Read Online The Life Intended by Kristin Harmel - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristin Harmel
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to them, hoping there’s a way they’re true. The room gets a little brighter, comes into focus a little more. I’m struck again by how overly saturated things are here, how everything seems to glow.
“Of course you do.” He looks puzzled again. “Let’s get some breakfast in you, okay? Maybe you’re just hungry. What do you say to crispy bacon and scrambled eggs?”
The knife twists a little deeper in my heart; it’s the same breakfast he cooked for me the morning he died. “Sounds great,” I manage to say, forcing a smile.
“Good.” He turns to grab bacon and a carton of eggs from the fridge and a couple of frying pans from the cabinet while I watch him with tears in my eyes. As he cracks eggs into a bowl and begins to whisk, small pieces of this life begin to drift in from nowhere, and I realize there are things I know with absolute certainty. For example, I know that Patrick left his old financial management job nine years ago, because he wasn’t feeling fulfilled, and I know that I supported him in going back to school the way he once supported me. I know that he works in the strategic policy initiatives department of the mayor’s office now and that in his spare time, he spearheaded the creation of a new community garden a few blocks from our apartment, calling it LittleButterfly Garden, because Hannah, who was eight at the time, loved butterflies. I know he took a huge pay cut when he left his old job, but I also know he’s a thousand times happier than he used to be and that he feels he’s in a position to make a difference in our city. I feel a sudden surge of pride for my husband.
I close my eyes and try to figure out what I know about Hannah too, but for some reason, my knowledge of her is spottier. I know bits and pieces—that she broke her right leg when she was a toddler when she slipped on the playground; that she spent all of kindergarten firmly believing that she was a fairy who just hadn’t sprouted her wings yet; that she didn’t lose her first tooth until second grade, which was a source of great distress because all her friends had lost teeth earlier—but I can’t bring to mind more than snippets. While Patrick is an open book, Hannah feels like a novel with all the important chapters missing.
When I open my eyes again, it’s as if my train of thought has summoned Hannah herself, for she’s padding down the hall toward the kitchen, wearing pajama pants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, her thick, dark hair piled into two messy pigtail buns. “Morning,” she says, smiling at Patrick and me, and I notice for the first time that there’s something unusual about the way she speaks, although I can’t put a finger on exactly what it is. Even in the single word, her vowels are longer and her consonants rounder than they should be. I wonder vaguely if she has a minor speech disorder like some of my clients. Something tickles at the edges of my memory, something I should know, but I can’t quite hold on to it.
“Good morning,” I say, returning her smile. The girl standing in front of me is everything I’ve wished for so many times over the last twelve years: a piece of Patrick, a way for him to live on. I blink back tears, and before either of them can see me crying, I get up quickly and pretend to be absorbed in gettingready for breakfast. With shaking hands, I reach up and pull three plates down from the cabinet. They clatter loudly onto the counter, because I can’t keep my grip steady.
“Kate—?” Patrick begins, but I cut him off.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll just set the table.” But when I reach into the silverware drawer, which is exactly where I knew it would be, I’m trembling and paying so little attention to what I’m actually doing that when I reach for a butter knife, I grasp a paring knife instead. It slips through my shaky fingers, slicing the tip of my pinkie. “Ow!” I exclaim as a ribbon of crimson opens up and begins to pour down my palm.
Patrick steps
“Of course you do.” He looks puzzled again. “Let’s get some breakfast in you, okay? Maybe you’re just hungry. What do you say to crispy bacon and scrambled eggs?”
The knife twists a little deeper in my heart; it’s the same breakfast he cooked for me the morning he died. “Sounds great,” I manage to say, forcing a smile.
“Good.” He turns to grab bacon and a carton of eggs from the fridge and a couple of frying pans from the cabinet while I watch him with tears in my eyes. As he cracks eggs into a bowl and begins to whisk, small pieces of this life begin to drift in from nowhere, and I realize there are things I know with absolute certainty. For example, I know that Patrick left his old financial management job nine years ago, because he wasn’t feeling fulfilled, and I know that I supported him in going back to school the way he once supported me. I know that he works in the strategic policy initiatives department of the mayor’s office now and that in his spare time, he spearheaded the creation of a new community garden a few blocks from our apartment, calling it LittleButterfly Garden, because Hannah, who was eight at the time, loved butterflies. I know he took a huge pay cut when he left his old job, but I also know he’s a thousand times happier than he used to be and that he feels he’s in a position to make a difference in our city. I feel a sudden surge of pride for my husband.
I close my eyes and try to figure out what I know about Hannah too, but for some reason, my knowledge of her is spottier. I know bits and pieces—that she broke her right leg when she was a toddler when she slipped on the playground; that she spent all of kindergarten firmly believing that she was a fairy who just hadn’t sprouted her wings yet; that she didn’t lose her first tooth until second grade, which was a source of great distress because all her friends had lost teeth earlier—but I can’t bring to mind more than snippets. While Patrick is an open book, Hannah feels like a novel with all the important chapters missing.
When I open my eyes again, it’s as if my train of thought has summoned Hannah herself, for she’s padding down the hall toward the kitchen, wearing pajama pants and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, her thick, dark hair piled into two messy pigtail buns. “Morning,” she says, smiling at Patrick and me, and I notice for the first time that there’s something unusual about the way she speaks, although I can’t put a finger on exactly what it is. Even in the single word, her vowels are longer and her consonants rounder than they should be. I wonder vaguely if she has a minor speech disorder like some of my clients. Something tickles at the edges of my memory, something I should know, but I can’t quite hold on to it.
“Good morning,” I say, returning her smile. The girl standing in front of me is everything I’ve wished for so many times over the last twelve years: a piece of Patrick, a way for him to live on. I blink back tears, and before either of them can see me crying, I get up quickly and pretend to be absorbed in gettingready for breakfast. With shaking hands, I reach up and pull three plates down from the cabinet. They clatter loudly onto the counter, because I can’t keep my grip steady.
“Kate—?” Patrick begins, but I cut him off.
“No, I’m fine. I’ll just set the table.” But when I reach into the silverware drawer, which is exactly where I knew it would be, I’m trembling and paying so little attention to what I’m actually doing that when I reach for a butter knife, I grasp a paring knife instead. It slips through my shaky fingers, slicing the tip of my pinkie. “Ow!” I exclaim as a ribbon of crimson opens up and begins to pour down my palm.
Patrick steps
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