Free The Life You Longed For by Maribeth Fischer Page A

ludicrous.
    But nothing Grace had tried on was right: her good clothes—high-necked sleeveless sweaters and long slim-fitting skirts; an impossibly small LBD, Little Black Dress, that Stephen bought her a few years ago—were too formal, too sexy. And you couldn’t be sexy if you were accused of harming your children, could you? And no bright colors. Nothing that would attract attention. Munchausen mothers were desperate for this, after all. She had needed neutral shades: grays, off-white, beige. Pastels , she thought bitterly; a flower-print Sunday school dress. Below the knee, of course. She thought of how the nuns used to make the girls genuflect before leaving home-room to confirm that their hems touched the floor.
    She’d borrowed the gray suit from her mother. Nothing of her own was right. She wasn’t right.
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    â€œJack’s blood pressure was still high when we left,” Grace said as they passed the exit for South Street, the exit she usually took to Children’s.
    Stephen glanced at her. “I know, but we didn’t give him the cloni-dine until almost one-thirty.”
    She shook her head. “I’m not taking him to the hospital until we get this straightened out, Stephen.” Her voice rose. “I can’t.”
    â€œLet’s just see what the lawyer says.”
    They crossed the Schuylkill River, the pale yellow dome of the art museum off to the right along with the boathouses framed in white Christmas lights. The gray sky and gray river and gray trees reminded Grace of a faded photograph, of a time before color.
    â€œHey.” Stephen reached for her hand and she gave it to him. “We’re in this together, Grace. I mean that.”
    She turned to look at him—the high cheekbones that Max had inherited, the long-lashed eyes that Jack had. She loved that Stephen was handsome, that he was one of those men who grew better-looking with age, although except for the gray in his hair and the lines fanning out from his eyes, he didn’t look all that different than he had fifteen years ago. The same short haircut and clothes: khakis, loafers, button-down oxfords, sleeves rolled casually a quarter of the way up his arm. Polo shirts in the spring and summer. A blue blazer on a hanger in the back of his car, “just in case.” She smiled. He was wearing the Eeyore tie the kids had given him for Christmas. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
    He frowned. “For what?”
    â€œJust being here.” Her voice cracked. “For loving me.”
    â€œI hope you don’t really think that’s something to thank me—” A white Lexus cut in front of them, and he slammed his foot to the brakes. “Asshole,” he muttered. “Didn’t even look, never even saw me.”
    She rested her head against the seat back.
    He glanced at her. “Did you see that thing on the news last night about driving?”
    â€œEvery two miles the average driver makes something like four hundred observations, forty decisions, and one mistake, which might or might not lead to an accident.” She glanced at him. “Every two miles. Can you imagine?”
    â€œJesus, how do you remember this stuff?”
    â€œ Why do I remember it?” She turned back to the window, wondering how many decisions that equaled in a day, a week, a life? And how many mistakes? And how could you ever possibly know all the things you’d done wrong? She closed her eyes, her chest weighted with fear again. What had she done to make someone think she would harm Jack? And who would think this? The word echoed. Who, who, who , like the character of Mr. Owl in one of Jack’s picture books.
    She had been through everyone—Jack’s doctors, his nurses, Noah, Jenn, even someone from the mito group. She was so honest with them. Had she said something that was misconstrued? The time Jack had the nasogastric tube in his nose, and she joked that he