The Life You Longed For (25 page)

She stared at her shoes, her face burning with shame. She was going to lose Jack for the reason she'd known all along that she would: punishment for having been with Noah. A
lover.
How dare she?

It didn't make sense to me either
, she wanted to protest.

She listened to the judge and the court attorney and Bennett talking around her. She was desperate to remember that day at the beach, the surf pounding in her chest now, the roar of wind making it difficult to breathe. She heard how it sounded, the words like a fast-moving river overflowing its banks, flooding everything:
sneaking off, lover, Christmas Eve.
The phrases floated before her face. All she knew was that a year ago, had she been hearing this story about someone else, she too would have questioned just how devoted this mother really was.

It wasn't how it sounded. But it never was, was it? A walk on the beach.
What the hell are you doing here?
Laughter, coffee.

The judge was asking her something and Grace looked up, begging with her eyes,
please understand
. She was asked if the relationship was over and she nodded. “Yes.” She was asked when she had last spoken to Noah. The sound in the room disappeared, and she reached for the edge of the table. The force of her answer was like a blow to her chest. The judge repeated the question.

“The night before last,” Grace said. It was a whisper. But everyone heard.

 

The court would reconvene in two weeks, at which time a dispositional hearing would be held to determine a further course of action. The child would remain in the hospital in state custody. Mother was to be evaluated by a court-appointed psychologist specializing in fictitious disorders. Parents were to be granted four supervised visits per week lasting no more than one hour per visit.

Stephen's face like an abandoned building set on fire and crumpling in upon itself.

“We will take the very best care of him,” Anju assured her.

Jenn hugged Grace. She started to cry. “I can't believe they're doing this to you.”

“Why don't you leave Max and Erin with us for the night?” her dad said.

Jeff and Mandy gave her a hug.

Nobody looked her in the eye.

 

They drove in silence through the city. Eyes closed, Grace was aware only of the shifting light and heat on her face and neck as they moved under the shadows of high-rises, then back into sunshine, under an overpass—rumbling echoes overhead—back to open road. And then the thrum of bridge struts vibrating under the wheels, the dark beneath her closed eyes turning orange with light. She opened them to green water the color of bottle glass. “Can you close the window?” she asked, shivering.

“I need the air,” he said. “Just—here.” He started shrugging off his sport coat. She held the wheel for him, then took his jacket and wrapped it over her legs like a blanket.

“Stephen?” she said after a few minutes. Her voice sounded hollow. “Please talk to me.”

“And say what, Grace?”

“I don't know. Just, where are you?”

“In the hospital with Jack, in the courtroom.” His voice tightened. “Sitting in bed with you on Christmas Eve, joking about how you got windburn walking across the mall parking lot.”

Her face burned. “I know what you're thinking, but I
was
walking outside.”

“I don't want to hear it, Grace.”

“I know there's nothing I can say—”

“Then don't, okay?” The gentleness in his tone undid her.

She began crying. “I am so
so
sorry.”

“I know.” He reached to cover her hand with his. “I really do.”

They drove again in silence. An airplane cut like a scalpel through the layers of pale clouds, and she thought for some reason of that TWA flight that had crashed off Long Island Sound the summer before Erin was born, of the newspaper photos she'd seen nearly a year later of the pieced-together airplane. Over a million pieces of wreckage retrieved from the debris field: a burned seat belt, a Timberland boot, an engagement ring, a child's stuffed Tweety Bird. Now, she wondered, what is the debris field of a life, of a marriage? How many miles, how many years, how many pieces of wreckage?

In the end, the crash detectives determined that the explosion that sent the plane spinning into the Atlantic was caused not by a bomb or an errant government test missile, not by some gross mechanical or human failure, but by a spark no bigger than that needed to light a cigarette. Something
that
small. But what caused the spark, for none of the plane's 150 miles' worth of wiring was frayed or worn. The experts explained how sometimes, in the space between two wires that run parallel to each other, not touching, neither of them damaged, electricity will arc outward, migrating. That was the word they used:
migrating
. It was how she often thought of her love for Noah, a migration to a place she remembered beneath the level of consciousness almost, in her bones and cells, and she knew that no matter what she said to Stephen and no matter how many times in the coming days and weeks she would try to explain what happened, it all began just that simply, just that easily, one tiny negative spark—
hey you
—migrating into tragedy.

They passed an adult bookstore with a battered-looking sedan parked out front, a pawn shop with a neon
LOTTERY
barely visible in its sun-drenched window, a row of gas stations, a 7-Eleven. She glanced again at Stephen. “Can I tell you one thing?” she said.

He flicked his eyes in her direction. His eyelashes were damp with tears.

“That phone call two nights ago, I was panicked and I couldn't—” She squeezed shut her eyes. “But I ended the affair the
minute
I found out about the report.”

“I don't want to know this, Grace.”

“I wouldn't have jeopardized the kids, Stephen.”

“But you did.” His voice was gentle. He shook his head. “Look, I'm not trying to punish you because I know you'll beat yourself up far more than I ever could, but I just don't care right now what you did or why or when you ended it or any of that. Maybe at some point, I will, but right now, the only thing I care about is Jack and that we, that I”—he jabbed a finger at himself—“lost custody of him.” He glanced at her. “You having an affair isn't even on the radar screen next to that.”

She felt like a fool. He was right.

“All I care about—
all—
is jumping through whatever hoops we have to to get Jack back. And beyond that?” His face tightened. “There is no beyond that.”

