by Kate Hewitt
‘The birth mother did,’ I say. ‘Her name’s Heather. She was pretty insistent about it, although beforehand she said she wanted a closed adoption, like I did.’ I can’t quite keep the bitterness from seeping into my voice like some poisonous gas. Why, Heather? Why couldn’t you have just stuck to the original agreement?
‘Oh, wow.’ Stella’s eyes are wide. ‘That must be so incredibly difficult. I mean, is it?’
I laugh, the sound coming out a bit too hard. ‘Yes, actually,’ I say, and drain my margarita. ‘It is, a bit.’
‘Goodness.’ Stella shakes her head slowly. ‘Do you guys… I mean, do you get along?’
‘Sort of.’ It seems petty to admit we don’t. Why can’t I get along better with Heather? Why can’t I just shrug my shoulders at her unending neediness, remind myself it’s only one afternoon a month, and I’m the real winner, I have Isaac all the time? She gave him to me. Why can’t I remember that instead of gritting my teeth, getting annoyed at every little thing? I’m not being fair to her, I know that, but she’s not fair to me.
‘How long do you think you’ll have to keep the visits up?’ Stella asks. ‘Does Heather want to… you know, keep going? Forever? And what about Isaac?’ She lowers her voice even though the boys are miles away in the TV den. ‘How does he find the visits?’
‘Tricky.’ I hesitate, again feeling that weird sense of loyalty. ‘He enjoys them sometimes, but it can feel… confusing.’
‘I’m sure.’ Stella nods vigorously. ‘Of course it does.’
‘Actually,’ I say as she refills my empty glass, ‘I’ve asked Heather if we can visit once every three months instead. Start to let things taper off naturally.’ Although I know none of it will feel natural to Heather.
‘And how did she take that?’
‘Not very well.’ I pause, searching for something that sounds diplomatic. ‘She’s a bit… clingy.’
‘Oh, great.’ Stella rolls her eyes in commiseration. ‘Honestly, Grace, that sounds like a nightmare. The sooner you can cut things off, the better, if you ask me. Do you think it might get… messy?’
‘I don’t know. Open adoption agreements aren’t automatically legally binding, but a sympathetic judge could enforce it, if he or she thought it was in Isaac’s best interest.’
‘But surely they wouldn’t…?’
‘I don’t know.’ I feel my stomach clench with the awful what-if. ‘Someone might see Heather as the underdog in this situation…’ And me as the merciless career woman, who employs nannies to take care of her son, who doesn’t want to spare a single afternoon a month. If Heather got a good lawyer, it could go badly. Very badly.
‘You can’t let that happen,’ Stella says with surprising fierceness. ‘Look, if you need legal advice…’
‘I’ve consulted an adoption lawyer, but thanks.’ I smile, feeling better for having someone to offload to. ‘I mean that. You’ve been great, listening to me moan. And Heather’s not that bad, honestly.’ I semi-regret what I said, fighting a prickling sense of shame at badmouthing Heather. ‘She gave me Isaac, after all, and she’s a good mom.’ Although I remember Amy’s smirk, the way she sashays about the house, and I wonder if Heather is completely in control of that situation. What would Isaac be like, in that household? I can hardly bear to think about it.
‘Trust me, Grace, you’re not moaning.’ Stella rises from her stool and starts chucking some things onto a cutting board. ‘Why don’t you stay for dinner? It’s just paella, but you’re more than welcome…’
‘Okay.’ I smile, happiness unfurling inside me at the invitation. I’ve stayed for dinner a few times, but it always feels like a privilege. This is the world I live in now. The loneliness that once ate at me like a canker is finally, forever gone. I stand up, and my head swims a bit from the alcohol. ‘Let me set the table.’
We have a wonderfully pleasant evening, the boys boisterous but not too much, Eric genial, opening a bottle of wine even though I really don’t need anything more to drink. Stella is as bubbly as ever, managing to effortlessly whip up a delicious meal, keep the conversation sparkling and light, and also keep the boys – all three – in check. I’m in awe of how effortless she makes it seem, although when I say as much when we’re clearing up in the kitchen, she rolls her eyes.
