The Miles Between Us Read online

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s see if I can explain this better. ‘How are you?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘How’s Emma?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Are you and Rob okay?’ ‘We’re fine.’ It’s not like you. So naturally, as your doctor and your friend, I’m concerned. Are you eating? Sleeping? Having crying jags? Are you and Rob fighting? You wouldn’t be the first couple to experience marital discord after miscarrying a baby.”

  She raised her head, drew back her shoulders, and said, “I. Am. Absolutely. Fine.”

  “Well, now, you see, that’s what worries me. You just lost a baby. Your second one in less than six months. Most people in your place would not be fine.”

  “I’m a rock. I’ve always been a rock.”

  “I know that. I also know that even a rock has its breaking point.”

  “I’m not planning to break.” She punctuated her statement by bending down and picking up her purse from the floor. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “All right, then. I’ll stop worrying. Just remember, my door is always open. Promise me one thing.”

  Casey stood, shouldered the purse, and said, “What’s that?”

  “If you find yourself needing help of any kind, please get it.”

  * * *

  The apartment was empty. No Rob, no Paige, no Emma. It seemed odd, but then, lately it felt as though odd was the new normal. She could have called a taxi, but since she’d spent most of her day closed up in an airplane, it would probably be healthier if she walked over to the recording studio. It was only five blocks. She was tired, but not that tired.

  Rush hour in Manhattan was not the time to take a leisurely stroll. Then again, there was never a time when Manhattan wasn’t crowded, and nobody took a leisurely stroll here unless they wanted to be mowed down. Bankers and office drones and secretaries wearing flat-soled athletic shoes, their pumps tucked away in brightly-colored tote bags, streamed from office buildings and into the subway. Intent on their destinations, they rudely elbowed her out of the way, clearly irritated by this woman who had the audacity to take up a minimal amount of space on a sidewalk the locals considered their own.

  Five blocks in Manhattan, even at a brisk pace, took a few minutes. A half-block shy of the cross street where the studio was located, she glanced randomly at a shop window and came to an abrupt halt. “Jesus, lady,” said the man behind her, sidestepping her with a furious scowl. “You wanna go window shopping, do it when people aren’t trying to get somewhere.”

  She flipped him the bird. It was a significant moment in her life, the first time she’d ever done such a thing. She’d thought about it a time or two, but had never had the chutzpah to pull it off. Rob would be shocked. Or, more likely, pleased by this minor foray outside her comfort zone.

  Her act of defiance, unnoticed by its target, died a quick death when she crossed the sidewalk, threaded her way through people, and stood there, her heart melting at the display of tiny ruffled dresses, sailor suits, and snazzy pink sneakers. Oh, Baby! was the name of the place, and without conscious thought, she moved to the door and stepped inside.

  A bell tinkled overhead, and the handsome young sales clerk, busy ringing up a customer, gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment. He had to be from somewhere else. Northern New England, or maybe the Midwest. In Manhattan, where people lived next door to each other for decades without ever meeting, a nod was almost as intimate as a marriage proposal. Casey wandered the aisles, fingering terrycloth bibs and soft, stretchy little onesies and fuzzy, multi-colored socks. The store carried designer diaper bags and fancy bottle sterilizers, and a room in the back held high-end strollers and walkers and crib mobiles that played Baa Baa Black Sheep when you wound them up.

  Without warning, a black, yawning hole opened up inside her, the sense of loss so great it threatened to suffocate her. Was this the end of her dreams? Was it truly possible that she, who had so much love to give, would have only one child to give that love to?

  Her eyes, those traitorous eyes, filled with tears. Mortified, she turned and stumbled out of the store, leaned against the brick wall of the building next to it and sobbed into her open palms.

  Because this was Manhattan, nobody paid any attention to the weeping woman who could no more explain why she was crying than she could discuss, with even a modicum of understanding, Einstein’s theory of relativity. Both were cloudy, amorphous, and inexplicable.

