‘She’s in the hospital,’ Isaac says. I have a feeling Grace didn’t advertise that, either.
Lynne’s eyes go round. ‘The hospital?’ She reminds me of a shark, greedy for gossip.
‘Just a small procedure,’ I say briskly, because I think it’s what Grace would want me to say. ‘Isaac, we should head home now.’ I manage a smile at Lynne, who is looking annoyed at being brushed off by someone like me. ‘Nice to meet you.’
We walk out of the park, and my back prickles with awareness; I know Lynne is still staring at me. I manage not to look back.
‘Mom doesn’t really like that lady
,’ Isaac whispers when we’ve gone a little bit away. ‘And I don’t like Jasper.’
Curious, I glance at him. ‘Why doesn’t she like her?’
Isaac shrugs. ‘I heard her telling Will’s mom that she was fake.’
‘Right.’ I’m even more curious now. ‘Who is Will?’
Isaac grins. ‘My best friend,’ he says simply.
A few minutes later he asks to stop at the playground on Sixty-Seventh Street with a big, serpentine slide cut into the rock. I sit on a bench and watch him slide down again and again, laughing at how much pleasure he gets each time.
The shadows are lengthening, the park emptying out. It’s after dinnertime, and there is still no food in Grace’s fridge. Plus we should get back in case she phones from the hospital.
I call to Isaac and we walk in companionable enough silence to Madison Avenue, where we catch the bus back uptown. We get off in front of the supermarket on Eighty-Seventh Street, and Isaac tags along behind me as I peruse the aisles, luxuriating in not having to count pennies or clip coupons. No EBT card this time, thank God.
‘Can we make our own pizzas?’ Isaac asks eagerly. ‘That’s always fun.’
‘Sure.’ We pick out pizza bases and sauce, grated cheese and a variety of toppings. I add a box of chocolate ice cream bars for dessert, plus orange juice for breakfast and some snacks for Isaac’s lunch tomorrow.
As we walk back to the apartment, I play a little fantasy in my head that this is my real life, walking back to my home with my son. Basically, I’m imagining that I’m Grace. I’m not jealous of her, not exactly, but I revel in the simplicity of the moment, how easy everything is, with money and space and opportunity – and my son.
I let Isaac go on his iPad while I set out all the cheese and sauce and toppings for the pizzas. Then we spend a fun few minutes decorating them; Isaac decides to put his toppings on to make a face – black olives for eyes, a red pepper for a mouth. I follow suit, which makes him crack up, a sudden, infectious laugh erupting from him so I am laughing too. I’m happy in that moment – a pure, clean feeling.
After dinner Isaac takes a shower without asking – clearly part of a bedtime routine –and I tidy up. I check my cell phone but there have been no calls. I think of calling Kev or Emma, checking in, but I don’t want to hear all the complaints, the note of bitterness that I know will seep in, no matter what. Kev was not happy about my decision to come here. In fact, he fumed.
‘This isn’t your job,’ he said, hands on his hips, while I got out a bag to pack.
‘Actually,’ I said quietly, ‘it is.’
‘No,’ he returned, spite sharpening his voice. ‘You just want it to be.’
I can hear Isaac singing in the shower and it makes me smile. I tidy up his bedroom and then I venture into Grace’s room, feeling as if I am trespassing even though she’s already told me she put clean sheets on the bed for me. It’s a beautiful room, spacious and simple, the pieces of furniture bigger than anything I could fit into my house. I peruse the top of her dresser, run my fingers along a set of enamel boxes that look expensive and hold pieces of jewelry – discreet diamonds and pearls. There is a bottle of lotion by her bed that smells amazing and probably costs more than I spend on a week of groceries.
I peek into Grace’s closet and run my hand along the crisp blouses in blue and white, pale pink and pearly gray, skirt suits in various shades of blue, gray, and black, and a couple of cocktail dresses that look gorgeous.
‘Heather…?’
From the depths of the closet I hear Isaac’s uncertain voice and I hurry out to find him standing in the doorway of Grace’s bedroom.
‘Sorry,’ I say, flushing. I have no ready reason for why I was in his mother’s closet.
Isaac’s quiet glance takes in the empty bed, newly made-up. ‘Did my mom say she’d call…?’ he asks in a small voice.
‘Yes, she was hoping to.’ I glance at the clock; it’s already ten past nine. ‘Maybe in the morning, though. I’m sure she will then. Have you brushed your teeth?’
He nods, almost dismissively. Of course he has.
‘Time for bed, then,’ I say, and obediently Isaac turns around and walks to his bedroom. I follow, amazed at the lack of protest or backtalk. Is it because I’m somewhat of a stranger, as much as it pains me to admit it, or is he simply that kind of child? Unfortunately, I don’t know.