‘Effortless? It’s the margaritas.’ She rests her elbows on the sink, her expression turning thoughtful. ‘I know I’m lucky, like I said before. But no matter what, parenting is hard. It’s completely full-time, isn’t it? Even if you have a job. Especially if you do.’
‘Relentless,’ I agree, thinking of the worries always circulating in my mind like some ever-revolving in-tray of concern: what Isaac is eating, who his friends are, whether he’s done his homework, the eczema on his elbow.
Stella nods in commiseration. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘relentless. And yet we wouldn’t have it any other way, would we?’
Eventually Isaac and I leave, with promises of coming again soon, and also vague invitations to come to France one summer. Stella is even more expansive than usual, hugging me and kissing both my cheeks as I leave.
‘This was so much fun. Please, please call me if you need anything. And I’ll definitely take Isaac on Tuesday and Thursdays.’
‘Thank you. You’re amazing.’ I feel mellow and happy as Isaac and I walk up Park Avenue. It’s a warm spring night, and Isaac skips ahead while I stroll slowly, enjoying the cherry blossoms, the balmy evening air, letting the pleasantness of the evening linger like a fine wine.
My mellowness continues for the rest of the evening, as I sit with Isaac as he does his homework, correcting his spellings and helping him with his four times tables. Afterward we snuggle up in bed as I read him three chapters of The Indian in the Cupboard.
After he’s tucked up in bed, I end up getting photos out that I’ve never managed to put into books, and organizing them by year. Isaac as a two-year-old, chubby and red-cheeked. Isaac as a preschooler, with a backpack bigger than he is and a pie-eating grin.
There are no photos of our visits to the McClearys, although I know Heather takes lots of pictures when we’re there. There are a few up on her wall, above the TV. Her holding Isaac as a baby; a picture Kevin took of them playing Connect Four. For a second I picture us comparing our photo books, our different experiences of Isaac and his life, my play by play versus Heather’s single snapshots.
Then I push the thought away. It’s almost over. I honestly believe that. I’m feeling optimistic, humming in the shower I take before I go to bed, feeling almost happy, like for once I can see the future stretching ahead of me, shining and bright, without Heather in it. Isaac and I will have all our weekends back; we can go away, to Boston or Philadelphia, see the turning leaves in Vermont. It feels as if my whole life will be freed up, even though I know it’s only one weekend a month. And yet it’s been so much more than that, always hanging over me, always there. Without it, the horizon feels expansive, limitless.
I sing out loud as I rinse the shampoo from my hair, the soap from my body. ‘I’m Walking on Sunshine’.
And that’s when I find the lump.
Eighteen
HEATHER
A whole week until I have to talk to Grace. Until I have to start to give Isaac up. I’ve made my decision, I feel it in my leaden gut, but it weighs me down so much I start to doubt. To wonder if there is some way to make it work, a way that even Grace would be happy with.
What if Isaac came here by himself? I’d pick him up and drive him back, make it as easy as possible, but even as I’m thinking of it I know she’d never agree. She’s always watching me during their visits, jumping in to correct or to limit or just to rain on my damn parade. That’s one thing she wouldn’t want to give up, the control she still gets to exert.
What if I met them in New York? But then Kevin and the girls wouldn’t be part of the visits, and I don’t like that. It would breed more resentment, greater hostility, and that’s the last thing any of us needs.
&
nbsp; So what if we had a visit every three months, but it was for longer? A whole day? A weekend? I can already picture Grace’s pinched face, her thin lips. She’s not going to agree to anything. I feel it. I know it. This is the beginning of the end, and deep down I can’t even blame her.
That’s what hurts the most; that despite the injustice that burns through me, as well as the longing, there is a feeling deep inside me that Grace’s request is actually reasonable and worse, fair. That I gave Isaac up and she’s kept coming for seven years, nearly every single month without complaint, and eventually, like Stacy said, there had to be an endpoint. And now it’s here and I need to make my peace. I know that, I do, but it’s so hard. So, so hard.
