A Mother's Goodbye

The next few days pass in a blur of grief and activity; I go back to work, I tell Kev about Amy. He is stoic and accepting, as I knew he’d be. We arrange for a visit to the doctor. I sit with her in the examining room, both of us pale and tense as the doctor confirms her pregnancy and says she is about sixteen weeks along.

Sixteen weeks. Already in the second trimester, nearly halfway through, and she still looks so slim. She could find out if it’s a boy or girl soon. Feel it kick.

I hold her hand as we walk out of the doctor’s office and then sit in the car. Rain drums against the windows; the weather has turned. Amy stares into space, dazed.

‘Amy?’ I ask gently. ‘Have you thought about what you want to do?’ She shakes her head. I rest my hands on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. ‘Sixteen weeks is pretty far along. You’ll feel it kick soon.’ Her lips tremble and she presses them together.

‘I guess… I guess I should give it up for adoption.’ She glances at me swiftly, searchingly, without bitterness or accusation. ‘Like you did.’

Does my daughter finally have a glimmer of the difficulty of the choice I made, have lived out every day since? ‘You have time to think about it,’ I say. ‘To decide what is right and best for you as well as the baby. You don’t need to say for sure right now.’

She nods, and I take another deep breath, let it out slowly. Then I start to drive home.

Three days later we all dress in our somber best for Grace’s funeral. Stella organized it all, and called me to let me know when and where – a big, beautiful church on Fifth Avenue. We file in quietly, sit in the back. There are more people there than I expected – neighbors, parents from school, colleagues from work, or so I assume. A whole life I never knew about, people who care, and yet I was the one who was there in the end. It feels like an honor now, a privilege.

We watch silently as Stella and Eric come in, their two boys behind them, and then Isaac. He looks so small in his dark suit, his face pale, his eyes serious. My heart squeezes with love and pain and I want to reach out to him so much my fingers twitch. Kev reaches for my hand and holds it tightly.

I don’t remember much of the service. A priest, a prayer, a poem. Thoughtful silences, singing, kneeling. The words blur by as I stare at Grace’s coffin, shrouded in white, a single wreath of white roses on top. Grace. I miss her. I miss her more than I ever expected to, and I know I will feel that ache for a long time.

After the service, we circulate with cups of coffee and paper-thin sandwiches cut into triangles, the girls sneaking looks on their phones as we smile and nod, exchange bland greetings with stra

ngers. I know it’s hard for them. We don’t quite fit here, and yet we belong.

Then Stella comes up to me and Kev, taking both of my hands in hers. ‘How are you?’ she asks. She looks gaunt and grief-stricken, dressed in an unobtrusive black suit. ‘I’ve been thinking about you so much, Heather…’

‘I’ve been thinking about you, too. And Isaac.’

‘He seems okay.’ She tries to smile, but sniffs instead. ‘I know it will be a very long road, and it’s all so hard, but it’s good. If that makes sense.’

‘It does.’

She squeezes my hands. ‘You shouldn’t have sat in the back. We’d saved a pew for you all, up front…’

‘It’s okay.’ I squeeze her hands back before slipping mine from hers. ‘But thank you.’

‘It’s you I should thank. For being there for Grace, and for Isaac…’ She pauses uncertainly, and I know what she is trying to say. She is thanking me for giving up Isaac. For letting go of my son. ‘Do you want to see him? Talk to him, privately, I mean?’

Kev and I exchange looks. ‘You go,’ he says softly, and I gulp. Nod.

I find Isaac half-hiding by the trays of sandwiches, scuffing his shoes – they look shiny and new – on the floor. I smile at him.

‘Hey, Isaac.’ I touch his shoulder. ‘I wanted to see how you were doing.’ He blinks at me uncertainly. ‘Shall we go somewhere a little quieter?’ He nods, and I take him by the hand and lead him outside to the foyer of the church, and then to a dim little room off the side with dusty chairs and piles of old hymnals. It smells of incense and candle wax. We perch on the chairs and I smile at him, or try to.

‘How are you?’ I ask quietly, and he hunches his shoulders. ‘It’s hard, I know. It will be hard for a while. A long while.’ I wish I had more words, words that would help and heal, but all I can offer is this. ‘I just want you to know that I’ll always be here for you, Isaac,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘No matter what. If you ever want to call or email or visit, whatever, all you have to do is tell Stella and I’ll be there.’ I squeeze his shoulder lightly. ‘I’ll be there, Isaac. I promise. Always.’ He nods slowly, unblinking.

Gently I draw him into my arms, and he rests his head against my shoulder. I close my eyes as I memorize the feel of him; he fits under my chin. His skinny arms wrap around my waist. We stay like that for a few seconds, and then Isaac starts to wriggle away. I let him go.

He smiles at me, a funny, lopsided smile, just like Kevin’s, and I smile back. ‘I love you,’ I say, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever said it to him. He nods, silently accepting, and then I rise from the chair and we head back to the crowd.

A few moments later, with Isaac running back to Stella, I find Kev and take his hand. He squeezes my hand and I nod. I’m okay. Amazingly, I’m okay.

We find the girls, gather them up. Lucy clings to my hand as Amy and Emma murmur together. My family. I say goodbye to Stella, and she grabs my hand. ‘You know, if you want to see him, anytime… I mean…’

I nod. I know what she means. ‘You know where to find me,’ I say. And so does Isaac.

For a few moments I let myself imagine a future where I’m involved in Isaac’s life. We all are. Where Isaac stops by just to say hi, or we have Thanksgiving dinner together, a family of sorts. When we share the little moments as well as the milestones. Maybe, in this new, unexpected world, grief-touched but still wondrous, it could happen. Maybe it will. I will let myself hope.

Holding Kev’s hand, the girls walking along beside us, I step out of the church and into the sunshine.