I cough a little, hoping to let Elspa know that we're shooting for more than an overnight here.
"Rose is asleep now?" Gail says, alarmed. She gets out of the car now, too, and strides over to see Rose for herself. "Her sleep schedule will be completely off track."
"I need to talk to you two," Elspa says.
"We can talk tomorrow," he says. "Let's get this kiddo home to bed. Poor sweetie."
Elspa looks at me. Her eyes are wide and panic-stricken.
I grab hold of her arm, as if to steady her. "Don't give up now," I whisper to her. "Go on."
She stares at me a moment and then nods. She gets out of the car and stands there with Gail and Rudy, creating a triangle between the cars. "I need to talk right now."
I look at my hands in my lap, wanting to give Elspa privacy, but I glance up again and again. I want to be present, too, for support.
"We've got to get her home," Gail says.
"I'm her mother. Her home is with me."
Gail turns to Rudy. "I told you she'd try to pull something!"
"Don't do this," he says to Elspa.
Elspa looks strong and tall. Her back is stiff. "Do you want me to pretend I'm not her mother? 'Auntie' Elspa? Who came up with that?"
"Let's not get ugly," her mother says.
"I'm heading back tomorrow and Rose is coming with me," Elspa says.
"You can't handle it, Elspa," Gail says anxiously. "We've been over this. We've been dragged through it!"
"I can handle it now, though. I've changed. I've started over."
"Let me make this perfectly clear," Gail says, leaning in. "I'm not going to hand that child over to you. I am not going to have one failure turn into two."
"Am I a failure?" Elspa says. "Is that what you think of me?"
"It's a simple fact that you are incapable of raising a child," Gail says. "We've been through counseling. We know how this will play out in all of its disastrous variations."
Rudy touches Gail's arm. "Don't," he says. "Gail."
"Don't touch me, Rudy!" she shouts. "I know what I'm doing! She is not taking this child!"
Elspa reaches out and puts a hand on the roof of the car to steady herself, and before I know it, I've stepped out of the driver's seat and I'm saying, "This isn't about what you think about Elspa. This is about Elspa's rights. You don't have custody, and if you try to reach into this car and pick up Rose and leave with her, that constitutes kidnapping."
"Don't you threaten me," Gail says.
"Let's not get out of control here," Rudy says, trying to smile while glancing nervously at each of us.
"I need this little girl in my life," Elspa says, and now she softens, like she remembers the new plan—feeling everything. "I need her as much as she needs me. I'm afraid, of course I'm afraid. But I've done okay. And now I want to have a reason to be the best version of myself. And that reason is Rose, because that version of myself is Rose's mother. Every day." She pauses a moment. Everyone is silent. "I won't do it the way you have. Completely perfect. I'll make mistakes. But they'll be my own mistakes. You have to allow me that."
Gail freezes. She looks ashen. She grabs Rudy's shoulder and looks around the parking lot, wide-eyed. "I tried to create the perfect childhood for my children," she says. "But in the end, I failed you."
"No, you didn't," Elspa says.
"Why have you always disagreed with me on everything? I failed you," she says. Her eyes well up.
Elspa takes a step toward her mother to give her a hug, but Gail holds up her hand to stop her.
"No," Gail says. "I can't go through this." She turns to Rudy. "So, here it is. You said this would happen one day. You said I would have to let her go. And you were right. Is that what you'd like to hear?" She starts walking back to the car. "Let's make this break as cleanly as possible."
"We don't have to do this cleanly," Elspa says. "We just have to make our way. I'm not expecting it to be clean."
Gail stops and says, "I'm offering you all that I'm capable of." She gets into the car and slams the door.
Rudy stands there, staring at Elspa. He's stunned for a moment and then he tears up. He rubs his eyes, trying to regain his composure. He can't. He turns his back, revealing his shaking shoulders. When he faces Elspa again, he touches her hair, then kisses her gently on the cheek. "I've been waiting for this moment for so long. I knew you would come for her when you were ready. I've said it all along."