On Monday night, I talk to Kevin. I should have told him earlier. I should have involved him from the beginning, from the moment Grace talked to me about tapering off Isaac’s visits, but I resisted because I was afraid of his response. I was afraid he might breathe a big sigh of relief and say finally, and that would just about break my heart.
I know Kevin doesn’t enjoy the visits with Isaac the way I do. Of course I know. I crave them, I wait for them breathlessly, while he seems only to endure. Sometimes, once in a while, he seems to enjoy being with Isaac, but most of the time he’s silent in that surly way that puts both me and Grace on edge; we’re united in that, at least.
Now it’s quiet; Emma is in her room, studying, and Amy is out. Where, I don’t know. I’ve stopped asking, which I know is no good thing considering she’s only fifteen. Lucy is in bed, although she’s likely to wander out asking for a snack or a drink of water at least two or three times. But Kevin and I are as alone as we’re ever going to be.
‘It’s a nice night,’ I say. ‘Do you want to sit outside?’
Kevin looks surprised; it’s not something I’d normally suggest. But he follows me wordlessly outside, the screen door slapping against the weathered frame as we step onto the back porch with the swing I was once so proud of.
Now the chain is rusted, the wicker fraying, and the porch is filled with junk – an old plastic tricycle, weather-beaten and broken; a rusty bike; a hamster cage from a brief, unfortunate period of having a pet; a plastic tub of withered begonias. We should throw it all out, but somehow we never do.
I sit gingerly on the bench, just in case it breaks. It creaks in protest but holds my weight. I swing a little, enjoying the night air, the feeling of calm. Our yard is small and scrubby, with a rusted chain-link fence separating it from our neighbor’s, who has a Great Dane that prowls alongside it all the time, meaning the girls never used to like to go out and play. Now they don’t want to, anyway. But the dog, for once, is inside, and dusk cloaks the yard, making it look less bare.
‘Join me,’ I say, and Kev looks at the swing askance.
‘I don’t want to break that thing.’
‘You won’t,’ I say, although our combined weight together might. He just shakes his head and lowers himself onto the weathered porch step, knees resting on his elbows.
‘So,’ he says, and I know he knows I asked him out here for a reason.
‘Grace talked to me on Saturday. She… she wants to slow down Isaac’s visits.’
‘Slow down?’
‘To once every three months. And after a while, once every six months. And after that…’ I can’t say it, even now.
‘Never,’ Kevin finishes flatly, and I nod.
‘What do you think?’ I ask quietly, my voice little more than a whisper, as he just sits there and stares out into the night.
‘What do you think?’ he asks eventually.
‘We could get a lawyer…’ I begin.
Kevin shakes his head. ‘We can’t do that to Isaac,’ he says, and I love him for saying that. I also know he’s right.
‘I know. I wouldn’t want it to end up in a big fight. I never wanted to fight with Grace.’ Although I’m not sure that’s even true. I haven’t exactly been trying to get along with her all these years, have I? To make it easier for her? The realization both humbles and confuses me, because for so long I’ve been feeling sanctimoniously right, the only one who deserves to feel aggrieved.
I haven’t thought that much about how Grace might feel. I haven’t wanted to, because deep down, beneath the veneer of civility we share, I’ve always felt the burning injustice that she has my son. And that, I realize, is not fair to her… or to Isaac. I made the choice seven years ago. I made it, no matter how beaten into a corner I felt.
‘So that’s it, then?’ Kev asks, and I nod slowly.
‘She’s coming over on Friday. I’ll tell her then.’ The knowledge rests inside of me, a weight that is both crippling and in a small, still way, oddly, almost peaceful. It will be over. I will mourn and grieve and wail, but it will finally be over.
We’re both silent, the evening warm and still and quiet. ‘Kev… will you miss him?’ The words are an ache. I have to ask; I have to know.
Kev turns to look at me, but I can’t make out his expression in the dark. ‘Of course I will,’ he says, his voice a low throb, and I believe him. For a second I have a glimpse into my husband’s heart, and the pain he might be hiding. He doesn’t love Isaac the way I do, perhaps, the way I’ve let myself, like a firestorm inside me, burning everything up. Kev has kept himself from that, and that’s probably a good thing, a healthy thing, but he cares, and just like me, he knows this will hurt.
