Falling Page 32

  Jesse nods, and she can see the confusion in his eyes. Stacy may be his mother, but he doesn’t know her. She may be his mother, but there’s nothing familiar about her. She may be his mother, but that’s just a word to him. She isn’t a place to call home.

  “I’m with Stacy a lot of the time, but I’m also with Nonna and Papa a lot, because Stacy isn’t used to having a kid and they’re helping her out until she gets used to it.” Jesse looks utterly miserable.

  “Let’s just sit here for a while,” Emma says. “I’ll talk to them.”

  She waits until almost everyone has gone before approaching Dominic’s parents.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” she says, as they stand there. Silence. “I’m Emma,” she reminds them . . .

  “Thank you,” says Dominic’s father eventually, turning to speak to someone else.

  Emma waits for Dominic’s mother to say something, to open the door to . . . something. Anything. But she doesn’t speak. She just nods and looks to the next person, to anyone else who will rescue her.

  “I want to talk to you about Jesse,” Emma says. “I know he’s living with Stacy now, but I thought you could talk to her. Maybe he can come and have a sleepover with me? I’d love to see him. It doesn’t have to be overnight. Maybe just a day. I could give her a break. And I think he needs to see his home. Where he used to live, with his dad. I don’t think it’s good for a child that young to be torn away from everything he—”

  Dominic’s mother raises her hand. “Not now,” she whispers. “I can’t do this now.”

  “She’s threatened,” Sophie says, having materialized at Emma’s side and pulled her away. “She can’t stand anyone else having had her son’s love.”

  “But they weren’t close. Why should she care? He’s dead, for God’s sake. Is she really so awful that she wouldn’t care about her grandson?”

  “Maybe jealous? Insecure? Possessive? And grief-stricken after losing her son. However she’s behaving now, we have to forgive her.”

  “I promised Jesse I’d talk to her about having him for a sleepover.”

  “Give her a few days to deal with this. That poor woman. Imagine losing your son.” Sophie shudders. “I can’t. As a parent, it’s unimaginable.”

  But what about Jesse? Emma thinks. What about being six years old and losing everything you love in one fell swoop? Isn’t that unimaginable, too?

  “Emma,” Sophie says, “why don’t you just ask his mom directly? Isn’t he supposed to be living with her?”

  “Yes, but I heard he’s spending a lot of time with the grandparents.”

  Sophie turns her head. “Irrelevant. That’s Stacy, isn’t it? Go and talk to her.”

  Emma looks stricken. “Here? Now?”

  “There’s never going to be a good time. Do it now.”

  • • •

  “You’re Dommo’s girlfriend?” Stacy says, as Emma introduces herself.

  Emma nods. Dommo? She had never heard him called anything other than Dominic or Dom.

  “I wanted to ask about Jesse. We’d grown very close. I know he’s living with you now, and I’d love to spend some time with him. Maybe have him for a sleepover on the weekends? I thought maybe it would give you a break—”

  “Jesse talks about you a lot,” Stacy says gently. “I can tell that he loves you. I think, in time, it’s a great idea, but right now I’m trying to get to know him myself, and I don’t want to confuse him, and I don’t want him to feel torn.”

  “I don’t think he’d feel torn,” says Emma. “You’re his mother. No one can ever replace you, I know that, but it might be healing for him to have something from his old life, something that he associates with his dad . . .”

  “No,” says Stacy. “Not right now. I’m happy to talk again in time, but right now I need to strengthen my connection with him, and I’m not willing to do anything that might jeopardize that. If you want to give me your number, I’ll get in touch when things are a little more settled with me.”

  Emma feels a lump in her throat, and swallows hard as she nods. She has no power anymore, no say. At least Stacy has expressed a willingness to allow it in the future. She takes Stacy’s phone and taps her number into it, and the two women nod at each other as Stacy turns to go, leaving Emma feeling lonelier than ever.

