I went to the hospital every day after work for a couple weeks. I kept calling Mrs. Costello. She never answered, but by then we knew Michelle was dead. The cops found her in a motel off the Jersey Turnpike a few days after she’d left Ma’s house. Michelle’s funeral was private. I kept calling, though, until finally the Costellos unplugged their answering machine.
Then I went to check on the baby and he was gone, placed with a foster family. They wouldn’t tell me where or who. I cried in the hospital lobby, then I cried in my car, and then I forced myself to forget about him. Everyone who should’ve been there to love him was somewhere else. I wanted to love him. But I had no right to.
I went back to work and law school and life feeling the loss of something I never had, trying to put it behind me until, at work, at 4:15 on a Wednesday, files piled around me, cold coffee sitting on the edge of my desk, there was a woman’s voice on the phone: “Miss Stanislawski?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling time stop around me.
“This is Sunilda Rosario from OCFS,” she said with the staccato punches of a New York Dominican accent, rapid fire Spanish inflections in her words.
“I’m sorry, from the what?” I asked, thinking she might be an expert witness we’d called on a case. “Children and Family Services, Miss Stanislawski.”
“Oh, oh, OK,” I said, stumbling around, shuffling papers on my desk. She went on: “After investigating all possible options for the placement of Baby Costello it’s become clear that there are no immediate relatives on either side of the family prepared to take custody. We wanted to know if you could come in and talk to us about fostering the baby, if you’re still interested…”
“Wait, what?” I meant to put the file in my hand on my desk but I missed the edge and paper cascaded around me. A memory; paper floating by the windows that morning when I stood in an office just like this one. I feel Frankie brush past me. “What about Mrs. Costello? Did you find the father? What about his parents?”
“The father is in prison, the paternal grandparents are deceased, and the Costellos are not in a position to take the baby. I’m calling because Mrs. Costello suggested we call you as a close friend of the family…”
So on a Wednesday afternoon in my cramped office under the fluorescent lights, a hundred sheets of paper surrounding me, I became his mother. It’s not official yet, though. There’s a year ahead of us of court dates, home visits, interviews, assessments, background checks. There’s the chance that I won’t be able to adopt him, not if his father decides to hold on to his rights from prison. There’s the chance they’ll think that I can’t do it on my own when they do the home visits. But there’s also the chance that this is exactly how life is supposed to go.
Now we’re here, where Michelle grew up, with Mrs. Costello in the doorway, thinner than I remember her, in a pink sweater set, gold crucifix hanging around the soft freckled creases of her neck. I pull the baby from the car seat and walk past the Virgin Mother up to the front door.
“Gigi? Sharon? Hello, girls, come in. I just made a pot of coffee.” Mrs. Costello is warm and friendly like she always was and welcomes us in the same way she always did, but she doesn’t look at the baby. She doesn’t ask to hold him, doesn’t pat his back, doesn’t do any of the things old ladies do when they see a baby, especially one they’re related to. She just notices him on my shoulder and pads to the kitchen to get the coffee; the sound of her nylon knee-highs rubbing against her house slippers gives me chills. Sharon and I sit down on the tweed sofa, its plastic cover crackling under us.
I try not to wake the baby as we sit down. Sharon tugs at my sleeve and mouths, “Oh my God,” her eyes directing me to the opposite wall. Above the upright piano the wall is covered in gold-framed photos of Jimmy, the Costellos’ son. He died when he was eleven. He was all arms and legs and green eyes that grew bigger and bigger the sicker he got, the thinner his face became. We all remembered Jimmy, how one day he was playing baseball in the street and the next he was waving at all of us from his bedroom window. But when we stood at his window to yell up to him one summer morning, he wasn’t there. Just the bedroom curtain swaying slightly; no doe-eyed smiling sick boy waving back.
Every time we stopped by with my parents to see how the Costellos were doing after he died, we noticed that Mrs. C had added another framed photo of him to this wall. She kept adding pictures to the wall and she kept teaching sixth grade at St. Ignatius, the constant procession of eleven-year-old boys through her classroom comforting and torturing her every day.
