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I look around for Grace, expecting her to bustle out from somewhere, but I can’t see her. Isaac has kicked off his shoes and stands in the middle of the living room, looking a little lost. ‘Can I have my i
Pad?’
‘Are you allowed to have that now?’
‘Yes, I get an hour of screen time when I get home from school.’ He blinks at me, so serious.
‘Okay, then.’ He fetches it from a rattan basket beneath the coffee table and flops onto the sofa.
‘Do you know where your mom is?’
‘She’s probably sleeping.’
That pulls me up short. Probably sleeping? That doesn’t sound like Grace. I go through the apartment, looking for her just in case, and also because I’m curious – about her, about the home she’s made with Isaac. She’s not in the dining room that adjoins the living room, separated by pocket doors that are half-pulled out. The glass table that seated twelve has been replaced by a more modest and kid-friendly table of burnished wood that seats eight. I wonder if they eat there, the two of them, fancy organic meals by candlelight.
I follow the hallway toward the kitchen, where I have never been. It is enormous and elegant, with oak units, marble counters, and a huge fridge. Isaac’s cereal bowl is still by the sink, Cheerios stuck to its bottom like cement.
The fridge is covered with schoolwork and pictures he’s drawn, kept in place by big, colorful magnets. I pause to examine a spelling test – ninety percent – and a drawing of Steve from Minecraft, done back when he still liked Minecraft, I suppose. I glance at the calendar tacked to a bulletin board – Taekwondo, swimming, and piano every week. So many opportunities, just as I’d once hoped for him.
There is a little room off the kitchen that Grace clearly uses as her office. It’s empty, and looks as if she hasn’t gone into it in a while. There is a patina of dust on the closed laptop.
I am starting to feel uneasy, like something must be seriously wrong. Is Grace sick? Back in the living room Isaac is absorbed in his game, and hesitantly, almost on tiptoes, I walk toward the bedrooms.
I pause on the threshold of Isaac’s bedroom, an ache starting inside me. It’s a mess, with Lego pieces scattered everywhere, the bed unmade, his pajamas crumpled on the floor. But it’s such a little boy’s room, and it feels strangely poignant and bittersweet to realize he’d slept there, grown up there. I step inside and pick up the pajamas, folding them and putting them on top of the dresser. Then I make up the bed, and, feeling I might as well do the rest, I put the Lego pieces back in the bright red bin. Still no sign of Grace.
The bathroom between the two bedrooms is empty, the door ajar; Grace’s bedroom door is also slightly open. I push it further open with my fingertips and peer inside.
It’s huge, bigger than our entire downstairs, with some kind of exercise machine in front of the window, a separate dressing room and bathroom, and an enormous king-sized bed. Grace is asleep in the middle of the bed, her mouth open, her hair lank, a thin sheen of sweat on her pale face. She looks awful.
Is that why she called me? Because she has the flu or something? Why didn’t she just say?
I step back out and close the door, deciding to let her sleep. I don’t need to get home right away; the girls can manage for themselves for a bit. I already texted Emma to tell her I’d be out.
I head back to the living room, injecting a bright note into my voice as I say to Isaac, ‘So, would you like a snack?’
He looks up from his iPad, blinking warily. I smile back. ‘Okay,’ he says at last, and it feels like a victory.
‘Let’s go see what’s in the fridge.’
He discards the iPad and follows me into the kitchen. I open the fridge, feeling like a spy or an invader. I survey the contents curiously, expecting expensive, organic foods, things I’ve never heard of, but actually it’s pretty empty: milk, some yogurt, a bag of carrots, some ground beef that looks like it might have gone bad.
Isaac slides onto one of the stools at the big island and watches me silently.
‘How about a yogurt?’ I suggest, and he shakes his head. ‘Carrot sticks?’
‘Apple sauce.’
I turn to face him, latching on to that one small detail, something I didn’t yet know. ‘Do you like apple sauce?’
He nods solemnly. He looks just like Kevin, with his wispy light brown hair and big eyes, those extravagant lashes. Like Kevin used to, when we were young and dreamy.
‘Where’s the apple sauce?’
Isaac hops off the stool and opens a built-in pantry cupboard that is filled with canned goods. He finds a box of apple sauce snack packs and hands it to me. I break off one, peel back the lid, and hand it to him. Then I open about six drawers before I finally find the silverware, and hand him a spoon.
The kitchen is completely silent as I prop my chin in my hands, my elbows on the island, and watch my son eat his apple sauce. I feel as if I could watch him forever – the way he slides his fingers through his hair, lifting his bangs away from his face, just like Kevin does. His eyes are slightly lighter than Kevin’s, more like mine, but he’s so obviously from both of us, and I never saw it as clearly as I do now. I never got the chance.
‘Do you like school, Isaac?’ I ask. I’m eager to know more about him, but he’s often so monosyllabic at my house I hardly learn anything. Maybe things will be different here.
