‘Someone needs to.’
It was late, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep without knowing, and so I pulled on my bathrobe and went in search of Amy. She was sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, earbuds in. In the bed next to her Emma was curled up, already asleep.
‘Amy,’ I whispered. ‘Talk to me.’ She just shook her head without even taking out her earbuds. ‘Please.’ Still nothing, but I’d had enough. I crossed the room and stood in front of her, yanking out the earbuds with one quick jerk of the cord. She looked up at me, her eyes narrowed in anger, like a cat about to claw.
‘Are you pregnant?’ I kept my voice low even though Emma was asleep.
‘Do you really care?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Because it seems like all you care about is your darling boy Isaac.’
I blinked, trying to absorb that accusation. ‘You know that’s not true,’ I said calmly. ‘The reason we gave him up was out of care and concern for you and your sisters.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Amy.’ I put my hand on her shoulder, letting her feel the weight of it. ‘Are you pregnant?’
She blew out a breath, not looking at me. ‘No.’
Relief poured through me, making me sag. ‘Okay.’ I tried to marshal my thoughts, figure out my next steps when the truth was I had no idea where I was going. ‘Do you… do you have a boyfriend?’
She let out a hard huff of laughter. ‘No.’
‘Then…’
‘Grow up, Mom.’ Amy rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not like how it was with you and Dad, all lovey dovey underneath the bleachers, or whatever.’
I blushed, because even now, nearly nineteen years later, I felt a little bit ashamed of my past. I got knocked up in high school. I did it the wrong way around. And I didn’t want that for any of my daughters.
‘Who is the boy, Amy?’
‘You don’t know him.’
I felt like I was battering a brick wall. ‘Are you using birth control?’ I asked, although that wasn’t at all what I wanted to be saying. I wanted to beg her to hold on, to wait for someone she cared about, someone she could love; someone she could count on. I wanted to tell her I was sorry that she didn’t feel she could tell me, trust me. I wanted so much more for my daughter than what she had, or even what she wanted for herself.
‘Of course I’m using birth control,’ Amy said scornfully. ‘It was just the one time that I was worried about.’ Which made me wonder how many times she’s had sex, with how many boys. What kind of life was my little girl leading? I was so sad and swamped by this new information, this new Amy. I’d been closing my eyes to it all, telling myself she was only fifteen; surely she couldn’t be getting up to much? And now this.
Things with Amy slumped to a standoff and so I tried to focus on other things. I called Grace several times over the next few weeks, just to check in, but I could sense she was trying to keep me at arm’s length, and in truth I didn’t mind all that much. Life felt difficult enough without adding our complicated dynamics to it.
As for Isaac… I glance back at him now, curled up in the backseat, gazing out the window. I wonder how much he guesses. Fears. Over the last few weeks I’ve let myself imagine him in our house, the new, bigger house we’ll rent. I’ve looked up private schools in Elizabeth and have tried to picture how it will work. Somehow the pieces never quite seem to fit. But I can make them fit. Together, if he just gets on board, I know Kev and I can make it work for all four of our children.
We backed out once before, when I was pregnant with Isaac. We said it was too hard, too much. I felt cornered, trapped by life, and I didn’t see any other way, but this time it can be different. It will be.
Grace falls asleep as I drive, her head lolling back against her pillow. When she gave me the list of all the pills she has to take, I felt a lurch of panic. It suddenly occurred to me how in charge I was, how much she depended on me – to take care of her as well as Isaac.
We arrive on the Cape in the later afternoon. Grace is asleep, but she stirs as we cross the Bourne Bridge and Isaac shouts in excitement.
‘We’re almost here!’
I’ve never been to Cape Cod. I’ve never been out of the Tri-State area, except for that one trip to Florida. The traffic is a crawl and it gives me time to look around, but all I see is scrubby pines and stores and houses covered in shingle. I’m not quite sure what the attraction is, but whenever Grace has mentioned the Cape, her eyes light up and her expression turns all soft and dreamy.
We drive for another twenty minutes or so before we get to Falmouth, and then Grace directs me down a narrow road that’s flanked by trees and houses so I can’t see much of anything.
‘Turn here,’ she instructs, and I pull the car into the drive of a house that is smaller than my own.
‘I know it’s not much,’ she says quickly, as if I’d complain, ‘but I love it. My dad took me here every summer since I was six years old.’