But Sharon isn’t looking at Jimmy’s wall. She’s looking at the three-foot-tall portrait of Michelle, leaning against the top of the piano, no space yet for it among the frames. A full-color rendition of Michelle in oil paint. She’s wearing her prom dress—I remember it from Frankie’s photos—and sitting on a cloud with huge angel wings behind her, a backdrop of feathers for her face. Around her neck there’s a gold locket, opened in thirds, revealing three pictures: Jimmy on the left, Frankie on the right and, although he’s still alive in the next room, Mr. Costello in the frame in the middle. I feel sick. I want to fold into myself, to cry, but I do neither. There’s no space for my grief in this house. I hold the baby on my lap and clutch Sharon’s hand.
“Why is life so fucking hard, Shar?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.”
“How am I going to do this?”
“Listen, just drink the coffee, say hi to Mr. Costello and then we go. OK? It’ll be OK.”
Before I can plead with Sharon to get us out of here Mrs. Costello comes in with the coffee. “Here we go, girls, nice and hot. You take milk?” she asks as she pours milk into all three cups before waiting for an answer. Her voice has the same warble I remember, high-pitched and shrill, like Archie Bunker’s wife.
“Thanks, Mrs. C. It’s good to see you. You look good,” I say, trying to avoid eye contact with St. Michelle.
“Oh, thank you, sweetheart. You know, since John got sick I just haven’t felt like eating. Weight Watchers should get in on this cancer game, they’d make a fortune, ha!”
She notices us looking at the wall. “Oh, you’re looking at the painting. Do you like it? My friend at church did it for me, isn’t it beautiful? I just gave her some photos and she painted it from those. Michelle was so beautiful. And I know she’ll take care of my Jimmy and Frankie’s there taking care of her…Isn’t he, Gigi?” Her voice switches from self-comforting to hauntingly desperate, pleading with me for what she said to be true.
“Yes, sure he is, of course, Mrs. C.” An uncomfortable silence settles on all of us until the baby wakes up and starts gurgling.
I juggle him as I unwrap his blanket and take off the long-sleeved T-shirt that’s over his onesie. I know it’s summer but he’s so tiny. I keep dressing him in too many layers and then panicking that I’m overheating him and then undressing him in a flurry of incompetence.
I need to say something, Mrs. C’s refusal to acknowledge the baby is so awkward, so I force out some words. “Mrs. C, I came over to thank you for writing that letter for me for the social worker. It was really nice, everything you said…”
“That’s alright, Gigi.” A shadow falls over her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls. You called a lot of times. I just—I couldn’t talk. John’s very sick and then”—she’s overcome with tears—“and then Michelle. It was too much, just too much.” She takes a few moments to compose herself. She’s so accustomed to crying it doesn’t take her long to dry her tears and then look up at me, smiling weakly. “Thank you for being patient with us, dear.”
“That’s OK, Mrs. C. So how do you want to do this, you know, how often should I bring him over to visit and stuff? The social worker said it would be good if I could start now with making important people a regular part of his life. I…I mean, I know you didn’t want to take him with Mr. C
being sick and all, and you had so much going on, I know you weren’t ready to see him but now—”
“It’s not because John is sick, Gigi,” she cuts me off. She sips her coffee, placing the mug on the table carefully, making sure it’s in the center of the ceramic coaster of the Last Supper.
“No, no, it’s because my kids die, sweetheart.” She stirs her coffee and looks into the distance across the room. “They’re both dead,” she says, to clarify, as if we didn’t understand her. Her words hang above me and the baby, hovering, waiting for me to soften them, to contradict or dismiss them. “Oh, Mrs. C—” I reach for her with my free arm. “Mrs. C, don’t say that, don’t say—” But she stops me, pulling an old tissue from her bra strap, her eyes watery and bleak.
