A Mother's Goodbye

Grace is silent for a long moment. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘If there wasn’t… then of course we’d step up. Of course we would, no question.’

‘Thank you.’

We’re both quiet, listening to the sound of the tide coming and going, coming and going. ‘Then…?’ I finally ask.

Grace lets out a huff of sound that is something close to a laugh. ‘I never imagined this happening.’

‘I know.’

‘I thought you’d jump on it, to be honest. I was so sure you would. I’d already looked into how my lawyer would manage Isaac’s trust fund, and I was thinking about whether he should continue at school or not, commuting from New Jersey…’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I know this is unexpected. And truthfully, I was picturing how it could work. I had this image in my head, but it never seemed to fit, for anyone. I just wanted it to.’ I sniff, trying to hold back the dam of emotion. ‘Of course I’d always want to be there for Isaac. If he ever wanted to see me, or visit, anything…’ I can hardly believe I’m sayi

ng the words. No more monthly visits. No more precious Saturdays.

‘Of course,’ Grace says. She still sounds disbelieving, and no wonder. After all these years.

‘This is killing me,’ I admit with a ragged laugh that’s halfway to a sob. Then I realize what I’ve said. ‘Oh no, Grace. I’m sorry…’

She laughs, and it sounds like tears too. ‘Trust me, I know what you mean.’

I stare out into the darkness, and part of me, a huge, painful part, wants to take it all back. I want to say, forget everything, I’ve changed my mind, I want him. I want him, I want him, I want him. The words work their way up my throat, crowd my mouth, bursting to get out. I have to bite my lips to keep from saying something I know I’ll regret.

Because no matter how much it hurts now, no matter how wrong it feels, I know I’m doing the right thing. The hardest thing. Just like before.

Twenty-Nine

GRACE

After all that. After all that, Heather doesn’t want him. Except I know she does, terribly, and that’s what makes what she said, what she’s choosing, all the more unbelievable – and admirable. In a different way, she’s giving him to me all over again, and I am humbled by her offer. Her sacrifice.

That night I lie in bed, my mind hazy and already starting to drift from the heavy meds I’m on, thinking about what Heather said. What she’s willing to give up. When she asked if there was someone else, my mind leapt to Stella. Stella, who had already half-offered, whose son was Isaac’s best friend. It made so much sense, and yet I hadn’t let myself think of it because of Heather. Because of what I felt I owed her, after all these years.

I picture Isaac living there, with his best friend and his family, amidst the happy, privileged chaos of their lives. I think he’ll be happy. At least, I hope he will, that he could be, with time.

But is Stella willing to take him on? I know what she offered before, but it was in the spur of an emotional moment. I can’t take it for granted. And the real question that burrows right down into my soul is should Heather still have him?

She’s his mother. She’s connected to him by blood and bone and deep, instinctual love. Her three girls are his sisters, not step or half or anything other than total and complete. The six of them could be a family again, the family I know she’s always wanted to have. And they could be comfortable financially, thanks to my life insurance. I’d have to put some checks and balances in place, yes, fine, but they would definitely be better off than they are now. Why isn’t she jumping all over that? Should I have made it more clear, what I was willing to provide? To give not just to Isaac, but to Heather and her family? Isaac’s family. I fall asleep before I can think about it any more, much less come up with any answers.

I wake up the next morning and my vision is so blurry I can barely make out my hand in front of my face. My stomach heaves and my mind spins when I try to rise from the bed. I take a few minutes, keep my breathing even; try not to feel terrified. Every time I think I’ve become used to this slow, or not-so-slow, descent, I realize I haven’t. Not at all. And losing my sight is not something I feel remotely ready for.

My vision clears enough for me to be able to get dressed, but it takes forever just to do the simplest tasks – put on yoga pants, brush my teeth. I look in the mirror and I can make out new hair growing on my scalp, a light brown fuzz, like a baby’s. It amazes me that even as my body shuts down, new life grows. There’s hope in that, somewhere, but all I can think is that my hair follicles have not got the memo about what’s happening.

This new raft of symptoms makes me realize I can’t put off any longer the one thing I’ve truly been dreading to do: telling Isaac.

Late that afternoon, after a nap to restore what little strength I have left, I walk with him out to the beach. It’s a perfect day, blue skies, lemon-yellow sun, endless sand and sea. I want to soak it all up but I’m dreading this too much to do more than notice.

We sit for a while as he makes one of his enormous creations – towers and walls and canals he scoops out with his hands. I could watch him forever. If the rest of my life was just sitting here on the sand with him, I would be happy. An eternity of this.

He looks up at me, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. ‘Mom?’

My son is smart. He knows something is up. Of course he does. He’s known for a while, even if he doesn’t want to guess or to be told the truth, any more than I want to tell it.

‘Isaac,’ I say, my throat already aching, ‘I need to talk to you about something. Something important.’

He puts down his shovel and waits. He knows it’s serious. He knows.