Page 18 of The Lookback

“People say having two dogs makes the whole thing easier. Kids might be like that,” Dad said. “Maybe having another one will make Helen easier to deal with. Another child could help level out her tantrums and mood swings.”

“I can’t believe I thought you were smart when we got married.” Mom’s eyes flashed. “But the good news is that it doesn’t matter what you say. In California, I can do what I want, and what I want is to terminate this pregnancy.”

Terminate. It meant to end. I knew that much.

It hit me then, what was happening. A boy at my preschool just had a little sister. They named her Olive. It was a bad name, because olives were gross. But my desire for a sister, which I had previously never realized I had, exploded inside of me.

“No!” I lurched into the kitchen, dropping my blanket so Mom couldn’t get angry I was carrying it around. “You can’t terminate my sister.”

“Helen.” Mom’s eyes widened. “You—how long have you been standing there?”

“You can’t kill her.” I realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks. “I want a sister. And I want to name her Abigail. And I want to take her with me to the park. And she can sleep in my room. And I can get up and feed her. Okay? You can work, and Abigail will be my job.”

Dad picked me up and cradled me against his chest. “Oh, Helen, you’re too small to have a baby as your job.”

I shook my head. “I’m not. If you can just have my little sister, she can be my job, and Mom can work, and you can work too, and I’ll take care of her. Okay? Please?”

Mom opened her mouth and closed it again.

Dad just swallowed.

“Please. Please don’t kill my sister.”

“It could be a boy,” Mom said. “We don’t even know. The baby’s just a speck right now.”

But to me, that speck was already my sister. I never let it go. I fought for that speck every single day, hard enough that my mom, who clearly didn’t want to have another baby, kept her. Hard enough that when she was finally born, four years younger than me, I took my job seriously. I helped change her diapers. I cleaned up her dirty laundry. I helped make her bottles.

I never regretted fighting for Abigail’s life.

But I did learn as I grew older that there were some people who should never have kids. My parents were certainly among them. And after I saw Abigail raise her children, I realized that in spite of wanting a sister so badly that it hurt, in spite of knowing that something was missing from my life, I was one of them, too.

Because I’m nothing like Abigail.

I could never give a child what it really needs. In my heart of hearts, I’m my mother’s daughter. I might want to invest in my future happiness. I may wish I could be the kind of person who puts someone else’s needs first. But any child that had me as a mother would suffer for it.

No, the babies of the world deserve Abigails, not Helens.

I can’t help thinking about how natural Abigail is with her children, with little Nate, with all of them. I can see her, whipping them up in the air, cradling their heads naturally, without even thinking. I see her, patiently setting the contract she’s reviewing aside so she can burp a baby. So she can read Gabe a book. So she can direct her kids how to clean up from dinner.

She doesn’t snap.

She doesn’t resent them for ruining her life.

No, she cherishes them. She sees the fleeting moments for what they are: beautiful and transient. She puts everything else behind what really matters, and those kids all know it in their bones. In their DNA. In a way Abigail and I never did, her children know that they’re loved.

Unlike my mother, I’m not willing to be swayed. So if David’s secretly trying to tell me that he knows I don’t want children, but he thinks he can wear me down, he’s sadly mistaken. I will never make the mistake my mother did. I will never bring children into this world only to disappoint and neglect them.

I will always do the thing Helen Fisher is best at doing. That’s why I’m here right now. I’m about to convince one shareholder at a time, including the reticent, shy recluse I’ve tracked down to go ahead and sell me his or her shares so I can take this company over and make it into something great.

And make a lot of money from it. Let’s not forget that part.

That’s what Fishers do best. We take things over. We succeed. We impress. We exceed expectations. But we do not have children and raise them with love and tender care. Abigail managed it, because in her heart of hearts, she’s different than me and Mom and Dad. She’s better. She came through all the madness whole and healthy in a way I can’t even fathom.

I do like to think I had some small part in that, but I often wonder whether it’s true. Yes, I was a little kinder and gentler than my mom, but I was never there for her the way a person really needs. I never offered her what she has shown to her children—comfort, stability, and acceptance. Sacrifice and understanding. Those just aren’t things Fishers are great at providing.

When I walk into the boardroom of the hotel this bizarre McFarland person insisted on meeting me at, I square my shoulders and run through my arguments one last time. Instead of one man sitting at the table, McFarland, or possibly two, McFarland and his lawyer, there are more than six people waiting for me.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I may be in the wrong room. I’m looking for a Mister or Missus McFarland. Pratt McFarland.”

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