“They died. So I don’t want that baby here. It’s bad enough he has whatever poison is in our blood. But this is a house of dead children and now John’s dying too. Don’t bring that baby to this house.” Mrs. C dabs at her eyes. I extend my hand to her, place it on her folded arm. She pats my wrist. We listen to the ticking of the clock above the doorway for a long time. An apostle sits in place of each number, the hands of the clock extending from the cross in the middle. Shock and sorrow catch in my throat.
I can’t believe that she believes what she’s saying, so I try again: “But Mrs. C, you’re his grandmother, his nonna, right? I’m sorry about Jimmy and Michelle, you know I am. We’re all so sorry. But look, Michelle left you a grandson, she left him here for you.” I motion to him in my arms. “I’ll take care of him, of course I will, but please, please be his grandmother. He needs you. I need you…”
Mrs. C looks at me, teary and exhausted. A silent certainty comes over me that after she sees Mr. C through his final passing she’ll just go to sleep and never wake up. She’s ready for that rest that Jesus promised her.
“I know you think you’re doing the right thing. But I wasn’t a good mother, Eugenia. Jesus took Jimmy from me because He wanted him back, but Michelle was dying every day and God was testing me and I couldn’t save her. Then look what kind of mother she became. Leaving her baby like that. I’ll have to answer for it when I get up there, but while I’m still here please don’t bring him back again. She chose you—you go be his mother and forget about us.”
The baby fusses in my lap. I put him on my shoulder again and get up to walk around with him, keep him moving, but every surface is covered with Jesus and his friends or with the ghosts of Jimmy and Michelle and I want to shield his eyes. I should protest, and argue, and turn around and tell her she’s being crazy and selfish and melodramatic. And I would say all of those things if I didn’t see so clearly that her losses are so excruciating that even love and joy feel like pain. The happiness of this grandbaby would just make her grief deeper. Because for her, happiness is what happens before sorrow. And sorrow is inevitable when you love. That’s why Michelle couldn’t live without Frankie. That’s why I’m holding her baby now.
If I could shrink myself, sink me and the baby into the ground, evaporate, I would. His soft cheek brushes my face as I move him to my other shoulder. I really am his mother now. I came here thinking that I would take care of him for the family, honor Michelle, that we would collectively raise this kid so we could all recover from the pain of losing the people we loved. But I’m all he’s going to have.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for but it’s all I can think of to say to Mrs. C. Or maybe I’m saying it to my baby.
“You girls want more coffee?” Mrs. C’s hand shakes on the handle of the Mr. Coffee pot. She speaks to us as though she hasn’t just said that she never wants to see my baby again. I don’t know what to do next but Sharon, reaching in her bag for some tissues, says, “Hey, Mrs. C, why don’t I sit with you for a minute and Gigi can go see Mr. C? Before we go? I think it would be good if she could do that.”
Mrs. C, unsure, thinks for a minute. We all have the same thought at the same time that we don’t say aloud. This will be the only time Mr. Costello will ever see his grandson. Mrs. C sighs. “OK, dear. He’s down the hall. He probably won’t recognize you. He’s confused, it’s the drugs he’s on. Just agree with whatever he says. Sharon, sweetheart, can you find me something stronger for this coffee in the kitchen?”
I walk with the baby down the hallway and find the open bedroom door. The room is cornflower blue. The midday sunlight reflects off the walls. Everything glows. Mr. Costello is lying on a hospital bed, gaunt, but the breadth of his shoulders, the length of him, are evidence that he was once strong as an ox. His milky eyes are open above his oxygen mask, searching the ceiling for something; a few gray hairs lie barely visible where there used to be a full head of lustrous black. Around his neck is a gold crucifix, identical to his wife’s. He’s so fragile, I’m afraid that the weight of it is crushing his chest.
I lean over and whisper, “Can you hear me, Mr. Costello? John?”
“Who’s this?” He turns his head to me with an effort. I’m not sure if he sees me.
“It’s me, Gigi.”
“Michelle? Is that you?” I stop still for a second, unsure what to say. I don’t want to upset him, I don’t know if he knows that Michelle’s gone, if he forgot, I don’t know what the right thing to say is, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“Michelle, where the hell you been? Your mother’s been frantic. C’mere, let me see you.” I come closer. He moves his mask from his face. His eyes flicker when he sees the baby.
