From the Beginning (18 page)

She’d made it through, and they had forged a friendship during their daughter’s lifetime that she had valued, even if she had never been able to depend on it, or him.

The last days of Gabby’s life had proven how reliable he wasn’t. Which was why she’d walked away from him again directly after the funeral. That goodbye hadn’t been hard—at the time, she was fueled by so much rage and sorrow that Simon had been nothing but a convenient outlet for her anger. He wasn’t the only thing she’d been angry at, just the most tangible.

This time, though, letting him go felt different. Worse.

Maybe because she knew this was really it.

When Gabby was alive, she’d tied them together. While Amanda was working for For the Children, Simon had popped up in the same hot spot more than once. But now that Gabby was gone and Amanda had no plans to work in Africa or any other poverty-stricken part of the world, the connection between them had been completely severed.

When she got out of this bed, when she went about the process of putting her life together, that would be it. She would leave Atlanta and probably never see Simon again. It had seemed like a smart idea the other day, when she’d been kicking him out of her hotel room, but now it just seemed lonely. Miserable. A mistake.

Closing her eyes, she tried to wrap her mind around a world for her without her daughter or Simon in it. The mere thought had her breath hitching in her throat.

That was it, she decided, looking up at the rich, cream ceiling she’d been staring at for twenty-five hours straight. That was what hurt. Not only the knowledge that she was never going to see Simon again, but also the fact that, in saying goodbye to him, she’d said goodbye to that entire era of her life. Shut the door on everything that had happened during that time— including, she was desperately afraid, her time with her daughter.

Turning her back on Simon felt like turning her back on everything he’d ever been to her, including the father of her child.

She didn’t want to do that. Didn’t want to let go of Gabby. Didn’t want to say goodbye to the only person she’d ever loved unconditionally. But could she hold on to one without the other? And if she did hold on to Gabby, kept her memory close, would she ever get out of this bed again?

It didn’t seem like such a terrible way to die. To just drift away slowly, silently.

T. S. Eliot was right, she thought randomly. This was how the world ended. How
her
world ended, at least. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Hadn’t it been a couple of days ago that she’d been determined to get her life back on track? Convinced she could do something that would make her matter to someone. Now she barely knew which way was up. Or even if there was an up.

Closing her eyes, Amanda tried to embrace the idea of just giving in. Of disappearing. She didn’t want to do this anymore, didn’t want to live this life she was trapped in. Working her way back seemed too hard…

Then again, as she stared at the back of her eyelids in this darkened room, she realized that giving up was just as bad. She’d expected it to be easy, to simply happen. Instead she was filled with a rage so deep, so intense, so fiery hot that she could barely breathe through it.

Was this really what she wanted? she asked herself, vaguely horrified by it all. To waste away?

And if she did, what the hell was wrong with her?

Who was this woman she was becoming, someone who would rather give up than fight? This wasn’t the Amanda Jacobs she knew, the Amanda Jacobs who had worked so hard to be a good role model for her daughter.

That Amanda Jacobs had wanted to make a difference in the world, not die off with no more than a gasp.

This woman who hadn’t gotten out of bed in close to two days—who had spent the past eighteen months being little help to anyone—was pathetic. Gabby would be so disappointed in her. The thought of her strong, determined daughter made Amanda want to kick her own ass.

The fury grew until it nearly consumed her—fury at the doctors who hadn’t been able to save her daughter.

Fury at a fate that was so cruel as to gift the world with children like Gabby and Mabulu, only to take them away much too soon.

Fury at herself for withering up and trying to die when there were so many people left to help. So many people who lost children to ways other than cancer. So many children she might actually have a chance to save. Not in Africa, where the conditions were enough to bring her to her knees these days, but here, in Atlanta. Maybe she could make a real difference here.

Completely disgusted with herself and her pity party, Amanda threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Then forced herself to make the walk to the bathroom despite her shaky legs.

Forced herself to step into the shower and stand there as warm water cascaded over her.

And when she got out, she actually made herself put a little effort into her hair and dress, to put on clothes that actually fit—in this case, the new pair of jeans and red blouse she’d bought the day after she arrived in Atlanta.

She’d have to see about getting more clothes if she was actually going to do this. One outfit did not a wardrobe make.

She filled a glass with water and choked down the vitamins she’d bought. Then she smoothed the only lip gloss she had—an old tube she’d found buried at the bottom of her backpack—over her lips and slipped into her favorite pair of walking shoes.

More than once, she started to give up, to let the depression and misery drag her to bed. But she didn’t do it, some sixth sense inside of her knowing that if she gave in now, she’d never find her way to the surface again.

When she had done everything she could to get ready, when she could delay going into the real world no longer, Amanda grabbed her pack and—with a deep breath—walked back into the world.