  She cried until there were no more tears, and then she pulled a tissue from her purse—for she always carried tissues in her purse—and wiped her face and blew her nose, right there on the street. When she was done, she tucked the snot-and-tear-encrusted tissue back into her purse and continued on her way.

  Rob was in studio D, his swivel chair leaned back, feet propped on the desk in front of him, while behind the glass, in the isolation booth, Phoenix Hightower warbled something that vaguely resembled music. She let herself in, held the door while it closed, whisper soft, behind her. Took a look around the room, wondering who all these spare people were: a huge black man wearing a suit and a stony expression, a slender Asian woman whose painted-on eyebrows gave her a look of perpetual surprise, a young man whose red eyes and messy hair made him appear either hung over or sleep deprived, and a doe-eyed teenage girl who could have been a poster child for bulimia. Moving smoothly and soundlessly to her husband, Casey rested her hands on his shoulders and whispered, “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He leaned his head back, saw her face, and swiveled the chair around. Whispered, “You’ve been crying.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” He leaned over the mic, pushed a button, said, “Phoenix? Take ten. I need to talk to my wife.”

  The kid’s mouth clamped abruptly shut. With a sour expression on his face, he stomped from the sound booth, through the control room, and slammed out the door, taking all those spare people with him.

  “Do I dare to ask?” Casey said.

  Rob leaned back in his chair. Swiveling lazily, he said, “The big guy—Luther—is his bodyguard. Or maybe just his babysitter. No clarification on that yet. The others? They’re his posse.”

  “His what?”

  “You knew you’d be sorry you asked. I believe in our day it was called a retinue. Basically, it’s a loosely-organized group of hangers-on who leech off the money teat, milk it dry, then move on to a new, milkier teat.”

  “How lovely. What’ll they do when his voice changes?”

  “See?” Rob said to the sound engineer—Kyle, she thought his name was. “My wife is not only beautiful, but smart, and she has a razor-sharp wit.”

  “I can see that. I’ll just make myself scarce for a few minutes.” Kyle picked up his coffee cup, nodded politely, and let himself out of the room.

  “Where are the girls?” she said. “Why aren’t they here with you?”

  Rob drew her onto his lap. “Paige took Emma to a movie.”

  Fear, instantaneous and ridiculously out of proportion to the situation, slammed into her chest and swallowed her alive. “You let them out on the street alone? In Manhattan? Are you insane?”

  “They’re fine. They’re just a block away. And Paige is as tough as they come.”

  “My God. What if something happens to them? What if—I don’t know. What if they get mugged?”

  “Casey.”

  “Or—” She scraped her hair back from her face. “Or hit by a taxi?”

  “Babe.”

  “Or molested by some pervert in that darkened movie theater?”

  “Casey!”

  He finally got her attention. “What?” she said.

  “For the love of Mike, woman, the girls are fine. Don’t you trust me?”

  Her heart still hammered, double-time, inside her chest. “I trusted Danny,” she said. “And look how that turned out.”

  He muttered an expletive, drew her closer, and folded her in his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder. And let out a hard breath.

  “Yo
u’re shaking,” he said.

  “Just hold me. Just shut up and hold me.”

  For a time, they were both silent as her breathing gradually slowed, smoothed, until it matched his. He picked up her hand, kissed the knuckles. Said, “Why were you crying?”

  “Nothing. I—I don’t really know. It just hit me, and—you’re sure they’re all right?”

  Tenderly stroking the hair at her temple, he said, “One hundred percent sure. Do you think I’d let anything happen to Emma?”

  She took a breath, wet her lips. Said, “I’m not being rational, am I?”

  “Truthfully? Not really.”

  “Oh, God.” She drew a sharp, ragged breath. “What is wrong with me?”

  “Maybe I should take you home. Cut this thing short for the day, and pick back up tomorrow.”