“Oh my God, Michelle! The baby! Oh, honey, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I forgot about the baby. I don’t feel too good, you know? C’mere, let me see him.” I come closer and sit on the edge of the bed. I lift Mr. C’s hand for him and place it on the baby’s face so he can feel the perfect skin. The baby babbles at him.
“Ha, ha, he’s beautiful, beautiful. Oh, Michelle, you did good, kid. I knew you’d be OK in the end. I always believed that. Your mother, well, you know your mother, but I believed in you, sweetheart. Look at this beautiful baby!”
Everything evaporates—the portrait, the coffee, Jimmy’s pictures, my brother in the locket, Mrs. C and the poison in her blood. This is how my baby’s life should have started. With his family happy to see him; loving him without having to be asked. All of the tragedy of our circumstances dissipates in Mr. C’s eyes, shining with pride for his daughter and his grandchild. I’m not the only one who loves him. Someday I’ll tell him that. That his grandfather loved him so much.
“What’s his name? It’s a boy, right? I don’t feel too good, you know? I forgot, I know you told me, but what’s his name?” Mr. Costello’s eyes sparkle from their hollows.
“Mic…” I start to say Michael, the name his foster mother gave him. On all the papers he was Baby Costello because Michelle didn’t give him a name, or if she did then no one knew it. I only used Michael at the doctor’s office, and I called him Little Guy most of the time. There was so much paperwork to do, so many things to figure out, I wanted his name to be meaningful, to give him strength and purpose after everything he’d survived. It felt so huge, naming a person. But after today I think Michael is his middle name. I look at Mr. C and I say, “John, his name is Johnny. I named him after you.”
A tear rolls down the old man’s face, his skin as thin as paper. “Oh! Johnny boy! Hey, Johnny! You were always such a good girl, Michelle. Oh my God, Johnny boy, here, Michelle, take this off me, it’s for Johnny, you give it to Johnny and you tell him that’s from his nonno.” He puts his hand to the gold crucifix and limply but frantically tries to take it off. I lift his head from the pillow. I remember a bird skull Frankie found in the park once, long ago on a summer day. How light it was, I think, as I help John get the chain over his head.
I put the baby next to him on the bed, holding him there with my hand as Mr. Costello gives his grandson the cross. Johnny mouths it, interested in the
cold metal, how it catches the blue light of the room.
“Oh, is he beautiful! Oh, this kid is somethin’ else,” Mr. C says, and I see the baby look at him, a glimmer and a question in his little eye, like, Who are you? before he decides to smile for Nonno. Mr. C laughs and the baby plays with the cross. We sit together like this until the old man falls asleep, holding his grandson’s foot in his wrinkled hand.
3
coffee, lipstick
A Wednesday in August 2016, 10 a.m. London, Grand Euro Star Lodge Hotel, Room 506
When the receptionist said “half bathtub” I thought she meant a half-bath, like a bathroom with no shower, and that was weird for a hotel but, I figured, this place was more like some Euro hostel thing with a shared one in the hall or something. I didn’t mind. Showering wasn’t my priority. But when I open the door to the bathroom there it is, an actual half of a bathtub shoved into the corner. In case you want to relax while kneeling in water or just stand and soak your calves for a while. Europe is so weird sometimes.
A text from Harry dings in:
Gigi where are you? What are you doing? I’m worried. I’ve taken Johnny to camp but I don’t know what to do with Rocky. Where are you? Please call me
What should I say? OK, so he’s pissed, that’s fair. But I don’t like his tone.
Me:
I need to take a shit and then there’s a Real Housewives marathon. Then I’ll come home
Harry:
This isn’t funny. What do I do with Rocky? Who do I call? What are you doing!
An exclamation point. An actual exclamation point. He should know better than to exclamation-point at me.
Me:
Take Rocky to work with you. He’s been following the markets so he’ll be good in a meeting
When I Ran Away Page 4