by Kate Hewitt
‘Asphalt Green.’
Which is back where we just came from, all the way on York Avenue. The thought of going out into that heat again makes me wilt. ‘Maybe we’ll do that tomorrow,’ I murmur, and as Isaac rushes ahead, I step inside Grace’s apartment.
The calm elegance of it washes over me in a soothing tide. Marble floors, plush carpets, soothing colors. The air smells of lavender. Everything is tidy. How does she manage it? I wonder, before I remember she has only one child and undoubtedly a cleaner, as well.
Isaac has curled up in a corner of the sofa, his iPad on his lap. ‘Half an hour, Isaac,’ I call. ‘And then we’ll do something else.’
I take his lunch box into the kitchen. I’ve been here before, of course, recently at that, but it feels different now. I’m in charge. I have sole responsibility for Isaac. I’m even going to sleep in Grace’s bed.
I wash out Isaac’s lunch box, leaving it to dry upside down on the dish drainer. The fridge holds very little food – just some milk, wine, and cheese. Does Grace never eat? What does she feed Isaac?
I count the money on the counter, crisp bills in an envelope: five hundred dollars. I could shop for good, nourishing food, splurge on organic stuff that I never buy. I could make Isaac a delicious, healthy dinner. I deliberate, unsure what I want to do. How I want to spend this time with my son.
He might turn his nose up at the kind of meal I’m envisioning. I don’t want to expend so much effort on something that he won’t like – but then how do I fill the time? I finally have what I’ve always wanted, and I don’t know what to do. The irony is not lost on me.
I end up calling the hospital for news of Grace. The nurse tells me she can’t say anything about Grace’s condition or even if she’s out of surgery over the phone.
‘But I’m taking care of her son,’ I protest. ‘She’d want him to know.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She sounds firm rather than regretful.
It’s been forty-five minutes since we got home, and I’ve basically done nothing. I feel lonely in a way I didn’t expect. I’ve dreamed of this, and yet now I’m uncertain, restless.
I walk back into the living room. ‘Hey,’ I call lightly. ‘Why don’t we go out and do something?’
‘Swimming?’ Isaac asks hopefully.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t bring my swimsuit.’
‘You could borrow my mom’s.’
Grace is probably half my size. ‘I don’t think it would fit. What’s the next best thing to do, after swimming?’
Isaac lowers the iPad, his forehead furrowing. ‘Can we go to the Central Park Zoo?’ he asks at last. ‘We have a membership.’
That is something I feel capable of. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’
Twenty minutes later, both of us slathered in sun tan lotion and with a bottle of water in my bag, we head out. I decide against a cab, wanting Isaac to get a taste of the real city, or what I imagine it is. Besides my times here to see Grace I don’t have that much experience of Manhattan life.
We take the bus down Fifth Avenue, the cobblestone sidewalk outside the park filled with nannies and children, strollers and soccer balls. Dappled sunlight filters through the trees and people line up at the ice cream stands that are stationed on every other block. It almost feels like we’re in a movie, with the gleaming white spiral shape of The Guggenheim on one side and the park on the other, Manhattan at its sunny best.
We get out at Sixty-Seventh and walk down to the zoo, Isaac leading the way because he knows it better than I do. We stop outside the clock that I recognize from movies and magazines, with the mechanical animals coming to life every fifteen minutes. I’d managed to find Grace’s membership pass in a neatly organized drawer in the kitchen; she has memberships to just about everything fun or interesting in the city – Natural History, The Children’s Museum, The Met, The MOMA, Asphalt Green, even The Intrepid, the huge battleship permanently parked on the West Side. Sifting through all those laminated cards gave me an almost painful pleasure, that Isaac was experiencing all these things, the kind of things I wanted for him when I first agreed to the adoption. I picture him and Grace wandering through a museum or a park, a sunlit montage of happy mommy-and-me moments.
We line up to get into the zoo, and as soon as we’re through the doors Isaac is running off, wanting to see the penguins. I follow him around from exhibit to exhibit, baking in the heat, enjoying the way he hangs on the railing and studies the different animals so carefully and intently.
