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Now it’s quiet; Emma is in her room, studying, and Amy is out. Where, I don’t know. I’ve stopped asking, which I know is no good thing considering she’s only fifteen. Lucy is in bed, although she’s likely to wander out asking for a snack or a drink of water at least two or three times. But Kevin and I are as alone as we’re ever going to be.
‘It’s a nice night,’ I say. ‘Do you want to sit outside?’
Kevin looks surprised; it’s not something I’d normally suggest. But he follows me wordlessly outside, the screen door slapping against the weathered frame as we step onto the back porch with the swing I was once so proud of.
Now the chain is rusted, the wicker fraying, and the porch is filled with junk – an old plastic tricycle, weather-beaten and broken; a rusty bike; a hamster cage from a brief, unfortunate period of having a pet; a plastic tub of withered begonias. We should throw it all out, but somehow we never do.
I sit gingerly on the bench, just in case it breaks. It creaks in protest but holds my weight. I swing a little, enjoying the night air, the feeling of calm. Our yard is small and scrubby, with a rusted chain-link fence separating it from our neighbor’s, who has a Great Dane that prowls alongside it all the time, meaning the girls never used to like to go out and play. Now they don’t want to, anyway. But the dog, for once, is inside, and dusk cloaks the yard, making it look less bare.
‘Join me,’ I say, and Kev looks at the swing askance.
‘I don’t want to break that thing.’
‘You won’t,’ I say, although our combined weight together might. He just shakes his head and lowers himself onto the weathered porch step, knees resting on his elbows.
‘So,’ he says, and I know he knows I asked him out here for a reason.
‘Grace talked to me on Saturday. She… she wants to slow down Isaac’s visits.’
‘Slow down?’
‘To once every three months. And after a while, once every six months. And after that…’ I can’t say it, even now.
‘Never,’ Kevin finishes flatly, and I nod.
‘What do you think?’ I ask quietly, my voice little more than a whisper, as he just sits there and stares out into the night.
‘What do you think?’ he asks eventually.
‘We could get a lawyer…’ I begin.
Kevin shakes his head. ‘We can’t do that to Isaac,’ he says, and I love him for saying that. I also know he’s right.
‘I know. I wouldn’t want it to end up in a big fight. I never wanted to fight with Grace.’ Although I’m not sure that’s even true. I haven’t exactly been trying to get along with her all these years, have I? To make it easier for her? The realization both humbles and confuses me, because for so long I’ve been feeling sanctimoniously right, the only one who deserves to feel aggrieved.
I haven’t thought that much about how Grace might feel. I haven’t wanted to, because deep down, beneath the veneer of civility we share, I’ve always felt the burning injustice that she has my son. And that, I realize, is not fair to her… or to Isaac. I made the choice seven years ago. I made it, no matter how beaten into a corner I felt.
‘So that’s it, then?’ Kev asks, and I nod slowly.
‘She’s coming over on Friday. I’ll tell her then.’ The knowledge rests inside of me, a weight that is both crippling and in a small, still way, oddly, almost peaceful. It will be over. I will mourn and grieve and wail, but it will finally be over.
We’re both silent, the evening warm and still and quiet. ‘Kev… will you miss him?’ The words are an ache. I have to ask; I have to know.
Kev turns to look at me, but I can’t make out his expression in the dark. ‘Of course I will,’ he says, his voice a low throb, and I believe him. For a second I have a glimpse into my husband’s heart, and the pain he might be hiding. He doesn’t love Isaac the way I do, perhaps, the way I’ve let myself, like a firestorm inside me, burning everything up. Kev has kept himself from that, and that’s probably a good thing, a healthy thing, but he cares, and just like me, he knows this will hurt.
Friday comes all too soon. I get home from work and fly around, cleaning the house, putting out cookies, God only knows why. I want to impress Grace, when it’s far too late for that. But it feels important somehow, to show her that I’m a good mother, a good person. Good enough for her son, even if she never thought so. I tell myself I’m going to be dignified and kind, that I’m not going to cry. Finish strong. End well. But I’m not sure I can.
Two o’clock comes and goes. I check my phone, but there are no voicemails, no texts. It’s utterly unlike Grace to be a no-show; with our monthly visits she’s always confirmed, always texted if she was going to be even a few minutes late. Right now I realize how much I should have appreciated her reluctant thoughtfulness. All those visits. Dozens and dozens, and she showed up every time, gritting her teeth maybe, but still. She came. I never even thanked her, not really. But where is she now?
I call her cell phone, but it switches to voicemail. I leave a message, and then I wait some more. It’s getting near three o’clock, and the girls will be coming off the bus soon. Grace and I can’t have this conversation with them around, and then I realize we’re not going to have this conversation at all. Grace stood me up, and I’m not sure whether to feel resentment or relief. I ping between the two, my emotions all over the place because I wasn’t ready and yet somehow I want it all to be over.
The girls burst into the house, Amy flouncing in, wearing a full mask of make-up. Since I took away her phone she hasn’t even hidden how much she makes herself up, and I haven’t had the strength to protest. I haven’t given her phone back, either. Sometimes parenting is nothing more than a ceasefire.
Emma slips in, dropping her backpack by the door before she slides by me with a quick smile and gets a glass of milk. Amy practically rips the hinges off her bedroom door as she disappears inside without a word. I think of following her, but then Lucy comes home, upset about some stupid boy in class who’s teased her for reading ‘a baby book’, and I try to soothe her while I start dinner.
When Kev comes home from work he raises his eyebrows in silent question, and I shake my head. ‘She didn’t come.’
Later, when we’re getting ready for bed, he asks, ‘What do you think happened?’