 

As soon as they were home Grace walked upstairs to change out of her mother's suit. Her legs felt heavy, leaden, as if she were wading through water. On Jack's door was the yellow:
WELCOME HOME JACK
! poster that Erin had made only three days ago. The day Jack phoned her in the morning, laughing, all better.
Why you not here, Mama?
She flicked on the lights in his room, then stood for a moment in his doorway, inhaling the scent of talcum powder and floral room fresheners. She felt dead inside, absent from herself. A rocket-shaped sippy cup, half full with apple juice sat on Jack's dresser and it occurred to her that it had probably been sitting there for three days and she should take it downstairs, but she didn't have the energy to do even that.

Standing in her closet in her underwear a few minutes later, her arms goose-bumped, she couldn't decide what to wear. It was only midafternoon, bright sunlight crashing against the windows. But the day felt over. She pulled on the flannel pajamas the kids had given her for Christmas, and crawled into bed. She wanted to just get to tomorrow. Tomorrow, when she could visit Jack.

From the kitchen, she heard the rush of water in the sink and a few minutes later, the loud burping of the coffeemaker. Fractured snippets of TV. Nothing would be on but talk shows and soap operas: betrayal and more betrayal. She thought of Noah, but there was no longer any feeling attached to his name, not even the smallest flicker of desire. She didn't care. Whatever she'd felt for him was gone. All she wanted was for Jack to come home and Stephen to forgive her.

She couldn't sleep and finally gave up. In the bathroom, she pulled her hair into a tight ponytail, surprised by how wild her eyes looked, the pupils dilated as if she were in pain. A moon book of Jack's was on the counter.
When the Moon Broke Away,
about how the moon was made. She picked it up and hugged it to her chest, willing herself to cry.

Downstairs, Stephen was asleep on the couch, knees tucked to his chest, his suit jacket spread over his legs and feet. She moved around the kitchen quietly, glancing at the stack of mail without reading anything, then poured herself a cup of coffee and took it upstairs along with Jack's moon book, holding the mug against her breastbone as she sat in bed, not sleeping or trying to sleep, just thinking Jack's name over and over, as if by saying it she could keep him safe. Jenn and Rebecca and Anju would be with him tonight and she'd see him tomorrow. The song from
Annie
kept sounding stupidly in her head:
Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya tomorrow! You're always a day away!
The colors in the room changed as the light fell, the sharp edges of the bureau and lampshade, the stack of books on the desk by the window growing indistinct, flattening into shape only, into color. Dark brown. Cream. Navy. Burgundy. And rectangle, circle, square. She'd been working on shapes with Jack lately. His favorite was a rocket shape, and she tried to show him how a rocket shape was really a rectangle with a triangle on top, but he had waved her away with disgust. “No, not rectangle and triangle.
Rocket
.”

The phone rang, startling her. She waited for the answering machine to pick up. “Oh, Grace,” her mother said, then began to cry, her mangled sobs filling the bedroom, which was steeped in darkness now. Grace didn't move, just lay on the bed, mummy-like, her eyes dry, hugging Jack's moon book to her chest.

Eventually, she heard Stephen rustling around downstairs, then the hall light flipped on, and he came up, hair tousled, sleep lines etched into his face. “My head's killing me,” he said as he walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet for the ibuprofin.

“You probably need to eat,” she said.

“I don't think I could keep anything down.” He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows to his knees, massaging his temples.

“How about toast?”

“Maybe.” He didn't look at her. In the dark bedroom, with only the hall light on behind him, all she could see was his silhouette. “I thought I'd be prepared for when Jack died,” he said huskily after a moment. “I knew it would hurt, but—” He looked at her, his eyes glistening. “I mean, we've known for two years now that he wasn't going to make it, so I just thought—” He started crying. “But now that he's not here, I just, I don't know how to do this, Grace. I don't know how I'm going to.”

She sat forward, wrapping her arms around him. “Don't,” she said. “Don't do this. He's okay, he's—we'll see him tomorrow.”

“But this is what it'll be like,” he cried. “Somebody or something just takes him away, and there's
nothing
—” the word stretched into a moan “—
nothing
we can do.”

 

They ended up watching TV. The History Channel. It felt safe—battles already won, lives already lived. The phone rang twice more but each time they let the machine pick up. The first time it was Bennett, calling to confirm that their visitation with Jack was all set for ten in the morning. The second call was from Kempley: “Just wanted to find out how things went today. I'll try back later.” At one point, Stephen went downstairs and returned with a pint of chocolate ice cream and two spoons. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“Shush,” he said gently. “Let's just eat.”

The phone rang again—Jenn this time. “Hey, you guys. Just wanted to tell you that Jack's doing great. Rebecca was with him all afternoon, and I've been here since five. The little bugger beat me in
three
games of Candy Land.” She paused. “Are you there, Grace?”

Grace gestured for Stephen to hand her the phone. “Hey,” she said quietly.

“I've been worried sick about you,” Jenn said. “I don't even know what to say.”

“I know. Me either.” She swallowed hard. “Is he really okay, Jenn? Has he been asking where we are?”

“A few times, but he knows you're coming tomorrow, and everyone's keeping him pretty busy.”

She started crying. “Oh, God, Jenn, how can he possibly understand?”

“He doesn't need to, Grace. He really is okay.”

After Jenn hung up, Grace handed the receiver to Stephen. Tears were streaming down his face now too. She moved to hold him, and he let her, but only for a moment before he wordlessly rolled away from her into his own separate space.