Part 31 (1/2)

I sit down and rub my hands down my thighs. I take in my husband, the tubes, the monitors, the bags of medicine hanging from the pole. After everything we've been through, everything that's happened...

”Are you saying Maverick might never wake up?” I whisper.

”Yes,” she says. ”I'm saying it's a possibility.”

Chapter 50.

Chicago, Illinois One day ago I didn't apply for graduate school, and I certainly didn't apply to Yale. Did they get the wrong address?

I check again. Nope. Has my name on it too.

Did my professor do something?

I open the envelope with the school insignia in the upper left-hand corner and pull out the slip of paper. I skim the first line, blink, and read it again.

Dear Ms. Alieya Tavare, On behalf of the Yale University School of Art, we would like to congratulate you on your preliminary selection into the painting/printmaking graduate program.

I grab for the counter to steady myself. I still have one year of undergraduate. How can they possibly have a spot for me next fall?

Moreover ... me?

I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching the letter and staring at it when Maverick walks in. He drops his bag and falls to his knees in front of me.

”Alieya, are you all right?”

I don't look up. He pushes the paper away and holds my face between his hands, forcing my attention to him. ”Are you okay?”

He's probably thinking this is some kind of side-effect of the miscarriage. The doctor warned us of additional bleeding and possible physical complications along with the depression.

I force myself to focus on him. It's still so difficult to look him in the eye. Then I lift the hand that's holding the letter.

”I got this,” I say. ”It came in the mail today.”

Maverick holds my gaze for a moment before he glances at what I'm showing him. His eyes flick back to me, confusion creating lines across his forehead.

”Read it,” I say, the words coming out hushed.

I let go once he has it. He skims over the words, and a grin pushes at the corners of his mouth. When he finishes, he's got a full-blown smile directed at me.

”Alieya,” he says, half-laughing. ”I hope you have no doubts about your talent now. Baby, you did it!”

I shake my head. ”I didn't do this.”

”Of course you did. Your talent, your hard work, you did this.”

I shake my head again. ”No, I didn't apply.”

The smile falls from his face. ”Is that what you're upset about?”

”It doesn't freak you out that someone applied to graduate school for me? Without my consent? Without even talking to me first? They must've set up a fake email address with my name and forged my signature. How did they get my personal information?”

Maverick's shoulders fall. ”I thought you'd be happier.”

I inhale sharply. ”You?”

I flinch when he takes my hands and presses a kiss to them. ”You have so much talent, Alieya. You can't waste it. You should be doing something big and wonderful with it.”

”You did this?” I repeat.

”I can transfer to the New York office.”

”Waste it?” I can't believe what I'm hearing.

”We can get a place in Stamford, Connecticut. It's halfway between New York and the school, one hour by train.”

”Big and wonderful?”

”Yale grad. You can do whatever you want, wherever you want. The art galleries in New York, they're exquisite. You'd be among the best in the world there, where you belong.”

I blink, staring at him in disbelief. ”What if that's not what I want? You didn't even ask me.”

”Art isn't what you want? Since when?”

”Since ... since I don't know, okay? Maybe since the rose painting. It's just not in me anymore.”

Maverick lets go of my hands. ”I bought you all new supplies-paints, brushes, canvases. The living room is an art studio.”

”I know.”

”You haven't used it at all?”

I glance up at the ceiling to ward off the rising emotion. Then I concentrate on Maverick again. ”I go in there, and I see everything all set up, and I have to force my feet to move. And when I get there, I just stand there, staring at the white canvas. I see nothing. Nothing but him. His eyes, his little round face, those tiny toes, and I can't do it. He's right there, in front of me, but at the same time, he's so, so far away.” I purse my lips. Swallow and whisper, ”And I can't.”

Maverick bobs his head. ”I thought that if you had something to focus on, then you'd be able to move past it.”

His words slice through me. How could he say that? It? Move past it. As if our baby is just an inanimate object in our way.

My cheeks burn. ”No, Maverick. You thought that if you could distract me, I'd forget. But I don't want to forget. I never want to forget.”

”I'm not asking you to forget, but you need to look ahead instead of what's behind us. Let's give him a name. A memorial. A headstone. Something that might help you get over this hump.”

I'm not hearing this. Is he serious?