He smiles. And then I see something else in his eyes. Excitement and hope. I swear if Brenda does anything stupid, I’m going to kill her with my bare hands.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” he says, his voice shaky.
I want to cry. No child should be placed in the position that Isaac is in now. Desperate to see his mother while at the same time, frightened that she might not bring him back home.
“Can we finish this later, Mila? My mom wants to take me for ice cream.”
Mila cups his cheek. “Of course, we can. Go on and have a great time.”
“Thanks,” he says.
I swallow a lump in my throat. I push the chair back, and as we walk to the door, Isaac places his small hand into mine, and I resist the urge to hold it tight. He walks slowly.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I remind him.
“I want to,” Isaac says.
Brenda comes to meet us. Isaac keeps his gaze downcast and does not look at his mom. She looks at me questioningly, and I shrug.
“Isaac,” I tell him.
He finally looks up, and his eyes clamp on his mom.
“I missed you so much,” Brenda says and comes to him. She kneels down to his height.
Isaac lets go of my hand, and he throws himself on Brenda and wraps his hands around her neck. Both of us have tears in our eyes as we look at him. Our marriage ended terribly, but we have Isaac. Our son.
***
“Do you want to help me pack?” Mila says after we sit at her table for five minutes, and all I can do is voice my fears to her.
She has tried to reassure me that I made the right decision, but I’ll only feel better when Brenda brings Isaac back. The seconds and minutes tick by slowly. I swear time has slowed.
Mila knows me too well. I need a distraction. “Yes, I’d love to.”
“I might even let you see some of my sketches,” she says, her voice teasing.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she says and gets to her feet. “Come on. There’s one in particular that will be sure to cheer you up.”
I’ve never been to the attic, and when we get there, I’m at a loss for words. The roof and walls are all glass, and the sunlight floods in from various angles creating a halo-like effect.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her.
She grins. “That’s why I picked it.”
I walk to the wall and lookout. I feel like a goldfish in a bowl but in a good way. When I turn back, Mila is holding out a sketchbook. I almost grab it from her hands.
The first page is of Isaac, and it is so alive and uncanny that I almost drop the book.
“Fuck, Mila.”
She chuckles.
I flip the page. A drawing of myself and Isaac. Our heads are close together as if we’re reading a book. I stop and look at her. “You’re a genius.”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “Not quite. Do you like them?”
“Like them? I love them! They feel so real. The first one of Isaac really freaked me out. I almost dropped the book.” I continue looking, and when I’m finished, I look at her in awe. “God Mila, I knew you were talented, but these are gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” she says shyly.
“I’m married to the most talented artist in the whole country,” I exclaim with my hands held out.
She laughs. “Let me show you the drawing I was talking about.” She opens a drawer and removes the piece of paper, clearly ripped from a sketchbook, and hands it to me. I stare at the drawing in disbelief.
“Is it really that big?” I ask her as I stare at the drawing of my fully erect cock.
“Bigger,” she says.
I start to chuckle. “You have a dirty mind, wifey.”
“And mouth,” Mila says, and we both laugh. “Okay, Mister. Fun’s over, time to earn your keep,” Mila says.
“You are so bossy,” I say.
We smile at each other. She crumples the drawing and tears it up.
“Hey, I wasn’t ready to lose my big cock,” I protest.
“I have sleepless nights when I imagine Isaac coming across it,” Mila says.
That sobers me up.
We leave the studio intact and agree that she’ll be using it as her workspace. Then we go to her room, and I help her pack her clothes into suitcases. An hour later, we leave the rented house and go to Mila’s new home. She comes to a halt in the hallway.
“Do you want me to continue sleeping in the guest room?”
I’m taken aback, and I place the suitcase on the floor. “Is that what you want?” I don’t want to push her into something she doesn’t want.
“No,” she says simply.
“Me neither,” I tell her.
We go to the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet. “All of this side is yours,” I tell her. I’m glad now that Brenda insisted on a house with a walk-in closet.