A Mother's Goodbye

I try to remember if my father seemed tired or in pain. Was he hiding it from me? He swore he hadn’t but six weeks, and at diagnosis the doctors said the cancer had already spread to his stomach and lymph nodes. He must have known. He must have at least suspected. And I know he never would have wanted to worry me. He would have waited until the last possible moment to say anything, and while I understand that protective impulse, it doesn’t feel completely fair. I didn’t have enough time to adjust, to accept; to begin to grieve. I’m still half-expecting him to call, to hear his message on my voicemail. Hey, Gracie. I’m coming into the city. Want to grab a bite to eat? Never again.

In the background of Ben’s home, wherever it is these days, a baby cries. I stiffen.

‘Is that…?’

‘My daughter.’ Ben almost sounds apologetic. ‘I got married a year ago.’

‘You did?’ The words burst out of me, high, bright, and false, like the sudden squawk of a parrot. ‘That’s great. Congratulations.’ This call now feels like a huge mistake. ‘Congratulations,’ I say again, because I’m drunk and I can’t think of what else to say, but even so I’m not ready to get off the phone.

‘I’m sorry, Grace, but I should go. Lauren’s visiting her mother and Isabella sounds like she needs me…’

Lauren. Isabella. I’m picturing warm-hued scenes of cozy domesticity, a king-sized bed, a baby kicking chubby legs and blowing bubbles.

I’m not maternal, never have been. I threw that biological clock right out the window when I started at Harrow and Heath, pulling sixty- and seventy-hour weeks. But in this moment, when loneliness is eating me from the inside out, I crave a connection with someone. I think of my dad, telling me how he was never lonely as long as he had me. I think of how we were a team, how even when I missed my mom, I never felt as if I were missing out. Dad and I were enough.

I want that closeness with someone; I want to bring someone into the world and show them how it works. I want to love and be loved, and I crave it so badly I feel breathless with longing. A gasp escapes me, a noise that sounds ragged and needy, so unlike me, and yet completely encapsulating me in this moment.

‘Sorry,’ Ben says again, and I realize he is saying goodbye.

‘No, please don’t worry.’ I’m trying to sound brisk, and clearly failing. Even drunk I know that. ‘Please, it’s fine. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have called.’

‘If you need to talk…’ Ben begins, and I soften at the thought that he still might want to talk to me. Help me. Perhaps I’m not quite as alone as I thought I was. ‘There are counselors,’ he finishes, and my heart hardens right back up.

Counselors. Right. Because if I need a sympathetic ear, a friendly face, I’d better pay someone for the pleasure. I disconnect the call without saying goodbye.

And then I stare at the ceiling, my eyes dry and gritty, the wine swirling in my stomach, and I ache. I ache.

Three

HEATHER

‘I never thought I’d be here.’ I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the words pop out anyway. It’s been two weeks since I talked to Kev about the baby, and we haven’t spoken about it since. If he’s waiting for me to do something, I don’t know what it is. I’d think he’d forgotten, but I see him look at me sideways sometimes, with a combination of guilt and accusation. I have to bite my tongue not to remind him that it takes two.

In the last two weeks I’ve called Planned Parenthood twice, and I got as far as making the appointment before I got scared. I called back to cancel, my hand shaking on the phone, afraid I might get some awful follow-up call that Kev would answer, and then what?

Nobody but Kev knows I’m pregnant. I pretend I don’t know; I don’t want to think about this baby. I can’t bear to, because then it’s real and what I’m doing, what I’m thinking of doing, feels awful. Unforgiveable. Worse, in some bizarre way, than an abortion.

‘Most women don’t expect to be in this position.’ The woman behind the desk – Tina, she said her name was – smiles at me. I don’t like her smile, kind as I know it’s meant to be. It’s too full of sympathy, of pity, and right now that’s the last thing I need. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t poor and desperate. We both know that.

I take a deep breath, my fingernails digging into the padded armrests as my stomach churns. I’m afraid I might actually be sick. ‘So how does this whole thing work, anyway?’ I ask. I sound belligerent, and so I take a deep breath and expel it, willing my stomach to settle. ‘Adoption, I mean.’ The words falls into the room like something heavy dropped on the floor. Thud.

The possibility came to me a week ago, when I was at my parents’. Mom’s MS had flared up and my dad needed a trip out to the bar or Meadowlands Racing Track, it didn’t matter which. He goes, and either my sister Stacy or I pick up the slack. That’s how it has always been.

I started cleaning up, taking half-drunk cups of cold coffee and overflowing ashtrays to the kitchen, while Mom positioned her wheelchair in front of the TV and changed the channel from Fox News, my dad’s favorite, to QVC – hers.

‘Come sit beside me, Lucy,’ she ordered, and Lucy obeyed, perching on the edge of the wheelchair, my mom’s arm around her little shoulders. ‘It’s time for Mary Beth’s Kitchen.’

While they listened to Mary Beth’s instructions on how to make a lemon meringue pie, I started on the kitchen, which was a mess – yesterday’s dishes piled in the sink; that morning’s on the table. Everything felt sticky, and the air smelled stale, of fried food and cigarette smoke, making my stomach heave.

I dumped a bunch of grease-splattered plates in the sink and that’s when I caught sight of the free newspaper my mom always kept around in stacks, mainly to clip the coupons she never remembered to use. It was turned to the classifieds, a list of pathetic personals and overpriced offers for used furniture, and then—

Are You Pregnant?

I pushed some more dirty dishes aside and picked up the paper. The ad had a photo of a heavily pregnant woman cradling her belly, smiling down at her baby bump, all in hazy soft focus.

Are You Pregnant? Confused?

She didn’t look confused, but I knew I was. My mind kept going in circles, wondering how we could make it work, where the money would come from to keep this baby. To keep our house, the kids fed, everything.