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‘I should have known,’ Yelena insists darkly, and then she walks out of the room. I officially hate her.
Another week drags by, and then the inevitable happens: Yelena calls in to say she can’t work on a Friday, because of some appointment or other. She gives me proper notice and agrees to take the day unpaid; there’s nothing I can do. Stella is away for the weekend with her family and there’s no after-school club, because it’s the Memorial Day weekend, and the entire city is evacuating. I tell myself I can get in a cab and get Isaac from school. Surely I can manage that.
But at two o’clock I am hanging over the toilet, dry-heaving into its porcelain depths, utterly wretched. I can’t get in a taxi. I can’t even get up from where I’m half-lying.
And there is only one person I can think of in the whole world, who might be free to pick up Isaac, and more than willing to do it.
I call Heather.
Twenty
HEATHER
My mind is spinning as I drive into the city. It’s Memorial Day weekend, and thankfully the traffic is going entirely in the other direction. Getting home is going to be a pain, but I don’t care. When Grace called me, sounding tired and desperate, of course I only had one answer to give.
The very fact that she called me when I know she wouldn’t want to, that I’d be the last person she’d want to call, both alarms and pleases me. Something must be really wrong.
I find Buckley School easily enough, an impressive-looking building on East Seventy-Third Street, and then I not so easily find a parking space two blocks away. As I head up the school steps I feel underdressed in my black skirt and plain white blouse, both from Walmart.
Everyone here is in designer clothes, the kind where the labels are obvious. Mothers swan up and down the stairs, heavy handbags dangling from their skinny wrists, faces made up, hair expertly highlighted.
I push past them, practically rude in my desire to get to Isaac. To see him. I’m ten minutes late, and he’s been taken to the office, sitting in a chair, kicking his legs, looking glum. He isn’t surprised to see me, because Grace already called them, but he doesn’t look happy, either. He’s unsmiling, wary, and my heart lurches.
‘Hi, Isaac.’ I want to hug him but I don’t.
‘Identification, please?’ The office secretary holds her hand out, snooty and authoritative. I blink.
‘Identification…?’
‘I need to confirm your identification. You are Heather McCleary?’
‘Yes.’ I am annoyed; she’s acting like I’m some kind of criminal. Would a ‘Hello, nice to meet you’ be too much to ask? I fumble through my purse, my hands practically shaking in my nervousness. I don’t even know why I’m nervous. Seven years on and I’m finally doing something for Isaac, for my son, other than seeing him on a strained Saturday afternoon. I should be excited. Thrilled.
I finally find my driver’s license and thrust it at the sniffy woman; she inspects it thoroughly, as if checking it’s real. I start to feel angry, and then she hands it back.
I turn to Isaac. ‘I have my car.’
He nods silently and picks up his backpack, which looks huge for a boy his age and size. I realize he hasn’t spoken since I’ve seen him. He remains silent as we walk out of the school and down the block. It’s a beautiful spring afternoon, not too hot yet, and this block of elegant brownstones with flowerboxes and wrought-iron railings is serene and beautiful, unlike any street I know back in Elizabeth. I feel slightly awed by it all.
‘Do you want me to take that?’ I ask, and reach for Isaac’s backpack. He shrugs it off without a word, and I hitch it over my shoulder. I shoot him curious, searching glances; he’s wearing his school uniform, khaki pants and a blue polo shirt. Shiny shoes. He’s had his hair cut, pretty short. He looks different.
‘Are you taking me home?’ he asks when we reach my car.
‘Yes. Gr—your mom couldn’t pick you up, so she asked me to.’ I speak lightly, as if this is a totally normal event, as if I haven’t dropped everything and driven an hour simply to do this one small favor – not for Grace, for my son.
I unlock the car and Isaac slips into the back seat. I toss his backpack on the passenger seat and then get in, wishing I could prolong this moment. Could I suggest we go out for ice cream? I wouldn’t even know where. I glance back at Isaac; he’s staring out the window, seeming uninterested in everything, including me.
‘How have you been, Isaac?’ I ask as I pull out into the traffic, which is getting heavy. He shrugs, not replying. My fingers tighten on the wheel. ‘Well?’ I press, keeping my voice playful.
‘Okay.’ His gaze remains on the window. I focus on driving, because the traffic is intense and I’m not used to driving in the city. Trying to force a conversation with Isaac now will just frustrate and hurt me.
It takes us thirty endless, silent minutes to get to Grace’s apartment on Eighty-Sixth and Park Avenue. She told me there was a garage under the building, and that I could park in one of the visitors’ spots.
Isaac slouches out of the car toward the entrance to the building; I don’t have a key, obviously, but there is a video intercom and the doorman; and after seeing Isaac and listening to my halting explanation, he buzzes us in. I follow Isaac into the elevator, clutching his backpack, again wanting to prolong these moments, wishing things could be different.
We’re silent in the elevator, and Isaac steps out first, going ahead of me to open the door, which Grace has left unlocked. I follow, pausing to breathe in the expensive smell of her apartment; it smells just as it did the last time I was here, over seven years ago, of lemon polish and leather. It looks the same too; the same plush carpet and abstract art, the same leather sofas, although perhaps they’re identical replacements, because they look pristine. Everything does.
There are differences too, of course; evidence of Isaac is everywhere. I run my hand along his various coats hanging by the door. I step into the hallway, noting the jumble of sneakers and boots in a wicker basket. A card table has been set up in the corner of the living room with a half-completed jigsaw puzzle.