  “No.” She sat up straight, smoothed her hair, pulled her dignity around her like a suit of armor. “You have a job to do, you have studio time booked, and I’m being ridiculous. I just—I want my little girl, that’s all. I want to hold her in my arms and never let her go.”

  He took her hand in his and gently rubbed her knuckles. “The girls are due back anytime. How’d it go with the doctor?”

  “It went.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine. Nicely healed. Fully cleared for playtime activities.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Good to know. So, did you have the Big Talk?”

  She looked at him blankly, and he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. The birth control talk. What did she have to say about that?”

  “Exactly what you’d expect her to say. Don’t even try for at least six months. Decide on a birth control method that’s workable. Don’t take too much time deciding, and be damn careful in the meantime.”

  His eyes narrowed. So did his mouth. “She didn’t put you on anything?”

  “I told her I had to think about it.”

  “Is that a good idea? Jesus, babe, we don’t need any accidents.”

  She sat silent, tight-lipped and stiff. “Or,” he said, “maybe you’re hoping for an accident.”

  “The clock is ticking, Flash. I’m almost thirty-eight years old. I don’t have that much time left.”

  He leaned his head back and, staring at the ceiling, let out a pained sigh. “Did you talk about this obsession you have with getting pregnant again?”

  “It’s not an obsession, and I resent you calling it that.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s how it looks from my side of the bed.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything. I also don’t want you to die. Because facing life without you beside me? Not a place I’m interested in visiting.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the apartment, with Emma safely tucked into her stroller, Casey stopped at Oh, Baby! again. Determined to not make an ass of herself this time, she avoided the newborn department, instead marching directly to the 18-month-size clothing for girls. She thumbed through racks of dresses, with their ruffles and lace and girly, flowery prints. “Look, Emma,” she said, holding up a pretty little aqua-colored number with loads of ruffles and a big, puffy bow on the bodice. “You’d look beautiful in this, don’t you think?”

  “Gah,” Emma said.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Casey said. “Do you want Mama to buy you this pretty dress?”

  “No,” Emma said, usually her default response to any question.

  “Maybe this one, too,” Casey said.

  “Mum mum.”

  “We can dress you up all pretty and surprise Daddy when he comes home.”

  “Da.”

  That sounded like agreement to her, so she bought two dozen dresses, six packages of tights, and a pair of shiny white patent-leather shoes that took her back to Easter mornings and summer Sunday school when she was a girl not much older than Emma. As she paid for her purchases, she told herself there was no rational excuse for her earlier meltdown. It wasn’t as though Emma had grown up overnight. She was still a baby. And if, while she was shopping for Emma, she happened to take a peek at the newborn items as well, it didn’t mean she was psychologically unstable. She liked baby clothes. Liked baby toys. Liked babies. What was wrong with liking babies? It didn’t mean she was obsessed. Rob was, once again, blowing things out of proportion, worrying about phantoms that only existed in the darkest regions of his mind.

  Back at home, she dropped the bags on the couch, left Emma’s stroller in the entryway, and settled in the rocking chair, where they spent some special mother-daughter time. With Emma cuddled on her lap, Casey read Pat the Bunny to her wide-eyed little girl. “See how soft the bunny is?” she said. “Does Emmy like the soft bunny?”

  “Da.” Emma reached out a tiny hand, touched the furry creature with eager little fingers, then looked up at her mother and grinned, a grin so like Rob’s that Casey found it a little disarming. It was a sure bet that by the time she was fifteen, Emma would be turning members of the opposite sex into a warm puddle of goo, just like her father still did.

  Casey buried her nose in Emma’s velvety-soft neck, eliciting squeals of delight. “My sweet baby,” she said, breathing in the heady scent of little girl, “I haven’t given you enough Mom time lately.”

  “Mum,” Emma said.

  Guilt nibbled at the edges of her consciousness. Emma wasn’t the only one she’d been neglecting. She’d always been a good wife, a good mother. But lately, she’d been too encased in her own cocoon of misery, too spent, too empty, to expend any of her time or energy on Paige or Rob. She really needed to make a little more effort, even if that effort did feel like wading through a sea of molasses.