‘What’s your favorite animal here?’ I ask, and he answers immediately.
‘The grizzly bears.’
Later, I watch the two grizzly bears, Betty and Veronica, lumber about, and Isaac chortles at their antics as they try to knock a treat out of a tree. ‘Mom always likes the otters best,’ he says, glancing at me sideways. ‘Because they seem so happy.’
And so we have a look at the otters, watching them glide through the water, slick and dark and graceful. Yes, they do seem happy. I can’t help but smile as we watch them, and when Isaac asks for cotton candy, I say yes.
The pink puff of cotton candy is twice as big as his head, and I doubt he’ll eat a quarter of it, but I enjoy the sight of him pulling off wispy pieces and popping them into his mouth, savouring the clearly unusual treat. It’s been a nice afternoon, a temporary respite from the worries, the unknown.
We are strolling toward the park exit, the concrete still simmering with heat even though the sun has started to sink and there are long shadows cast on the cobblestone pavement, when, out of nowhere, I hear an incredulous voice. ‘Isaac?’
Isaac pulls up short, his face sticky and pink, his mouth dropping open at the sight of the mother and son in front of us.
The woman reminds me a little bit of Grace, with her expertly made-up face, her highlighted hair, a few gold bangles sliding down one super-skinny wrist. She’s wearing a pair of hot pink capris that look very expensive and a tight polo shirt in a bright white. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she gives me an appraising look.
‘You must be Grace’s nanny.’
I hesitate, wondering whether it’s easier to just go with it, but Isaac doesn’t let me take that option.
‘No, she’s my birth mom.’ He slurs the words together as if they’re one word, and I can tell he doesn’t really know what they mean. I doubt Grace has spent a lot of time trying to get Isaac to understand what I am to him.
The woman looks at me in surprise, and I can tell she didn’t know Isaac was adopted. And why should she? I doubt it’s something Grace has ever wanted to advertise.
‘I’m Lynne,’ she says, holding out one manicured hand, which I shake limply. ‘And this is Jasper. He’s in Isaac’s year at Buckley.’
I nod dutifully at the little boy with the blond hair that looks as if it has been expertly styled, with gel. He’s wearing a turquoise-blue polo shirt with a popped collar, khaki shorts, and loafers without socks. And he’s seven.
‘So do you and Isaac get together very often?’ Lynne asks in a trilling voice. ‘Where’s Grace?’ Her eyes dart around, looking for her.
‘She’s in the hospital,’ Isaac says. I have a feeling Grace didn’t advertise that, either.
Lynne’s eyes go round. ‘The hospital?’ She reminds me of a shark, greedy for gossip.
‘Just a small procedure,’ I say briskly, because I think it’s what Grace would want me to say. ‘Isaac, we should head home now.’ I manage a smile at Lynne, who is looking annoyed at being brushed off by someone like me. ‘Nice to meet you.’
We walk out of the park, and my back prickles with awareness; I know Lynne is still staring at me. I manage not to look back.
‘Mom doesn’t really like that lady,’ Isaac whispers when we’ve gone a little bit away. ‘And I don’t like Jasper.’
Curious, I glance at him. ‘Why doesn’t she like her?’
Isaac shrugs. ‘I heard her telling Will’s mom that she was fake.’
‘Right.’ I’
m even more curious now. ‘Who is Will?’
Isaac grins. ‘My best friend,’ he says simply.
A few minutes later he asks to stop at the playground on Sixty-Seventh Street with a big, serpentine slide cut into the rock. I sit on a bench and watch him slide down again and again, laughing at how much pleasure he gets each time.
The shadows are lengthening, the park emptying out. It’s after dinnertime, and there is still no food in Grace’s fridge. Plus we should get back in case she phones from the hospital.
I call to Isaac and we walk in companionable enough silence to Madison Avenue, where we catch the bus back uptown. We get off in front of the supermarket on Eighty-Seventh Street, and Isaac tags along behind me as I peruse the aisles, luxuriating in not having to count pennies or clip coupons. No EBT card this time, thank God.
‘Can we make our own pizzas?’ Isaac asks eagerly. ‘That’s always fun.’
