Stacy shrugs. ‘Maybe somewhere that’s true,’ she says, but she sounds doubtful.
I sip my coffee, squinting outside at her yard with its trampoline and above-ground swimming pool. Mike got a new job six years ago, and he and Stacy moved to a bigger house, better neighborhood. Up and up.
‘I’m just surprised it took her this long,’ Stacy says. ‘I mean, seven years. She’s been bringing Isaac to you for a long time, Heather.’
‘You sound as if it’s been so terrible for her.’
‘Don’t most birth parents lose touch after a little while, even in those so-called open adoptions? I mean, a couple of phone calls and photos, whatever. But, Heather…’ Stacy looks at me seriously, the same look she gave me when she told me I was going to regret all this. And I did. How I did. Still I’m not ready to hear whatever it is she has to say. ‘I think this could actually be a good thing, if you let it be.’ Her voice is gentle, and that makes it worse.
‘A good thing?’ I swallow hard, trying not to show how hurt I am. ‘How on earth could it be a good thing?’
‘Heather…’ Stacy leans forward, coffee cup forgotten, her elbows on the table. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you, but you know, you’ve been kind of… obsessed with Isaac. Since you gave him up.’
‘Obsessed? I have not been obsessed.’
‘A little bit,’ Stacy persists. ‘Come on, even you can admit it.’
‘How can you be a little bit obsessed?’
‘I just mean, these visits. Every single month. Didn’t Grace once call and ask to skip because Isaac was sick?’
‘No, because he was tired.’ I press my lips together. It had been such a lame excuse. He’d had a science fair on Friday night, and then a soccer match on the Saturday morning. He was worn out, Grace said. He couldn’t take much more. She made it sound as if visiting us –me – would be this great big burden he had to bear. And maybe it was for Grace. But it didn’t have to be for Isaac. So I played hardball and said they still had to come. That tired wasn’t a good enough reason.
It was dangerous, playing that game, because I was playing a trump card I didn’t actually have. What if Grace called my bluff? What if she said no, they still weren’t coming? What would I do? What am I going to do now? My head hurts thinking about it all. My heart hurts.
‘But, Heather…’ There is far too much sympathy in my sister’s eyes. ‘Did you honestly think this was going to carry on forever?’
Forever? No, of course not. Nothing lasts forever. I know that, and yet… I hadn’t let myself imagine an endpoint to this. To Isaac and me. A time when I would see him less, and then not at all. Just the thought of it gives my heart a wrench, like a giant hand has reached into my chest. I picture him on my chest, bloody and new. The first time I held him, and he snuffled into my neck. When he was a chubby, complacent baby, balanced on my hip. And then later, five, six, now seven years old. The tentative strides I’ve made, playing Connect Four, talking about Minecraft. I know how little it seems. How little it is. And yet it matters so very much to me. How can I let it go now?
‘Heather,’ Stacy says, and now she sounds stern, ‘you have three beautiful girls who need you as their mother.’
‘They have me as their mother,’ I snap. ‘And if you’re going to, for one second, tell me I’m not a good mom because of one Saturday afternoon a month…’
‘It’s not just the Saturday afternoons.’
‘Yes, it is.’ The words are ripped from me, savagely. ‘Trust me, it is.’
‘But it isn’t,’ Stacy says in that awful, gentle voice. ‘I’m not even there and I feel it. The week before he visits you’re hyped up on plans, rushing out to buy special ingredients or presents, whatever. And the week after you’re down in the dumps, moping around—’
‘I’m not moping—’
‘That’s how it feels, Heather. Mom’s said the same thing—’
‘Mom? Mom’s met Isaac once.’ A couple of years ago, for his fourth birthday. I had all my family over, and Grace wasn’t pleased. She didn’t say anything, acted like it was so nice for Isaac to meet his birth relatives, but I could tell. I can always tell when I’ve pissed her off.
‘This isn’t about Isaac so much as it’s about you, and how you are. How everyone around you feels you are. Ask Kevin if you don’t believe me.’
‘You’ve talked to Kevin about this?’
‘No.’ Stacy sighs. ‘But ask him and see what he says.’
But I don’t want to do that, not yet.
When I get back home, the kitchen is a mess, music is blaring from Emma and Amy’s room, and Lucy is in tears.
‘Amy called me a little fucker,’ she wails, and I briefly close my eyes.
‘Amy!’ I bawl, knowing my daughter can hear me even over the blaring rock music with its pulsing techno beat. No answer. ‘Get out here!’ Still nothing. ‘Now!’