It hadn’t changed much in two days, and yet somehow, it felt as if everything had changed.

When she got down to the bustling street, she looked both ways, trying to decide which direction to go. Finally deciding that straight ahead was as good a direction as any, she started walking and, except for brief moments at traffic lights, didn’t stop for three hours.

She walked the streets of downtown Atlanta, getting a feel for the city and its inhabitants. Traffic was terrible, the streets congested with cars and buses and more people than she had seen in one place in longer than she could remember.

She kind of liked it. The hustle and bustle of people who knew what they were doing and where they were going seemed to call to her, to tell her that everything would be okay.

Stopping for a pretzel and lemonade from a street vendor, she found herself charmed by his syrupy accent and friendly patter. She ate her treat as she wandered, a little shocked at how good the sweet, cold lemonade felt on her tongue.

As she walked, she exchanged pleasantries with people on street corners, asked directions of a couple of teenage boys hanging outside a coffee shop, and generally fell in love with the sweet rhythm of Atlanta. Before long, her cheek muscles were aching from all the unaccustomed smiling.

When she finally did stop, exhaustion suddenly overtaking her worn-down body, it was in front of a posh beauty salon called Charisma. She almost turned away, almost gave herself permission to hide in her hotel room again. Surely a three-hour walking tour of the city counted for something. She hadn’t sulked, hadn’t wallowed.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe she shouldn’t try to push herself any more.

Still, something kept her from retreating. Maybe it was the little voice in her head that said she needed to push herself further. Maybe it was her fear of losing the modicum of control she’d managed to regain. Or maybe it was just the place she stood before, because if there was anyone in the world who needed a little charisma right now, it was her.

Pushing the door open, she stepped into the plush salon and looked around. It was decorated in lush golds and bronzes with smoky-blue accents. The furniture was ornate, the wall hangings quietly expensive and the people who worked there a little over the top. She fell in love at first glance.

A young girl, maybe eighteen or so, was standing behind the reception desk. Her eyes were heavily made up, her blond hair sticking out of her head in pointy blue-tipped spikes. Amanda wondered vaguely if she’d dyed it to match the interior of the shop.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked in a chirpy yet somehow soothing voice.

Amanda shook her head. “I was hoping someone could fit me in.”

“Oh, sweetie, we don’t normally take walk-ins. But what do you want done? Maybe I can talk someone into staying late.”

“I’m not sure what I want,” Amanda answered, a little nonplussed at being called
sweetie
by someone who was half her age. Finally, she gestured to herself. “What do you think I need?”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh, um…” She stumbled over her own tongue. “I’ll be right back.”

Right back
actually ended up being more like ten minutes, and Amanda almost left twice, convinced the receptionist had forgotten all about her. But she forced herself to stay. She was tired of people looking at her with pity, tired of people not knowing what to say to her. It might be a long journey back to the land of the living, but she was going to take the first steps right now.

“Brick by brick, my citizens.”
Caesar’s words, à la William Shakespeare, came to her, and she kept her feet planted firmly on the ground. She had to start laying the first bricks sometime. Why not now?

The receptionist came back with a gorgeous dark-haired man who had a heavy Southern accent and a flare for bright clothes. As he approached, Amanda blinked a little, wondering if it was possible to burn her eyes on the neon-yellow of his shirt.

“I am Marco. Fiona says you would like a makeover?” He eyed her with the same horrified fascination most people reserved for squashed bugs and traffic accidents.

Still, she liked the sound of that. A makeover. Yes, she would love one of those—it was the closest thing to a do-over this world could come up with. “Yes.” She nodded. “A makeover would be wonderful.”

“Of course.” He reached for a limp strand of her hair. “What exactly would you like done?”

“You’re the expert. What do you recommend?”

The look on his face was priceless and Amanda fought the urge to laugh. She knew she was in bad shape, but really, he almost seemed a little afraid of her.

“What’s your name, sugar?”

“Amanda.”

“Right. Amanda, can I be frank?”

“Of course.” She bit her lip to keep from giggling. Which was strange, as she’d never been the giggling type.

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your hair is limper than overcooked spaghetti. Your skin is desert dry. You’ve got bags the size of Texas under your eyes and your nails… I don’t even know what to say about your nails. No offense, sugar, but you look like you’ve spent the past year living under a hot rock. And not in a good way.”

She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. He looked earnest and horrified at the same time. “Close. I’ve been in Africa. I’m a doctor and I was working in a clinic there.”

“
Ooh,
well, in that case, everything makes so much more sense now.” He shook his head. “Still, before you take off to be super-doc next time, you should really talk to me. We can find some products that won’t let this—” he twirled his finger around to encompass all of her “—ever happen again.”