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‘Oh, Grace. Grace.’ Three months. October. I can’t even begin to get my mind around it, and for a few seconds all I can feel is a terrible pity and sorrow for Grace, overwhelming, swamping me. Tears sting my eyes and my voice chokes. ‘I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’ But right on the heels of that sentiment, deeply as I mean it, is a burning question, essential, urgent. What about Isaac?
I can’t form the words. Not yet. It feels too callous, too cold, although of course it’s the most important issue for both of us. Grace must have some sense of what is in my mind, because suddenly she covers her face with her hand.
‘I can’t talk about this now,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything to you. I’m not ready… to talk… about any of this. I just learned about it myself. Please…’
I feel a lurch of pity for her, and my lips tremble before I press them together. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about anything.’ But I don’t feel like I should go. Grace looks terrible, and there is Isaac to think of. ‘Let me help,’ I say. ‘I can make dinner, do laundry, whatever.’ Grace looks like she wants to resist, and I say quietly, ‘Grace, you’re not ready to be alone with Isaac. To take care of him. You’re still recovering. We… we don’t have to talk or anything, but let me help.’
Her hand is still covering her face. ?
?I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,’ she says in a choked voice. ‘It’s all just so much…’
‘Of course. Of course it is.’ I put my hand on her shoulder; her bones feel hollow beneath my fingers. ‘Why don’t you get in bed? Rest for a bit? I’ll make you some tea.’
Grace nods slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers, and a lump forms in my throat.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, because it is.
She rises from the sofa with my help, taking my hand and clutching it with surprising need. Even now I am still amazed that she wants me here; that she chose me to help. I walk with her into her bedroom, pull back the covers. Thankfully I changed the sheets this morning, in case she came home.
When Grace is settled, I check on Isaac, who is still playing Lego, and then go into the kitchen to make tea and figure out what to do about dinner. Yesterday Isaac and I spent a surprisingly happy few hours in The Food Emporium, stocking up on the kind of food I can never afford to buy – organic vegetables, freshly squeezed juice, a prime cut of beef. He was good company, chattering about camp, remarking on different things in the store – the dead-eyed fish chilling in ice, the bright yellow melon. He’s at the age where everything is still interesting, and he wants to tell you about it.
I make a beef and rice casserole for dinner, moving around the kitchen with confidence, knowing where the knives are, the plates and cups and napkins. On the fringes of my mind there buzzes a possibility I can’t quite keep from thinking about – that I could get used to this. To having Isaac.
I feel a weird mix of giddiness and grief, and I don’t know how to reconcile the two emotions, so I force myself not to think at all. Like Grace said, it’s too soon.
I make Grace herbal tea and bring it into her bedroom, but she’s already fallen asleep. I put the cup of tea on her bedside table, and then pause to look at her. In sleep she looks younger, more relaxed, despite the harrowing lines of age and illness, the thin, wispy hair. I can’t believe she is going to die in mere months. Every time I think it, it shocks me, a cold ripple going through me, a zing of pained surprise.
I hear Isaac stirring in his bedroom and I tiptoe out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.
‘Hey, Isaac.’ I try for a smile and almost manage it. ‘Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.’
‘Okay… but where’s my mom?’
‘Sleeping.’ And right then it catches me in the throat, makes me breathless. The grief this little boy is going to experience. The pain he doesn’t know is barreling right toward him, and so soon. He’s only seven. He’s too young. Grace is too young. It’s so awful and unfair and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. ‘Come on,’ I clear my throat, force the tears back for Isaac’s sake, ‘let’s set the table.’
We set the table for three, although when I check on Grace, she’s still asleep, and so Isaac and I eat alone, and then we play a couple of games of Hungry Hippos before it’s time to get ready for bed.
To my surprise he’s up for a story; for the last two nights he’s politely refused my offer of bedtime reading, choosing instead to study his big solar system book by himself. Tonight, however, he picks a storybook that looks as if it is for much younger children and even lets me sit on the bed next to him, my arm around his shoulders as I read. My heart sings and aches at the same time. None of this feels fair or right, and yet I savor these moments so much, even if it feels a little bit as if I am stealing them from Grace.
After I’ve tucked Isaac in, I brace myself for a call home. I’ve only talked to Kev once since coming here, to check in on the girls. I’ve been gone for three days, three summer days, with the girls home all day while he works shifts and tries to manage meals and bedtime. I know Emma will do most of the work, but still… It’s a lot.
The phone switches to voicemail and I’m glad. I’m not ready to talk to Kev; I feel too uncertain and raw. I need to think, and yet I don’t want to think. I’m afraid and hopeful and overwhelmed and sad all at once.
I check on Grace again, and she is awake, easing up in bed. Her expression turns a little guarded when she sees me.
‘Hey,’ I say softly. ‘Just wanted to check on you. Is there anything you need?’
‘My Vicodin. It’s in my bag.’
‘Okay.’ I find the pills and bring them with a glass of water. Grace swallows them silently, her eyes closed. ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ I venture. ‘And leave tomorrow, if you’re feeling better…’ I know I need to get back. And Grace probably wants me gone. I can’t blame her for that; she wants to be alone with her son.
‘I’ll be better.’ Grace sounds determined. ‘I’ve got to be.’
I spend an uncomfortable night on the sofa, and finally drift off to sleep, my mind still full of barely formed thoughts, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of weeping. I stiffen, and then roll off the sofa bed and tiptoe toward the bedrooms. The crying is so soft and small that I think it must be Isaac, but when I get closer, I realize it isn’t. It’s Grace.
I stand there for a moment, my hand hovering by the door knob, wondering if I should go in and then knowing I shouldn’t. Grace wouldn’t want me to see her looking so vulnerable and emotional, and yet the sound of her weeping claws at me. It’s a sound of such unending despair, soft, hopeless sobs that make my eyes sting as an answering grief rises within me. After a few minutes I tiptoe back to the sofa, and it takes me a long time to get back to sleep.
The next morning Grace is up before I am, standing by the kitchen counter, sipping a cup of tea. She’s showered and changed her clothes, and her wig is in place. She looks a thousand times better than yesterday, and yet there is still something defeated about her. Perhaps there always will be.
