“Sorry,” I say. I call Charlie, and add, “Come on in, boys.”
They do not come inside. I can tell the boys are itching togo.
Salvatore’s house—now our house, too—is spacious and unfashionable. Our street is as lowbrow-sounding as it gets: Slaughter Lane. But we are happy in this big brick rancher, with a La-Z-Boy couch and an ugly kitchen big enough for recipe testing. Some of Salvatore’s friends made the basement into a teen paradise for Charlie and lugged our Big Green Egg smoker to Salvatore’s backyard. I bought a new king-sized mattress for our bedroom on layaway. Salvatore has nightmares and thrashes around, but when I hold him tight, he quiets.
As it turns out, our long-ago magic still casts a spell. We like to play old Damnations CDs and slow-dance in our backyard while my famous brisket cooks slowly on the BGE. When I press my ear to Salvatore’s chest and hear his heart, I feel forgiven.
Someday, I will tell him everything. Only my son knows me truly, and that is enough.
Charlie had said, “Choose me, Mom.”
I chose him. I chose myself.
And isn’t that the definition of self-defense?
“We’re headed to the greenbelt,” says Charlie, emerging from the basement in a bathing suit and soccer slides, a towel around his neck, pushing past me.
“Have fun,” I say.
He turns at the last minute. “Mom,” he says. “You want to come?”
“Yes!” cries Sal’s son, Joe. He wants more than anything to be accepted by Charlie and friends, to be a cool teenager.
“Please, Liza!” says Allie. “I’ll go put on my bathing suit! IT HAS A UNICORN!”
“Are you sure?” I ask my son.
Charlie doesn’t lie. When he nods, I run to grab my pool bag.
—
WE PARK AT XAVIER’Shouse and make our way to the secret entrance. The boys lead us carefully along the trail.
“This is awesome!” says Joe.
“Come on,” says sweet Charlie to Salvatore’s kids. He takes Joe and Allie—holding their hands—down to the water: the cliffs are too high for them and they scuttle to the muddy bank below.
The Cliffs are dangerous for sure—Life Flight helicopters hover above this spot every few weeks or so in the summer, searching for confused hikers or someone who fell off and hit rock. There’s a sad and beautiful marker for a nurse who wasn’t properly attached to the harness system and fell a hundred feet to her death while trying to save a lost soul.
And of course, this is where Lucy died. I don’t even notice that the boys have been gathering wildflowers along the trail—their arms swinging in large arcs into the greenery—until they place them on a stone near the cliff edge.
If they can reclaim the joy of this place, I think—shuddering a bit at the thought of the Secret Cave, the doomsday bunker, and the brass sculpture—so can I.
Xavier and Bobcat launch themselves off the Cliffs. You have to know what you’re doing here, and they do. They soar in free fall and land just right, breaking the surface of the water. Despite everything that’s happened, they seem to feel invincible, which was what we moms had hoped for all along.
They are sixteen, it is summer, and life is glorious. From below, all the children watch me, calling encouragement.
I think of Whitney and Annette, remembering the endless days we’d spent here with our babies, then our toddlers, our growing twelve-year-olds.
I visit Whitney with a thermos of her favorite cinnamon coffee. She was once my best friend, after all.
—
I hesitate. It’s a long way down. I stare at the water. “Is it cold?” I call.
“Freezing!” responds my son.
“Is it safe?” I ask.
