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‘I don’t know. Open adoption agreements aren’t automatically legally binding, but a sympathetic judge could enforce it, if he or she thought it was in Isaac’s best interest.’
‘But surely they wouldn’t…?’
‘I don’t know.’ I feel my stomach clench with the awful what-if. ‘Someone might see Heather as the underdog in this situation…’ And me as the merciless career woman, who employs nannies to take care of her son, who doesn’t want to spare a single afternoon a month. If Heather got a good lawyer, it could go badly. Very badly.
‘You can’t let that happen,’ Stella says with surprising fierceness. ‘Look, if you need legal advice…’
‘I’ve consulted an adoption lawyer, but thanks.’ I smile, feeling better for having someone to offload to. ‘I mean that. You’ve been great, listening to me moan. And Heather’s not that bad, honestly.’ I semi-regret what I said, fighting a prickling sense of shame at badmouthing Heather. ‘She gave me Isaac, after all, and she’s a good mom.’ Although I remember Amy’s smirk, the way she sashays about the house, and I wonder if Heather is completely in control of that situation. What would Isaac be like, in that household? I can hardly bear to think about it.
‘Trust me, Grace, you’re not moaning.’ Stella rises from her stool and starts chucking some things onto a cutting board. ‘Why don’t you stay for dinner? It’s just paella, but you’re more than welcome…’
‘Okay.’ I smile, happiness unfurling inside me at the invitation. I’ve stayed for dinner a few times, but it always feels like a privilege. This is the world I live in now. The loneliness that once ate at me like a canker is finally, forever gone. I stand up, and my head swims a bit from the alcohol. ‘Let me set the table.’
We have a wonderfully pleasant evening, the boys boisterous but not too much, Eric genial, opening a bottle of wine even though I really don’t need anything more to drink. Stella is as bubbly as ever, managing to effortlessly whip up a delicious meal, keep the conversation sparkling and light, and also keep the boys – all three – in check. I’m in awe of how effortless she makes it seem, although when I say as much when we’re clearing up in the kitchen, she rolls her eyes.
‘Effortless? It’s the margaritas.’ She rests her elbows on the sink, her expression turning thoughtful. ‘I know I’m lucky, like I said before. But no matter what, parenting is hard. It’s completely full-time, isn’t it? Even if you have a job. Especially if you do.’
‘Relentless,’ I agree, thinking of the worries always circulating in my mind like some ever-revolving in-tray of concern: what Isaac is eating, who his friends are, whether he’s done his homework, the eczema on his elbow.
Stella nods in commiseration. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘relentless. And yet we wouldn’t have it any other way, would we?’
Eventually Isaac and I leave, with promises of coming again soon, and also vague invitations to come to France one summer. Stella is even more expansive than usual, hugging me and kissing both my cheeks as I leave.
‘This was so much fun. Please, please call me if you need anything. And I’ll definitely take Isaac on Tuesday and Thursdays.’
‘Thank you. You’re amazing.’ I feel mellow and happy as Isaac and I walk up Park Avenue. It’s a warm spring night, and Isaac skips ahead while I stroll slowly, enjoying the cherry blossoms, the balmy evening air, letting the pleasantness of the evening linger like a fine wine.
My mellowness continues for the rest of the evening, as I sit with Isaac as he does his homework, correcting his spellings and helping him with his four times tables. Afterward we snuggle up in bed as I read him three chapters of The Indian in the Cupboard.
After he’s tucked up in bed, I end up getting photos out that I’ve never managed to put into books, and organizing them by year. Isaac as a two-year-old, chubby and red-cheeked. Isaac as a preschooler, with a backpack bigger than he is and a pie-eating grin.
There are no photos of our visits to the McClearys, although I know Heather takes lots of pictures when we’re there. There are a few up on her wall, above the TV. Her holding Isaac as a baby; a picture Kevin took of them playing Connect Four. For a second I picture us comparing our photo books, our different experiences of Isaac and his life, my play by play versus Heather’s single snapshots.
Then I push the thought away. It’s almost over. I honestly believe that. I’m feeling optimistic, humming in the shower I take before I go to bed, feeling almost happy, like for once I can see the future stretching ahead of me, shining and bright, without Heather in it. Isaac and I will have all our weekends back; we can go away, to Boston or Philadelphia, see the turning leaves in Vermont. It feels as if my whole life will be freed up, even though I know it’s only one weekend a month. And yet it’s been so much more than that, always hanging over me, always there. Without it, the horizon feels expansive, limitless.
I sing out loud as I rinse the shampoo from my hair, the soap from my body. ‘I’m Walking on Sunshine’.
And that’s when I find the lump.
Eighteen
HEATHER
A whole week until I have to talk to Grace. Until I have to start to give Isaac up. I’ve made my decision, I feel it in my leaden gut, but it weighs me down so much I start to doubt. To wonder if there is some way to make it work, a way that even Grace would be happy with.
What if Isaac came here by himself? I’d pick him up and drive him back, make it as easy as possible, but even as I’m thinking of it I know she’d never agree. She’s always watching me during their visits, jumping in to correct or to limit or just to rain on my damn parade. That’s one thing she wouldn’t want to give up, the control she still gets to exert.
What if I met them in New York? But then Kevin and the girls wouldn’t be part of the visits, and I don’t like that. It would breed more resentment, greater hostility, and that’s the last thing any of us needs.
&
nbsp; So what if we had a visit every three months, but it was for longer? A whole day? A weekend? I can already picture Grace’s pinched face, her thin lips. She’s not going to agree to anything. I feel it. I know it. This is the beginning of the end, and deep down I can’t even blame her.
That’s what hurts the most; that despite the injustice that burns through me, as well as the longing, there is a feeling deep inside me that Grace’s request is actually reasonable and worse, fair. That I gave Isaac up and she’s kept coming for seven years, nearly every single month without complaint, and eventually, like Stacy said, there had to be an endpoint. And now it’s here and I need to make my peace. I know that, I do, but it’s so hard. So, so hard.
On Monday night, I talk to Kevin. I should have told him earlier. I should have involved him from the beginning, from the moment Grace talked to me about tapering off Isaac’s visits, but I resisted because I was afraid of his response. I was afraid he might breathe a big sigh of relief and say finally, and that would just about break my heart.
I know Kevin doesn’t enjoy the visits with Isaac the way I do. Of course I know. I crave them, I wait for them breathlessly, while he seems only to endure. Sometimes, once in a while, he seems to enjoy being with Isaac, but most of the time he’s silent in that surly way that puts both me and Grace on edge; we’re united in that, at least.
