‘And when will you be back?’
Cohen sighed. ‘I’ve applied for a tourist visa to the UK and been given a year. Of course, if River and I get married before then I’ll start the application to become a UK resident and—’
But Esther sat down with a dejected sigh. ‘You’re not coming back, are you?’ she asked sadly.
Cohen sat next to her, putting a long arm around her small shoulders. She was like a doll, his mother, and he wondered again how this frail-bodied woman ever birthed a man like him.But of course, Esther had a spine of steel and a heart of gold, so that probably helped.
Cohen smiled down at her. ‘We’ll visit, you know we will.’
‘It won’t be the same.’
‘No,’ Cohen agreed. ‘No, it won’t.’
‘I’m going to miss you,’ Esther confessed. ‘The other day ... it just ... it felt like you were finally coming home, Cohen. Like you were finally my Cohen again.’
Cohen kissed her head. ‘I am your Cohen,’ he told Esther. ‘I’ll always be your Cohen, in a way. It’s just that now, with River ... the concept of home is a little different. I need to make my own now, you know. And I have a feeling that with River, we’ll make a good one.’
Esther nodded. ‘I know. It’s just hard for a mother to see her child moving on.’ She sighed again, before looking up at him, her eyes sharp. ‘As soon as work allows, I’m coming to London to meet this River. And I don’t care if sheisRushi de Luca’s daughter.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Alright, so I do care. But regardless, I don’t care if she’s deaf.’
Cohen almost smiled. ‘Yes, you do.’
‘Fine. So, Idocare. But look, Rushi de Luca’s daughter, deaf, whatever ... she’s not getting an easy ride because of that. I need to make sure she’s good enough for you.’
‘I think you’ll find she’s too good for me.’ Cohen laughed.
But Esther shook her head, her eyes soft. ‘No. No, please don’t sell yourself short like that. You always did, and I never told you before how much it bothered me to hear you put yourself down. You’re an amazing man, Cohen Ford. Don’t ever think otherwise.’
Cohen stood, giving his mother another kiss.
Esther looked up at him from behind lidded eyes. ‘And Cohen?’ she began, her voice light, almost wheedling.
‘Yes, Mother?’
‘Talk to River about the Jewish thing. I hear conversion is easy enough these days and apparently they’re always looking to increase the Jewish deaf community. I already spoke to the rabbi and …’
And Cohen went, stepping again into the New York evening, a smile on his face.
He got into a taxi. He went to the airport. He got on a plane.
And in the morning, Tuesday morning, he woke in London.
The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery was thriving that Tuesday morning. It was 11 a.m., but despite the chill in the air a crowd of people had gathered in the store, queueing for ice cream. Cohen stood with them, rubbing his hands together to warm his fingers, before rubbing the sleep and jet-lag from his eyes. He could see glimpses of blue gingham from his place in the line – blue gingham and chestnut hair – and his heart raced slightly as he pulled River’s scarf tighter around his neck.
There were Christmas decorations up in the ice creamery now, and Cohen, who’d spent the last few nights lighting Hanukkah candles, was glad to see them. They were splashes of colour against the stone walls, reds and greens and golds and silvers to match the rainbow of ice cream behind the glass counters. River, Cohen realised, made a good home, bringing warmth and colour and light to wherever she was. Would he, even with her, ever think of London as home? He didn’t know, but in a way, suspected not. But then, was New York ever home? Cohen decided quickly that it wasn’t.
Because home, Cohen had learnt, wasn’t a place or a building or city or a country. Home couldn’t be dictated by a passport or a visa or a job or a heritage.
Home, Cohen knew now, was people. People made homes, not places. A building was just a building until you filled it with friends and family. A city was just a city unless you filled it with memories.
Esther was his home, once upon a time, and then, in his wilderness years, Cohen tried unsuccessfully to make homes with Christine, and even Andrew Canning, heaven help him.
He sent a quick prayer of thanks up to the gods that Christine left him, and that he could never quite mimic the cold loneliness of Canning’s existence.
River was his home now, Cohen realised. And wherever she was, wherever they went ... that would be home. They’d make enough memories to fill a thousand cities.