‘Sure.’ We pick out pizza bases and sauce, grated cheese and a variety of toppings. I add a box of chocolate ice cream bars for dessert, plus orange juice for breakfast and some snacks for Isaac’s lunch tomorrow.
As we walk back to the apartment, I play a little fantasy in my head that this is my real life, walking back to my home with my son. Basically, I’m imagining that I’m Grace. I’m not jealous of her, not exactly, but I revel in the simplicity of the moment, how easy everything is, with money and space and opportunity – and my son.
I let Isaac go on his iPad while I set out all the cheese and sauce and toppings for the pizzas. Then we spend a fun few minutes decorating them; Isaac decides to put his toppings on to make a face – black olives for eyes, a red pepper for a mouth. I follow suit, which makes him crack up, a sudden, infectious laugh erupting from him so I am laughing too. I’m happy in that moment – a pure, clean feeling.
After dinner Isaac takes a shower without asking – clearly part of a bedtime routine –and I tidy up. I check my cell phone but there have been no calls. I think of calling Kev or Emma, checking in, but I don’t want to hear all the complaints, the note of bitterness that I know will seep in, no matter what. Kev was not happy about my decision to come here. In fact, he fumed.
‘This isn’t your job,’ he said, hands on his hips, while I got out a bag to pack.
‘Actually,’ I said quietly, ‘it is.’
‘No,’ he returned, spite sharpening his voice. ‘You just want it to be.’
I can hear Isaac singing in the shower and it makes me smile. I tidy up his bedroom and then I venture into Grace’s room, feeling as if I am trespassing even though she’s already told me she put clean sheets on the bed for me. It’s a beautiful room, spacious and simple, the pieces of furniture bigger than anything I could fit into my house. I peruse the top of her dresser, run my fingers along a set of enamel boxes that look expensive and hold pieces of jewelry – discreet diamonds and pearls. There is a bottle of lotion by her bed that smells amazing and probably costs more than I spend on a week of groceries.
I peek into Grace’s closet and run my hand along the crisp blouses in blue and white, pale pink and pearly gray, skirt suits in various shades of blue, gray, and black, and a couple of cocktail dresses that look gorgeous.
‘Heather…?’
From the depths of the closet I hear Isaac’s uncertain voice and I hurry out to find him standing in the doorway of Grace’s bedroom.
‘Sorry,’ I say, flushing. I have no ready reason for why I was in his mother’s closet.
Isaac’s quiet glance takes in the empty bed, newly made-up. ‘Did my mom say she’d call…?’ he asks in a small voice.
‘Yes, she was hoping to.’ I glance at the clock; it’s already ten past nine. ‘Maybe in the morning, though. I’m sure she will then. Have you brushed your teeth?’
He nods, almost dismissively. Of course he has.
‘Time for bed, then,’ I say, and obediently Isaac turns around and walks to his bedroom. I follow, amazed at the lack of protest or backtalk. Is it because I’m somewhat of a stranger, as much as it pains me to admit it, or is he simply that kind of child? Unfortunately, I don’t know.
Isaac slides beneath the navy sheets on his bed, his expression still solemn. ‘If she calls, will you wake me up?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly, although I’m not sure I will. He needs his sleep.
He nods and turns on his side, tucking his knees up to his chest, one arm wrapped around them. A well-loved, one-eared elephant lies next to him. I rest my hand ever so lightly on his back; I can feel the knobs of his spine beneath my fingers, just as I once did when he was a baby.
‘Goodnight, Isaac,’ I say softly. He doesn’t answer, but he hunches his shoulders a little, and that is response enough.
I leave the room, closing the door quietly behind me. The apartment stretches endlessly around me, oppressively silent. I can’t hear the traffic or neighbors or anything. I’m used to people, to the creaks and murmurs of my family, the background of TV or music or even just the whirr of the washing machine. Not this incredible stillness.
I decide to pour myself a glass of wine from the open bottle in the fridge, even though it feels a little presumptuous and I don’t normally drink. It’s cold and crisp and somehow soothing. I sit on the sofa as I sip it slowly, and stare out at the darkening night. I wait for Grace to call, but she never does.
