“He’ll be okay,” I say quietly. “He has a father who loves him. That would have made a difference to me. When my mom died, I mean. All I had was my sister. ”
Suddenly I’m thinking about Mom’s funeral and how I’d fallen apart completely. Stacey was the glue that put me back together, held me together. She was my strength during Mom’s long illness.
Stacey.
For the first time, I don’t wince at the thought of her. The memory doesn’t hurt: rather, it takes on the ache of longing. I have missed my sister; this is one of the many truths from which I’ve been running.
Bobby hurtles toward us.
Daniel immediately kneels. “I’m here, boyo. ”
Bobby skids to a stop. His cheeks are wet with tears, his eyes are bloodshot. “She didn’t come. I yelled and yelled. ”
“Oh, Bobby,” Daniel says, wiping his son’s tears. I can see him struggling for the right words of comfort. We both know that Bobby needs to let go of his imaginary mother, but the letting go will hurt.
Daniel pulls Bobby into his arms and holds him tightly, whispering words in a lilting, song-like language I don’t understand.
Bobby looks at him. “But I’m scared. ”
“Of what?”
“Forgetting her,” Bobby says in a quiet, miserable way.
Daniel closes his eyes for a moment, and in this reaction I see how hurt he is by his son’s revelation. When he opens his eyes, I can see the sheen of tears. “I should have done this a long time ago,” he says.
“What?”
Daniel scoops Bobby into his arms and carries him into the house. “Wait here,” he says, depositing his son on the sofa. He runs up the stairs.
Bobby looks so small, sitting there on the sofa, with his glistening cheeks and missing front tooth. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks me.
I sit down on the hearth across from him. I don’t sit beside him because I want him to hear me. To listen. “Tell me about her. ”
“Mommy?” His voice breaks, but I can see how a smile wants to start. I wonder how long he has waited for someone to ask.
“She liked pink. And she talked really fast. ”
I smile at that. It reminds me of my own mom, who snorted when she laughed. Once, when I was little, she laughed so hard milk came out of her nose. It is a memory I thought I’d lost until just now. “My mom used to kiss my forehead to see if I had a fever. I loved that. ”
“My mommy used to wear butterflies in her hair when she got dressed up. ”
I lean forward. “You won’t forget her, Bobby. I promise. ”
“You’ll leave me, too, won’t you? Just like her. ”
The question—and the sad resignation in his voice—is hard to hear. I know I shouldn’t promise him anything—my life is in upheaval right now and the things I want may well exceed my grasp, but I can’t just sit here and say nothing. “I have another life in California. ”
“You’ll say good-bye, right? You won’t just disappear. ”
My life might be mixed up, but this vow is easy to make. I’d never leave without saying good-bye. “I promise. ”
Daniel comes down the stairs, carrying a big brown photo album and a shoebox.
I stand, feeling shaky on my feet. This is a private moment. I don’t belong here. “I should go. I’ve . . . ”
“Don’t go,” Bobby says. “Tell her, Daddy. Tell Joy to stay. ”
“Please, Joy,” he says, pulling Bobby close against him. “Don’t go. ”