  Emma is almost out the door, aware that people are staring at her, wondering about her, when she feels a hand on her arm. She turns to see someone who looks vaguely familiar, a man about her age, attractive, with glasses. She can’t quite grasp who he is, until he introduces himself.

  “The real estate agent,” she says. “Of course. Jeff. I do remember you. We met that night at Artisan.”

  “I never did call you, I know. I heard you and Dominic . . . well. That’s irrelevant. I’m so sorry for your loss, Emma. He was truly one of the greats.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just wanted to say, if you ever want to talk, or need a shoulder to cry on, I’m around.”

  Emma tries to smile, is about to move away. But there’s something else he clearly wants to say. He lays a hand on her arm. “I heard you talk to Stacy. Maybe this is none of my business, but I heard her say she doesn’t want you to see Jesse right now. Stacy has no idea what being a mother is like. She’s doing what she thinks she has to do to try to establish a bond with the kid, but you’ll be seeing him soon. I guarantee it.”

  Emma blinks away a tear. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Stacy isn’t cut out to be someone’s parent. She never has been. You need to wait for Jesse to come back. He will. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Emma stares at him. She hopes he’s wrong. She also hopes he’s right.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Her mother has told Emma that she will be happy again. Her mother has told her that although she may never stop missing Dominic, her grief will become a part of her, and his memory will lodge into her heart for the rest of her life. The pain won’t go away, but it will become more bearable in time.

  All Emma knows is that life will never be the same again.

  Over the past couple of months, she has finally been allowed to see Jesse, who is shuttling back and forth between Dominic’s parents and Stacy. Stacy hasn’t yet found a job here, and she can’t afford to leave Florida until she has secured something in Westport, so she shuttles back and forth. Jesse stays with his grandparents, albeit reluctantly, when she is not here.

  Emma took him to the children’s museum, and Shake Shack for a burger; he shook and clung to her when she tried to drop him off, begged her to let him come home. She tried to explain, as gently as she could, that it wasn’t up to her, but she would try to see him as often as she could.

  She is working again, no longer sleeping the days away in a fog of loss and pain, exhausted by grief. She is putting one foot in front of the other, pretending to live a life, going through the motions, getting through each day as best she can.

  One morning—it’s a Tuesday, she thinks, but how can she be sure when the days and nights all blend into one another, each interchangeable—the phone starts to ring.

  Emma does not often pick up the phone these days. There is nothing left to say. But on this particular Tuesday when the phone rings, Emma answers.

  “It’s Stacy. Jesse’s . . . mom. I want to talk to you about Jesse. Are you able to meet me at the Sherwood diner in an hour?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  It’s late morning, and the diner is quiet, the early rush of businessmen and housewives for breakfast having passed.

  As soon as she walks in, Emma sees Stacy in a booth by the window. She slides in across the table, ordering tea from the waitress, wondering why she’s been summoned. Maybe she’s found a place to live in Westport, Emma thinks. Maybe she’s coming back for good.

  She stares at Stacy, looking for a glimpse into Domin
ic’s life before she knew him. It is the first time she has seen her properly, close up. She is pretty, but weathered. She has lived a hard life, thinks Emma.

  “How’s Jesse?” Emma asks.

  Stacy nods. “He’s good.”

  There is a long pause. Emma decides to broach the subject head-on. “Have you moved back here for good?” She struggles to keep her voice from trembling.

  Stacy tilts her head. “I’ve been splitting my time. I had planned to move back, initially, after Dominic died . . . but I’ve got a lot of commitments in Fort Lauderdale. It’s kind of hard to extricate myself.”

  “What about Jesse? Are you taking him to Florida with you?”

  Stacy shakes her head. “Dominic’s parents have him a lot. They’ve been pretty good, although they’re not so young and I know it’s been a strain.”

  She takes a breath. “You know, I came back to Westport because I wanted to do the right thing by Jesse. I thought it would be straightforward, that I could just rebuild a life here. But I’m discovering it doesn’t work like that. This is hard for people to understand, but I have a life in Florida, a good life, and a business, and I’m too old to start all over again in a town I left because I didn’t want to be here anymore.”

