Eventually I startle awake, blinking the world back into focus. My muscles are sore from sitting still for so long. It’s nearly one, and Grace might still be in surgery for several more hours. I need to pick Isaac up in less than an hour, and so I hurry from the café, stepping through the swinging doors of the hospital into the humid haze of a hot summer’s day. Heat boils up from the concrete and the city smells dirty, a whiff of garbage and gasoline in every breath. It hasn’t rained for weeks.
I take a deep breath, wanting to focus on Isaac, even though my mind is full of Grace. He’s the one who needs me now. I take the First Avenue bus uptown to 92nd Street, resting my head against the window as it lumbers and wheezes up the avenue, stopping every other block to let someone on or off. The trip takes thirty minutes, and by the time I reach the Y on Lexington Avenue it is forty-seven minutes past one, and I am sweaty and out of breath.
As I hurry inside, nannies and a couple of parents march by with their charges. I don’t think I’m imagining their superior smiles. In this world – Grace’s world – you don’t show up two minutes late.
Isaac is waiting by the door of his classroom, backpack on, expression dour. His leader or teacher or whoever is tidying up; she shoots me a quelling look as I hurry in. I feel scolded.
‘Sorry, Isaac. The bus took longer than I thought. How was camp?’ I reach out to touch his hair but my hand just hovers before I drop it.
Isaac shrugs one bony shoulder. ‘It was okay.’
He doesn’t look at me as we both walk out of the Y. ‘Do you want to walk home?’ I ask brightly, even though the heat feels suffocating. Isaac just shrugs. ‘Do you and your mom usually walk?’
‘We take a cab.’
‘Do you want to take a cab, then?’ Grace told me she’d left money on her kitchen counter, to pay for anything while I’m taking care of Isaac. I don’t know how much it is, but knowing Grace, it will be in the hundreds. We can afford a cab.
Isaac doesn’t answer, just steps out onto the curb, one arm raised. Seconds later a cab pulls over. I am impressed and a little unsettled. Seven years old, and he hails a cab without blinking an eye. Even Amy would be unsure, asking me how to do it, and I wouldn’t really know.
We slide inside the blissfully cool air-conditioned car, and Isaac scooches over to the wi
ndow, as far away from me as possible. I tell myself not to mind. I have two or three days with him. I can handle a little awkwardness at the start.
I try not to think of Kev, simmering with silent resentment at being left in charge, or Emma, who will actually do all the work, or Amy, who is likely to spin further out of control without me there, or Lucy, who will certainly whine and cry and be difficult. Two, maybe three days. That’s all I’ve got, and I want to savor them.
I glance at Isaac, whose face is averted from me. It gives me the chance to study him properly, from the sweet, round curve of his cheek to those skinny shoulders and almost concave chest; he really does have Kevin’s build. Kevin’s eyes and hair, too.
My glance moves down to Isaac’s scabbed-over knees, such a little boy, always jumping and running, no doubt. One of his sneakers is untied, and I have to keep myself from reaching down and tying the laces.
The cab pulls up in front of Grace’s building, and Isaac slips out without a word, running ahead into the building, as I fumble with crumpled bills to pay.
I follow him into the air-conditioned, potpourri-scented elegance of the building’s marble-floored foyer. The doorman greets Isaac with friendly kindness and then raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to declare myself. I know I must look like I don’t belong here.
‘I’m Heather McCleary,’ I say. ‘I’m staying with Isaac for a few days. Grace left me a key.’
‘Of course,’ he answers smoothly, and then produces an envelope from a drawer. I take it with murmured thanks, and then we are in the elevator. The button lights up before I’ve pushed it, and I realize the doorman must have done it from his station.
‘What do you want to do this afternoon?’ I ask Isaac. It feels too hot to go to the park, but I don’t want to squander our time together with Isaac glued to whatever device is his current favorite.
Isaac gives me a considering look, wondering, I think, how much he can ask for. ‘We could go swimming,’ he suggests after a moment.
The elevator doors open and I step out into the hall and fit the key in the lock. ‘Where do you usually go swimming?’
‘Asphalt Green.’
Which is back where we just came from, all the way on York Avenue. The thought of going out into that heat again makes me wilt. ‘Maybe we’ll do that tomorrow,’ I murmur, and as Isaac rushes ahead, I step inside Grace’s apartment.
The calm elegance of it washes over me in a soothing tide. Marble floors, plush carpets, soothing colors. The air smells of lavender. Everything is tidy. How does she manage it? I wonder, before I remember she has only one child and undoubtedly a cleaner, as well.
Isaac has curled up in a corner of the sofa, his iPad on his lap. ‘Half an hour, Isaac,’ I call. ‘And then we’ll do something else.’
I take his lunch box into the kitchen. I’ve been here before, of course, recently at that, but it feels different now. I’m in charge. I have sole responsibility for Isaac. I’m even going to sleep in Grace’s bed.
I wash out Isaac’s lunch box, leaving it to dry upside down on the dish drainer. The fridge holds very little food – just some milk, wine, and cheese. Does Grace never eat? What does she feed Isaac?
I count the money on the counter, crisp bills in an envelope: five hundred dollars. I could shop for good, nourishing food, splurge on organic stuff that I never buy. I could make Isaac a delicious, healthy dinner. I deliberate, unsure what I want to do. How I want to spend this time with my son.
He might turn his nose up at the kind of meal I’m envisioning. I don’t want to expend so much effort on something that he won’t like – but then how do I fill the time? I finally have what I’ve always wanted, and I don’t know what to do. The irony is not lost on me.