Twenty-Five
GRACE
The world fades in and out, a hazy blur of color and sound. I wake and try to speak, but my lips are chapped, my tongue dry and thick, feeling too big for my mouth. I sleep again. Someone comes. I feel cool fingers on my hand. I wake.
I don’t how long the cycle goes on, only that eventually the cobwebs start to clear from my mind, at least a little bit. It’s dark out; I can see the lights of the city from my window. I try to raise my hand to check the bandages I feel on my chest, but I can’t manage it. My hand twitches uselessly at my side.
A nurse comes in, after five minutes or an hour, I don’t know. ‘You’re awake,’ she says cheerfully, and I blink at her. I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue is still too dry.
‘Would you like a sip of water?’ she asks, and I nod, or try to. She leaves and comes back a few minutes later with a plastic cup of ice water. With one hand behind my head she helps me to sip from the straw, and those first few gulps are like a little bit of heaven. I close my eyes in relief.
‘Easy, now,’ the nurse advises. ‘Your stomach will still be a little unsettled from the anesthetic.’
There are a thousand questions I want to ask, but I can’t verbalize them yet and in any case I doubt this woman knows the answers. Beyond the questions, the need to know, there is a pulsing point to everything: Isaac. I need to call Isaac. I need to tell him I’m okay. But I can’t; I can’t even manage the words to say to the nurse, and so I subside back onto the pillows and eventually I drift back to sleep.
I wake in the night to sudden, lancing pain through my phantom breasts. My chest throbs. I grope for the call button in the dark, my fingers feeling thick and clumsy. Eventually, after what feels like an age, I find it, and another age later a nurse, a different one, returns.
‘Please,’ I croak. ‘My son. Isaac…’
Sympathy flashes across her face. ‘It’s the middle of the night. You can call him in the morning.’
I hate the thought of him waiting for me to call, but I know I have no choice. ‘Pain…’ I gasp out. ‘Could I have something for the pain?’
‘Let me check.’ She consults the clipboard at the end of the bed, and a frown creases her face. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she says, and she returns a short while later with two little red pills. I swallow them without asking what they are. More relief.
I doze on and off; people come in and out. Eventually morning dawns, and with the sunlight streaming through the window I start to feel a little better. A little more alive.
I manage, with a lot of effort, to scoot up in bed. I look down at myself, and see the heavy gauze bandages wrapp
ed around my chest. My breasts are gone, although I can’t actually tell from this vantage point. I have no idea if Dr. Stein completed the reconstruction. There are far too many bandages to see.
Another nurse, and then breakfast; I manage to get up and use the bathroom, brush my teeth; both feel like huge victories. I want to call Heather, speak to Isaac, but now that I’m more awake and cognizant something in me hesitates. I want to know more before I make that call. Before Heather, and more importantly, Isaac, ask me questions I need to be ready to answer.
I doze, take pain medication, and then in the late morning Dr. Stein arrives. She looks serious, less cheerful than usual, and a tremor of fear goes through me.
‘Hi, Grace. How are you feeling?’ Cue the sympathetic smile.
‘Well, I’ve felt better.’ I still sound a little croaky.
‘I’m sure you have.’ She pauses, and I wait, trying to suppress another tremor of fear. Why isn’t she chirping about how well it’s all gone?
‘I’ve scheduled you for an MRI this afternoon,’ she says. ‘The surgery flagged a few things for me, and I’d like to check them out.’
I stare at her, my mind spinning. I feel sick and terrified, and yet also weirdly unsurprised. ‘Things…?’
‘I’ll be able to tell you more after the MRI, probably by tomorrow morning. There’s no point getting worried before we know all the facts.’ She tries for a reassuring smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Terror seizes me by the throat.
Dr. Stein asks a few more questions about the bandages and my pain management, mentions something about drains that she has inserted into my chest, but which will be taken out at some point. I can barely process what she’s saying. All I’m thinking is that I need more tests, that she saw something inside of me that wasn’t good.
‘Grace.’ Dr. Stein puts her hand over mine. ‘Try not to worry yet.’
Yet. Because there will be some point in the future when I should worry.