I look at him hard. “I don’t disagree with you,” I tell him, feeling not resentment for him but a distant sort of pity. “That is when you and I went wrong. But if I gained Bridget and Linus, and all I lost in the process was you, then I can only say it was totally worth it.”
Seth can only nod to that. His face is red, and I’m sure there’s plenty of anger in him—he hates when I give him instructions, whenever I plan things for both of us, and this breakup speech has been nothing if not unilateral. But maybe he also feels something close to what I’m feeling right now. Sheer, unadulterated relief. After all, there is no evidence that either of us has been happy together for a long, long time. And if it weren’t for the week that just happened, there’s no chance I would have done anything about it. “You’re off the hook, Seth Charles,” I tell him. “You’ll be happier in the end.” He sighs deeply. “We both will,” he says, sorrow mixing with relief. “The thing is, Wendy, most of the time I feel like you and the kids are holding me back.” I take in the sting of the words, like a slap you know you kind of deserve. “But at the same time, I sure as hell wasn’t bringing out the best in you either,” he adds. “So yeah. This is for the best for both of us. After all, you deserve to find someone who can do that too. Someone who will stop holding you back.” I nod at him, because he’s absolutely right. I nod, and then I pick up Anna Joy and turn and walk away, toward the elevator, moving fast, wishing I could move faster despite the rolling IV stand dragging by my side and the kiddo on my hip. I have somewhere to be, now that I’ve finally done the right hard thing. Because thanks to Celeste, I know exactly the man who brings out the best in me, and I need to let him know that as soon as I possibly can. CELESTE My goodness, but my hospital room is abustle. There are so many people in here, and none of them seem interested in answering any of my questions. In fact, one of them keeps putting a mask over my face as if to shut me up. I take it off, for the third time in a row, and this time I just shout, “HELLO! WOULD SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT THE H-E DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS IS GOING ON?” “Did she just say ‘H-E double hockey sticks’?” asks someone near my lower spine. “Probably a good sign for neurological function,” jokes someone else. I’m about ready to sit up and walk out of there if someone doesn’t answer me, but luckily someone does. A nice lady with a face shield who says, “Celeste, you’re in the hospital after you were hit in the chin by a line drive to second. It snapped your neck back, and now we are trying to make sure there’s no long-term spinal damage. You’re supposed to be resting comfortably right now while we do our job.” “Oh. Crap,” I say. “At the very least, please leave the mask on and hold still, ok?” I nod vigorously and let her reposition the mask. “Hold STILL,” she repeats. I stop nodding. “Very good. Now, the anesthesiologist is back, and he’s going to start doing his thing, ok, so . . . ok, count backward from ten. Ready?” I don’t nod, but thinking it must be ok, I say, “Ten.” A few seconds later, after what seems like a very slow eyeblink, I feel groggy and achy, and somehow, Hugh is in the room with me. “She’s awake!” he says. “Hugh!” I say. “Wiggle your toes,” he says to me. I do, and he laughs. “Nice one, babe. Nice one.” “What happened?” I ask, the fog over my eyes lifting but my words coming out very slowly. “Did I do ok?” He gingerly leans over and kisses me softly. Our first kiss in a week. I savor every millimoment of it. “You did perfectly.” “Oh, darling,” I say through the mists of the drugs. “I’ve had such crazy dreams.” Hugh moves hair out of my face and smiles at me indulgently—I don’t think he can understand my slurred words yet. My brain is working faster than my mouth, though. It’s thinking through everything that’s happened, at a surprising pace. Figuring out how I got here, what went down beforehand, and what has to happen now. Figuring out who I have to—no, who I get to—become. And later, when Hugh can understand me again, I’ll tell him all of it. Not about the body swap, maybe, not anytime soon. But about who I’ve been lately and who I want to be next. About how, when I said goodbye to my past and started our future, I didn’t forget it all. I didn’t forget the painful lessons of what it meant to grow up the way I did. The responsibility I felt to give my children something better. How beholden I felt to the man who gave me a different life and how little debt and love have to do with one another. Wendy is, as she often is, partly right. Hugh doesn’t owe me anything. And I don’t owe him either. We’re not a balance sheet, my value doesn’t come from what pennies I save us, and I’m not on my own at the end of the day. Hugh and I aren’t like that. We float or sink together. We float, I decide. We float because I am no one’s anchor. What we have is buoyant. What we have is beautiful. But there’s no way I can explain all that to him right now. Instead I just find his hand with mine, hold it as tight as I can, and dream of who I will be now that I’m not “just a housewife.” I’m Celeste Mills Mason, and I’m the mother of three wonderful children and the wife of a loving man, and there’s absolutely no “just” about it.