor.

  “No question in your mind?” Megan asked. “No question.”

  “Tell Holly not to worry—and not to send a messenger next time!” Megan snapped, annoyed. She turned her back to Peter and picked up her paintbrush.

  Peter watched her resume her work on the painting from behind. He knew she was not telling the truth, but wanted to believe her just the same.

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nbsp; Megan walked into the Chatham Village Café looking forward to telling Holly the news about Olivia’s kidnapper. She spotted her in the rear of the dining area and hurried toward her. Megan threw the newspaper down on the table, and smiled victoriously. “Did you see it?” she raised her eyebrows, excited. “They got him! The fool was stupid enough to go to the hospital!”

  “I know, I saw!” Holly stood up and hugged Megan. “What about the younger guy?”

  “They said they have a line on him. They tracked down his truck and apparently he and this guy are related somehow. He skipped town, or that’s what they think, but I know they’ll get him!” Megan sat, cringing as the wooden seat hurt her bottom. “Life is getting better!” she said with a smile.

  “How’s Olivia taking it all?” Holly asked.

  “Olivia’s been acting just like her old self again. It’s like it all never happened, but I’m still worried about her.”

  “That’s so weird. I would think it would have been more traumatic for her, that there would be some lingering effects.” Holly noticed the dark bags under Megan’s eyes. “How about you, Meg, are you doing alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m not so sore anymore, and since the police came and went over LivI’s online conversations with those men, I’m not as concerned. They said she didn’t give out any personal data, thank god!” She shifted in her seat.

  “You know, Meg, you were quite the hero,” Holly swallowed the wish that she had been the one who had helped Olivia.

  “No way! I was just a mom. You would have done the same thing.”

  Holly looked down at her food, wishing she had a daughter to worry about. Megan laid her frail hand on top of Holly’s strong one. “I’m sorry, Hol, I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “I’m not sad,” she said, smiling. “Okay, well, sometimes I’m sad,” she admitted. Tears welled in her eyes.