  “But you’re willing to sacrifice that for Jesse? I think that’s wonderful,” lies Emma.

  “I thought I was willing to sacrifice that for Jesse,” corrects Stacy. “But I haven’t changed, and my feelings about this place haven’t changed.”

  Emma’s heart sinks. “You’re taking Jesse to Florida.”

  There is a pause. Stacy shakes her head.

  Emma frowns. “I don’t understand.”

  Stacy’s eyes fill with tears, which she blinks away by looking at the ceiling. “I can’t. I’m not cut out for this. I want to be in his life, I do—he’s a terrific little boy—but . . . I never wanted to be his full-time mother. I’ve tried so hard to do it, to be the replacement parent, but I can’t.”

  “These things take time.” Emma attempts to soothe what she presumes is a case of frazzled nerves, panic at what this means for Jesse, the weight of ensuring he is stable and happy, suddenly crushing. She isn’t sure what Stacy is saying, but it can’t be good for this child; he can’t be abandoned again. “It’s a huge adjustment for everyone. You’re going to be fine, I’m sure of it.”

  Stacy shakes her head. “No. I haven’t come by this decision lightly, Emma. It has been five months since Dominic died, and I have given it my best shot. Jesse is a great kid, and he deserves to have a mother. A full-time mother. I may have given birth to him, but I’m not his mother. And I may be good at the fun stuff, but not the everyday grind.”

  Emma just stares at her.

  “I know you think I’m a terrible person. Everyone will think I’m a terrible person, but I’m not. I’m just not mother material. I’m like the favorite cool aunt. You, on the other hand, are mother material. You’re the one Jesse wants. He talks about you all the time, asks when he can move back in with you. You’re the one he wants to be with.”

  Tears spring into Emma’s eyes. She had no idea Jesse felt the pang of loss as intensely as she does.

  Stacy takes a deep breath. “I want you to have legal custody of Jesse. If you want him.” A shadow of doubt crosses her eyes. “I may have given birth to him, Emma, but I’m not his mother. You are.”

  EPILOGUE

  Emma sprinkles chocolate chips on top of the egg-soaked bread before carefully sliding it into the pan. She fries the French toast, flips it, then lifts it onto a plate. Two pieces for Jesse, two pieces for her.

  “Birthday breakfast!” she calls, as Jesse, who has been up for hours, runs into the kitchen.

  “Can we eat it in front of a movie? Please, please, please?” he begs. “For a birthday treat?”

  Emma never allows Jesse to eat in front of the television unless they are having a designated “TV dinner.” She narrows her eyes. “What movie?”

  “Star Wars?” he says hopefully.

  She slumps in disappointment. “Again?”

  “Harry Potter?”

  “Okay,” she says, as he whoops, grabbing the plate to take into the living room. “Be very careful,” she shouts, following him in to drizzle maple syrup over his toast and squeeze up next to him on the sofa pretending to be engrossed in a movie whose dialogue she can recite line by line in her sleep.

  She watches him from the corner of her eye. He is completely relaxed, engrossed in the film for the nth time despite the numerous times he has seen it.

  Lately, strangers have been telling them they look alike. It’s not remotely true, of course. They look nothing alike, Jesse with his dark, birdlike features, and Emma, who is all peaches and cream, fair complexion, and wide-set eyes.

  “You look like your mom,” people say. The checkout lady at Fresh Market, the sales assistant in the Gap, the woman who helps them in the children’s section of Barnes and Noble. Emma always holds her breath, wondering if Jesse will pipe up that she isn’t his mom, but he says nothing, just looks at Emma, who merely smiles, relieved she doesn’t have to explain.

