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‘I’ll be in the hospital for at least two days,’ she continues. ‘Recovering. And I was wondering…’
My heart lurches with an awful hope. ‘Yes?’
‘If you’d be able to stay with Isaac. In my apartment. I know it’s a lot to ask, and it would probably be easier for him to come to you, but I want to keep things as normal for him as possible…’
‘I understand.’ My mind is racing. Two whole days alone with Isaac. With my son. It will be hard on Kevin, on the girls, and I’ll have to take time off work, but I don’t have to think about it for a minute. Not even for a second. ‘Of course, Grace,’ I say. ‘Of course I’ll do it. Anything you want or need, just say.’
Twenty-Three
GRACE
The relief I feel when Heather says she can be with Isaac is palpable, a shudder through my body. Something I once would have dreaded has now become my salvation. Because the truth is, I have no one else. Heather is my last resort, my only hope, especially after Yelena went and quit on me with absolutely no notice.
She didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face. She texted me while I was at work, saying she was going to California to be with her boyfriend and wouldn’t be able to pick Isaac up from camp that day. I ended up having to take a half-day off work to do it, and then cobble together desperate childcare until my operation. I miss Stella, who left for France a month ago, oblivious to my illness and need. I’ve thought about calling or emailing her a dozen times, telling her the truth, but I’ve always held back. I tell myself by the time she gets back, I’ll be better. Yet I know she would have jumped to help if she’d been able to, but of course she’s four thousand miles away.
After the surgery I’m taking six weeks unpaid leave, to recover. The fact that I’ll be watching Isaac while I recover is something I’m trying not to think too hard about yet.
‘When is your surgery exactly?’ Heather asks.
‘Next Friday. I need to be at the hospital at nine.’ I’ll drop Isaac off at camp beforehand. ‘If you could pick Isaac up from camp at one forty-five, that would be perfect.’
‘Okay.’ Heather pauses, and I can tell she is thinking about saying something else. I wait, hoping she’s not going to suggest Isaac go with her to Elizabeth. I don’t want him to have to cope with something that is still, even after so many years, unfamiliar.
‘Do you want someone to go with you to the hospital?’ Heather asks. ‘I mean, me?’ I’m so surprised I don’t say anything and she rushes on, ‘Sorry, just say no if you don’t. I don’t mind. I just thought, you know, it’s kind of a hard thing to go through on your own.’
My throat is too tight for me to speak. Yes, it’s a hard thing to go through on my own. It feels like the loneliest thing in the world. And I am humbled and honored that Heather is willing to share it with me, even as part of me – a large part – cringes at the thought of her seeing me in such a vulnerable and exposed state. That’s not how I’ve ever lived my life.
‘Grace?’ Heather asks uncertainly, because I still haven’t said anything.
‘Sorry.’ I clear my throat. ‘Sorry, I was just…’ I can’t think of anything to say, so I decide on the truth, painful as it is to admit. ‘That’s kind of you, Heather. It… it would be really nice if you came with me. Thank you.’
As soon as I disconnect the call I am already regretting accepting her offer. Heather and I aren’t friends. We barely tolerate each other, if we’re truthful. If it hadn’t been for her insisting on an open adoption, I would have been happy never to see her again seven years ago. I would have been thrilled. And yet she offered, and I accepted, because I’m scared and lonely and right now there literally is no one else.
I spend a couple of weeks trying to get my life in order. Dr. Stein assured me that the surgery isn’t too risky, but I’ve never gone under a general anesthetic before and it pays to be careful. So I spend a morning with my lawyer arranging all my financial affairs, updating my will. The one thing I don’t do is change Isaac’s guardian; Dorothy might no longer be the most obvious option, but she still feels like the best one. Changing it is an avenue I’m not ready to explore. Not when I finally have a chance at beating this thing and getting my life back.
While I wait for the surgery I also do some odd jobs I hadn’t got around to doing, framing photos that had been left in drawers, ones I meant to frame years ago: Isaac as a chubby-cheeked toddler picking apples at an orchard in New Jersey; Isaac at six years old, grinning on the beach at Cape Cod.
I don’t think we’ll go to the Cape this year. We normally go the first week of August but I’ll still be recovering from surgery, and who knows how I’ll feel? I hate the thought of missing that week. It tethers me to my old life, my old self, when I took so many simple pleasures for granted. It also would be good for Isaac, a semblance of normalcy amidst all the cancer chaos.
Those two weeks before surgery I also spend a lot of time thinking about my parents – my mother’s cancer, my father’s last days. I remember how I’d lie next my mom in bed when she was really sick, and she’d rest one hand on my shoulder, as if anchoring me to her. So often I’d wriggle away, impatient to be doing something else, but sometimes I’d stay and listen as my mother spoke in a soft, faraway voice about me as a baby, about her and Dad dating. Giving me memories, I realize now, because she knew she might not be able to give them to me later.
I think of my father in his hospital bed, the way he withered so quickly, but how his smile was still the same. I remember how poignant it was when he made a joke, even though his body was literally decaying, and how upsetting it was when he suddenly became fretful or querulous, so unlike himself, pushing away the Styrofoam bowl of chicken noodle soup I was trying to feed him, or fiddling with the oxygen tubes hooked to his nose. Even then, in the midst of my aching loss and endless love, I sometimes felt impatient with him, and I hated myself for that.
Even now I fight annoyance with Isaac for leaving his sneakers in the middle of the hall, and at the same time I want to grab him into a hug so tight it steals his breath, and never let him go.
A few days before the scheduled surgery I sit down with Isaac to tell him the truth, or at least a version of it. He looks at me worriedly, and I realize I am adopting the same too-serious expression and tone my parents took with me. I try to smile, but everything feels fragile. I’m full of hope, optimistic now that I’ve m
ade it to the next stage, and Dr. Stein has always been positive, but still. Cancer. My child. The memories are thick.
‘What’s wrong?’ Isaac asks, and his voice wobbles. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. ‘But I need to talk to you for a little bit, Isaac. In a couple of days I’m going to have to go into the hospital overnight.’
His fair brows draw together. ‘Why?’
‘You know how I haven’t been feeling too well?’ He nods slowly. ‘I need to go to the hospital to help me feel better. It’s a good thing, but I’ve got to stay overnight.’
‘By yourself?’
