“My mom took over for a few weeks so I could fall apart. But eventually, it was time for her to go and for me to get on with living.”
“A few weeks? You amaze me, Liam. I fell apart for over a year.”
“I’m not amazing. I just did what was required of me.” He sips his beer. “I have this theory that when you face hardship, there’s a time when you do what you have to and no more. I had a two-year-old, so I had to do a lot.”
“Whereas I have a cat, so I could do almost nothing.”
His expression is warm and understanding. “There were days when it felt like too much. There still are, but I’ve learned to put off my grief until Olive is away at school or at her grandparents’ place for the night. I put on a pretty decent show for her most of the time. I hope.”
We sit in silence, sipping our drinks as we let the conversation digest. I can make out the sound of a folksong in the distance.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” His voice is quiet.
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you and Isaac have a family?” This is usually the type of question that would irritate me, but from him, there is no judgment, only curiosity.
I sigh. “I was twenty-two when we met. I was a teaching assistant at a university, and he was one of the professors there. He was close to forty when we started dating and I think that time had already passed for him.” I pause for a second, then go on, trying to figure it out for myself. “It’s hard to remember exactly how we decided it. It’s not like it was a big fight or anything. I think maybe it was because he was too old to want children and I was too young to understand what that choice really meant.” I stare down at my shoes for a moment. “I seem to recall fleeting thoughts of parenthood somewhere in the middle of our time together, but I dismissed it as my biological clock. There was no way I would allow myself to be a slave to something so primitive.”
“Primitive.” He repeats the word, sounding just the faintest bit offended.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t mean it that way. I believed I was taking the road less traveled by not having children. I never wanted to be predictable. I wanted to be interesting.”
“Oh, I see.”
“That wasn’t better, was it?” I ask, then have a couple of gulps of beer. “Let me try that again. As some of my friends became parents, they didn’t want to talk about anything other than their children. ‘Why isn’t he walking?’ or ‘she said her first word’ or they’d spend all their time complaining about how they never slept and didn’t have sex anymore.”
The words spill out quickly now, loosened by the alcohol. “They stopped caring about things like politics and world events and became completely absorbed in their little lives. Isaac and I used to congratulate ourselves for our mutual wisdom to remain carefree. It was all very easy with no one to look after but ourselves. I could stay up and write until the early morning hours and sleep all day if inspiration struck. We could take off on a whim for the weekend or for the entire summer, even. No way you can do that if you have a child.”
He stares at me while I talk. “Well, then… "
“I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” I wince, feeling like shit for what I’ve said.
“Not really. What you’ve said is true. Most parents do start to lose track of the outside world. We don’t get to sleep as much or have as much sex as we’d like, and we certainly can’t drop everything and get on a flight to Paris. We’re also fascinated by our little people. They hold our hearts and minds hostage, pretty much forever.”
His words squeeze at my chest, and I can almost imagine the depths of the love I would have had for my own child. “I can see that now, after spending time with you and Olive. For the first time, the whole thing makes sense.”
* * *
That night, as I climb into bed, I am grateful the long day has worn me out. I know I’ll sleep well despite the twisting and churning of my heart. I feel as though I’m going to start the grieving process all over again, this time for a family that never existed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.
~ Dorothy Parker, You Might as Well Live: The Life and Times of Dorothy Parker
It’s just after midnight on Sunday evening, and I have been alone all day. I took a long walk this morning and had a most wonderfully refreshing swim before spending the afternoon curled up with my laptop, trying to distract myself. Other than words I have spoken to Walt, my tongue has had no exercise today. I feel restlessness bear down on me as soon as I finish the chapter I’ve been working on.
It suddenly occurs to me I was supposed to make my Sunday call to my mom already today. I grab my phone and call her number, hoping she’s still awake.
After three rings, she picks up. “Abigail? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just remembered it was Sunday. Well, it was until five minutes ago.”
“It’s still Sunday here for another three hours, so close enough.” She sounds old to me. When did her voice start sounding like an old lady’s?
“What’s wrong?” she asks again.