  So she picked up the phone and called Rob.

  After the miscarriage, he’d bought them matching cell phones. It had seemed silly to her at the time. What on earth would they do with the things? At home, tucked into the rolling hills of Western Maine, the phones barely worked. Cell towers were few and far between in Maine’s rural areas. Nobody she knew had a cell phone, and she’d lived almost forty years without carting one around. Why was Rob so insistent that she needed one now?

  But she had to admit that here in New York, where there were no problems with reception, the phones came in handy. With Rob working so many hours, it was nice to be able to reach him at any point in time without having to go through Sheila.

  He answered on the second ring, sounding a little distracted. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Emmy and I are going through Daddy withdrawals. I thought if you could get out at a reasonable hour, I’d make a nice dinner for the four of us.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it? You’ve had a long day. Paige and I are perfectly fine having pizza brought in.”

  “My day just got better. Emmy and I have been shopping. And you can’t live on pizza. I thought that since I’ve been neglecting my family lately, I’d try to make it up to you tonight. Are you game?”

  “I can manage it, if you’re sure. What time do you want us home?”

  “Eight-thirty?”

  “Eight-thirty works for me.”

  So she loaded Emma back in her stroller and went to the market on the next block, where she picked up fresh salad greens and a roasting chicken. Back home again, she stashed her groceries in the fridge and gave Emma a bath.

  Bath time was Emma’s favorite time of day. She splashed and played, poured water from one plastic teacup into another, babbled contentedly while her mother shampooed her hair and washed every inch of her with a soft terry bath mitt. Casey rinsed Emma’s hair, then plucked her from the bath water, wrapped her in a soft towel, and carried her into the bedroom.

  Diapered and powdered, Emma lay on the bed, giggling when Casey pressed her lips to her belly and blew a raspberry. Casey had picked out the aqua dress with the bow. The dress went on with relative ease
; the tights, not so much. While Emma squirmed and fought, Casey struggled to pull them up straight and smooth.

  The white patent leather shoes finished off Emma’s ensemble, and Casey sat her daughter in her lap and brushed Emma’s yellow, baby-fine hair. Pulling it into a topknot, she clipped it with a barrette, and the transformation was complete. “You look so beautiful, Miss Emmy Lou Who,” she said. “You could pass for a movie star.”

  “No,” Emma said.

  “Oh, yes. A glamorous blonde. Daddy will be so impressed.”

  “Da?”

  “Later, baby. Let’s go set up your playpen in the kitchen. Right now, we have to cook.”

  Rob

  As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he heard the music. Sheryl Crow, singing All I Wanna Do, from her album Tuesday Night Music Club. He’d bought it for Casey last Christmas. She wasn’t playing it loud enough to bother the neighbors, just loud enough to be recognizable. Rob exchanged a glance with Paige, then unlocked the apartment door and held it so she could go in ahead of him.

  His olfactory nerves went crazy the instant he walked through the door, teased by a smell so wonderful that at first he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He wasn’t even sure what he was smelling. Chicken, maybe, with one of those wonderful rubs that she made from her secret mix of spices. If he hadn’t already been crazy in love with her, he would have married Casey Fiore for her cooking skills alone. He found her in the kitchen, humming along with Sheryl as she stirred a little taste of heaven in a large cooking pot with a wooden spoon. Her cheeks flushed, her hair messy, she looked like something cool and sweet that he wanted to pour over himself, dive into, and take a deep swim in. The table was already set, with a tablecloth and fresh flowers. She turned from the stove and said, “Hi,” with a saucy smile.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Dinner’s almost ready.” For the first time in weeks, she seemed like herself: calm, competent, sexy.

  In the playpen, Emma reached up her arms and bounced up and down, saying, “Dadadadadadada.”