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GRACE
Seven years later
‘Come on, Isaac.’ I try to smile, my voice as upbeat as I can make it as I stand by the front door, a pair of sneakers in my hand. ‘Put your shoes on. We’re going to be late.’
Isaac drags his feet along the carpet and lets out a theatrical sigh, his bangs sliding into his face. I keep meaning to take him for a haircut, but somehow I’ve never got around to it.
‘Do I have to go?’
‘You know you do, bud.’ I try to pitch my voice between sympathy and cheerfulness, but it’s hard. I dread these visits as much as Isaac does, although I try not to show it. ‘Come on.’ I ruffle his hair and he ducks his head away from me, something that’s only started recently. My little boy doesn’t want cuddles anymore. ‘Maybe we’ll stop for ice cream on the way back.’ I’ve resorted to bribery, but that happened a while ago when it comes to dealing with Saturday afternoons.
‘Okay.’ He takes the sneakers and I try to relax. I’m always tense on the fourth Saturday of the month: the day we visit Aunt Heather.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Seven years later I can’t help but still think it. A closed adoption, we both agreed on it, way back when. Easier, cleaner, safer, simpler, no matter what anyone might spout about making an open adoption work, how everybody wins.
When Tina told me that awful first morning that Heather might have changed her mind I felt both winded with shock and yet also completely unsurprised. Hadn’t a dark, frightened part of me been waiting for this, bracing for it? My response was to go into action mode, treating it like a work crisis because that was the only way I could deal with my fear.
‘I need a lawyer,’ I snapped at Tina.
‘I can recommend someone, of course, but I’d suggest you give Heather a little time. This is a fairly normal reaction…’
I shook my head, scrabbling for my phone after I’d dropped it on the hospital floor. The screen was badly cracked but it still worked. ‘I’ve got someone already.’ I’d engaged a lawyer when I’d started this whole process, but I’d hoped I wouldn’t need her until the official adoption took place, until I was in court, my daughter in my arms, everything needing only to be signed and sealed.
‘Grace…’ Tina placed a hand on my arm, but I shook her off. I felt like she’d become the enemy. Maybe she’d been that all along, and I just hadn’t realized. She would be telling Heather her rights, reminding her she could change her mind whenever she wanted. I was done with Tina.
‘Why do we have to go?’ Isaac asks as he fumbles with his shoelaces. He asks the same question every time.
‘You know why, Isaac.’ Years ago, I explained who Heather was, but I’m not sure Isaac really understood. I still don’t think he understands; the McClearys are so different from him. From us. And I admit, I haven’t pressed the point too much. Going to Heather’s house once a month is all the blood money I’m willing to pay.
Seven years of visits, barely missing one, because I felt I owed it to Heather. I made her a promise when Isaac was only three days old, when we were both strung out on emotion and fatigue, everything feeling fragile. I promised, and Heather had a lawyer seal the deal.
As we wait for the elevator my neighbor Eileen opens her door and gives us a smile. I swear she waits by her door for the sound of ours opening. Her eyesight’s nearly completely gone now and her husband is bedridden.
/> Sometimes Isaac visits with them, plays Chinese checkers and comes home with old-fashioned, boiled sweets in sticky wrappers. Sometimes, when I remember, I try to drop off something, some cookies or one of the gossip magazines that I know are Eileen’s guilty pleasure, even though she can barely see the pictures now. We’ve come a long way from the days when I didn’t know her name. As for Eileen, Isaac is almost like the grandchild she never had.
‘Going out?’ she asks, as usual, and Isaac looks away from her without saying anything. Gently I put a hand on his shoulder and steer him back to face her. He’s an introvert, always has been, quiet and shy, like I was when I was young.
‘Yes, we’re going to visit some friends in New Jersey,’ I say. Although Eileen knows Isaac is adopted, I haven’t explained about Heather to her, or anyone. It’s too complicated, too unwelcome, and I know I’d just moan and bitch about it anyway, which doesn’t feel fair.
‘Have fun,’ Eileen chirps. ‘Come see me when you get back, okay, Isaac?’
Isaac nods and we step into the elevator. He lets out a gusty sigh and slumps against the wall, scuffing his sneakers on the floor. He’s shot up this year, and I notice that his jeans are about an inch too short. When did that happen?
Last week we had his seventh birthday party at The Gaga Center. I hadn’t even known about gaga, a form of dodgeball, before Isaac became interested in it at school. He went to a Hebrew Montessori until this year, when he started at the all-boys Buckley. The party was with boys from his old school and just one from Buckley, Will, who is Isaac’s new best friend. His mom Stella is mine; Will and Isaac clicked on the first day of school, and so did Stella and I.
With work, I don’t see her as much as I’d like to, but we keep in touch via WhatsApp and texts, and occasionally we even manage a night out – girly cocktails, or a sappy movie. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good girlfriend, someone who I’m not in competition with, because truth be told there’s no way I could beat Stella in the mommy stakes and so I don’t even try. I just soak up her cheerful energy and humor. She is a stay-at-home mom with a husband who makes millions, two sweet boys and a list of charities she volunteers for as long as my arm. I don’t even feel envious, because Stella’s too nice for that. At least, I don’t feel it that often.
The doors ping open directly onto the underground parking garage and Isaac races out.
‘Isaac,’ I call. ‘Cars.’
He slows down for a millisecond, and then keeps on skipping ahead. Testing me, another new development, and one I don’t feel emotionally prepared for.
That first morning I left Tina to call my lawyer, Eleanor. She was calm, no-nonsense, and I felt my heart rate start to slow when I heard her speak so practically.
‘In agency adoptions the birth mother can’t surrender the child until seventy-two hours after the birth,’ she told me. ‘It won’t be considered valid beforehand.’
‘So she has time to bond.’ I pictured Heather, cradling my son. My son, whom I hadn’t even seen yet, wasn’t allowed to see. A ragged gasp escaped me.
