Page 70 of Since She's Been Gone

“Irene Mayer’s daughter,” I say, hoping Esther still remembers my mom.

He dials an old-fashioned black phone on the reception desk, lets her know I’m here, hangs up, and says, “You can go up now.”

“Thank you,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief. Guess Esther remembers Mom. “What floor?”

“The penthouse.”

I step inside the elevator and press the PH button, which I estimate is the eighteenth floor since the last numbered button on the panel is seventeen. I ride up to the top, and when the door opens, and I step out, I realize I’m standing in the middle of a kitchen.

A woman around my age, several decades too young to be Esther, is holding a bruiser of a baby boy spilling out of her arms.

“You’re not Esther,” I say.

“I’m her daughter,” she says.

“Her daughter?”

“Yes, I’m Claire, and this is Louis, her grandson,” she says, motioning to the baby boy. “My mom died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says.

“My mom died too, when I was fifteen.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. It must’ve been so hard to lose her at that age.”

“You knew my mom?” I ask her, confused.

“I didn’t know her, but I knew of her,” Claire responds. Louis starts getting fussy in her arms. “Do you mind if we talk in the living room? All of his toys are there,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, following her into a massive living room with breathtaking, cinematic views of Central Park and baby toys littered all over the floor.

She picks up a clear teething ring filled with liquid from a pile of toys and hands it to Louis, who sticks it in his mouth and starts sucking on it.

“Please take a seat,” she tells me, motioning to a long cream couch as she sits down with Louis on her lap.

I sit down next to them, taking in the majestic views. “This is a beautiful apartment,” I say.

“Thanks, it was my mom’s. I moved in with her after she got sick with MS so that I could help her, and stayed after she died,” she says.

There’s a loneliness in her voice. She’s not wearing a wedding ring and hasn’t mentioned anything about Louis’s father or having a partner.

“What brings you to New York?” she asks me.

“I’m trying to learn more about my mom,” I say. “May I ask how you knew about her?”

“Sobriety was a big part of my mom’s life, so she talked about Irene a lot, who she always said was the one responsible for helping her get sober.”

“Really?” I say.

“Your mom must’ve mentioned how they detoxed together at Bell,” she says.

I don’t tell her I just learned this fact less than half an hour ago.

“Mom said Irene was admitted first and further along in the detox process,” Claire continues. “After Mom arrived and started going through withdrawal hell, ready to give up, Irene was the one there cheering her on, telling her it wouldget better, and it did. My mom told me she would’ve never gotten sober without your mom’s help.”

“Did your mom ever mention anything about a guy my mom was seeing while they were at the halfway house together after Bell? Because I just spoke with Alexander Valentine, the former clinical director there, and he said your mom wasn’t a fan of his,” I say.

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