Friday comes all too soon. I get home from work and fly around, cleaning the house, putting out cookies, God only knows why. I want to impress Grace, when it’s far too late for that. But it feels important somehow, to show her that I’m a good mother, a good person. Good enough for her son, even if she never thought so. I tell myself I’m going to be dignified and kind, that I’m not going to cry. Finish strong. End well. But I’m not sure I can.
Two o’clock comes and goes. I check my phone, but there are no voicemails, no texts. It’s utterly unlike Grace to be a no-show; with our monthly visits she’s always confirmed, always texted if she was going to be even a few minutes late. Right now I realize how much I should have appreciated her reluctant thoughtfulness. All those visits. Dozens and dozens, and she showed up every time, gritting her teeth maybe, but still. She came. I never even thanked her, not really. But where is she now?
I call her cell phone, but it switches to voicemail. I leave a message, and then I wait some more. It’s getting near three o’clock, and the girls will be coming off the bus soon. Grace and I can’t have this conversation with them around, and then I realize we’re not going to have this conversation at all. Grace stood me up, and I’m not sure whether to feel resentment or relief. I ping between the two, my emotions all over the place because I wasn’t ready and yet somehow I want it all to be over.
The girls burst into the house, Amy flouncing in, wearing a full mask of make-up. Since I took away her phone she hasn’t even hidden how much she makes herself up, and I haven’t had the strength to protest. I haven’t given her phone back, either. Sometimes parenting is nothing more than a ceasefire.
Emma slips in, dropping her backpack by the door before she slides by me with a quick smile and gets a glass of milk. Amy practically rips the hinges off her bedroom door as she disappears inside without a word. I think of following her, but then Lucy comes home, upset about some stupid boy in class who’s teased her for reading ‘a baby book’, and I try to soothe her while I start dinner.
When Kev comes home from work he raises his eyebrows in silent question, and I shake my head. ‘She didn’t come.’
Later, when we’re getting ready for bed, he asks, ‘What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not like her.’ I fight a sense of dread. ‘I hope she’s not going to just leave it. I mean… I want to… to say goodbye.’ My face starts to crumple.
‘Oh, babe.’ Kev pulls me into a hug and I bury my head in his shoulder.
‘Has it been too hard, Kev? Having him visit every month?’ I whisper the words against
his chest, not sure I want to hear the answer. The truth.
‘It’s been hard,’ he answers slowly. ‘But it was always going to be hard, wasn’t it? No matter which way it went.’
‘I hate thinking that I made it worse.’
‘Worse for who? Grace?’
‘Us.’ I let out an unruly sob, my fists bunching in his shirt. ‘Have I made it worse for us?’
Kev eases back, his hands on my shoulders. ‘Heather, you’ve done your best for this family. Nobody doubts that.’ He gives me the glimmer of a smile. ‘Not even Amy.’
I smile back through my tears, grateful for his words and yet still so uncertain.
The days pass and I still don’t hear from Grace. A week, and nothing. I leave her a message, and then another. I ask her what happened, and then I ask her to call me back because I’m starting to worry. What if something bad has happened? What if Isaac has come down with meningitis, or has been hit by a car? My imagination goes into terrified hyper drive.
One night I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the computer. I turn it on, the screen casting an electric glow in the darkened room. I type an email.
Grace, what’s going on? Why have you not been in touch? – Heather
Maybe it’s too abrupt, but I’m feeling too strung out to moderate it. I push ‘send’ before I can have second thoughts. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and it’s not inconceivable that Grace is still up, still on her laptop, billing hours or whatever it is she does. I wait an entire hour, just staring at the screen, but no emails pop into my inbox.
A couple of days later, two weeks after Grace stood me up, she finally calls. I’m at work, and I’m not supposed to take personal calls, but when I see her name flash on the screen of my phone I slip into the office’s one bathroom, little more than a broom closet with a toilet and a tiny sink.
‘Grace?’ I sound incredulous and a little accusing.
‘Hi, Heather.’ She sounds exhausted. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. And that I didn’t come out there a few weeks ago.’