  She may not be his mom, but she is beginning to feel like she is. Everything in her life has changed, and all of it now revolves around Jesse. She makes him breakfast in the morning, walks outside with him, and waits on the little bench for the school bus to come and pick him up. She goes grocery shopping for his favorite foods to pack for lunch, and slides them into his lunch box with a silly drawing on a Post-it, every day.

  Before, and she only ever thinks of it as before, Emma had spent her days trying to find design clients. Now she has joined a store in town as their resident designer. She has a steady flow of regular clients recommended by the store.

  She makes sure she is always done with her work by the time the bus comes home, and always at the bus stop to greet Jesse when he hops off. She brings him inside, sits with him at the kitchen table, makes him his snack, and listens as he tells her about his day.

  She hadn’t particularly wanted to be a mother, but now that she is Jesse’s legal guardian, she has embraced her role as fully as anyone can. She structures her day around his wants and needs, things that need to be done at school. She used to judge the kinds of women who gave up full-time careers to have children, move out to the suburbs, and throw their lives into micromanaging their children’s lives. But here she is, doing the same. And loving every minute of it.

  Everything stops for a class party, a book reading, a Poetry Café in the school library. Her heart expands when Jesse stands up in front of everyone and reads aloud a poem he has written about summer, his eyes scanning the crowd of eager parents, his body unclenching as he spots her face, shooting her a quick grin and an almost imperceptible wave. She will be talking to some of the other mothers afterward, and will feel something against her legs, a small arm winding around her body, and there he will be, not always looking at her, not always talking to her, but always, always claiming her as his.

  Jesse bounces on the sofa and puts his plate on the table in front of them.

  “When are my grandparents coming over?” he asks, as Emma looks at her watch. Dominic’s parents, Nonna and Papa, see him occasionally, but they cannot seem to forgive her for raising their grandchild, even though it was what both Jesse and Stacy wanted, even though they confessed they were too old to raise him themselves.

  Emma has tried to include them. She invited them for tea just after Jesse moved in with her, wanted to make them know she wouldn’t get in the way of their relationship. She had made a proper English tea, hoping they would be seduced into liking her, or at the very least, accepting her.

  She served petits fours, cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and smoked salmon on tiny rolls. She made buttermilk scones and served them with blackberry jam and proper English clotted cream that had her shriek with delight when she stumble
d upon it in the refrigerated case at Balducci’s.

  She had tried to express her love for their son, and then their grandson, with food, in much the same way she knew they had done with Dominic. But it had been a disaster.

  Dominic’s parents had sat uncomfortably at her table. They had answered her questions, but seemed to want to be anywhere other than there, in her kitchen, in a house that would always be their son’s.

  During the forty-five minutes they were there, they said almost nothing, both of them looking at their watches, clearly wanting to leave. When they did finally leave, Jesse asked what was the matter with them. Emma had no answers; she didn’t know what to say.

  She had tried and tried, sending e-mails, extending invitations, but there was no response. Dominic hadn’t wanted a relationship with them; now she understood why. Their own discomfort in themselves, in their lives, in their skins, made everyone around them uncomfortable, too. That was why Dominic barely saw them, she realized. That was what made it all so difficult now.

  Stacy has gone back to her life in Florida. She sends the occasional text, sometimes a photograph of herself. Just yesterday, Jesse received a big box of birthday presents. He thinks of her as a distant but loving aunt, just as she wanted.

  The grandparents Jesse is asking about are her parents. Her sometimes difficult, self-absorbed mother and her diffident, quiet father have embraced Jesse, and embraced grandparenthood, with a joy and enthusiasm she could never have anticipated. From the moment they became Gigi and Banpy, they had forged an unbreakable bond with him.

  The last time her parents came to stay, at lunch one day her father nibbled his sandwich, leaving the crusts in a neat pile on one side of the plate. Jesse did exactly the same. Emma implored him to eat his crusts, but he pointed to her father’s plate. “See? Banpy does the same. That’s where I get it from. It’s not my fault.”

  “Are you telling me it’s a genetic trait?” Emma burst out laughing.