"You have?" she asks shyly.
He nods. "I'll be able to take care of it with your mother." He tears up again, and then clears his throat. "We have to be able to see Rose. Often. She's our little girl, too. We love her."
"I know," Elspa says. "I'll never be able to repay you. She needs her grandparents. I know that. There will be a lot of visiting. This isn't an ending. Tell Mom that. Tell her that this could be the start of a new relationship. A good one."
His eyes are wet and when he smiles, the tears slip down his cheeks, and then he turns and walks back to the car and gets in. The car sits, as if stalled, and then slips away.
Elspa and I stand there for a moment.
"You did it," I tell her. "You were amazing."
"I think I was," Elspa says, a little stunned.
And then we both turn and stare at Rose, still sleeping soundly.
*
Later, in the hotel room, Elspa lays Rose down on her bed. She takes off her daughter's shoes while she's still sleeping. I've called my mother, Bogie held under her arm, and Eleanor into the room to see.
"I can't believe she's here," I whisper.
"You really did it," Eleanor says. "You really did."
My mother smiles serenely. "She's breathtaking."
I sit down on my bed, feeling completely heavy and spent. The day has been so gusty and wildly unpredictable. And I'm not sure why, maybe because my defenses are low now, or maybe because it seems like the right thing to be completely honest, but I find myself saying, "John isn't Artie's son." I didn't know I was going to say a word, but there it is.
Elspa's eyes open wide and she smiles. "So, he's on this trip because he's in love with you."
I have no idea why Elspa would make that odd connection. "He lied to me, Elspa. To all of us."
"Yes, but he did it because he's in love with you."
"That's ridiculous," I say. "No, no." I look to Eleanor and my mother for support, but they just look at me, shaking their heads, smiling a little. "Are you kidding me? You agree with her?"
"Mhmm," Eleanor says. "I do."
"She's right, honey," my mother says. "And he left because of you. And were you the one who gave him that scratch?"
"I don't have to answer that," I say. Even Bogie seems to be looking at me suspiciously.
Elspa shrugs. "It's the only thing that really makes sense. It's pure logic." She brushes some of Rose's bangs, damp with sweat, off her forehead. "Do you love him, too?"
"No," I tell her. "He's a liar. And he doesn't love me." I'm stunned because I'm not sure that I'm telling the truth. Could he love me? Do I love him, too? Of course not. I want to go on to say, He's Artie's son—how could I fall in love with him? But that's not true. It was never true. "I want to enjoy this moment." I point to Rose on the bed. She looks angelic. "Just look at her!"
Elspa tucks her in under the covers and curls up on top of the covers, face-to-face with Rose. "I can't believe she's mine," Elspa says, and she watches her daughter sleep. She runs her fingers over her features—sculpting her little girl's face.
Chapter Thirty-three
And Sometimes You Can Be Brought Back to Yourself, Whole
We make our way home after a hotel buffet breakfast, which turned out to be a little extra sticky and gooey with Rose on board. She delights in her food, not just the taste but the sponginess of her French toast, the rubberiness of her eggs, the fattiness of her bacon.
In the car, Elspa keeps Rose distracted in the back by reading, singing, making up games with her fingers and string.
Bogie is also used as a distraction. Rose likes to mimic his panting, and it's as if they're developing their own dog-child language—so many pants for yes, so many for no. I know Rose will bring the kind of lightness and playfulness we'll need to get through this next phase with Artie. Rose will help us make it through.
We make it home in two hours—a straight shot, no traffic. I walk quickly into the house.
One of Artie's nurses waves to me from the kitchen. "He has a visitor," he says.
I can't imagine who. One of the sweethearts? I decide to ask her to leave. I have to talk to Artie privately. "Thanks," I say, and walk directly upstairs. I know I could probably make excuses for John Bessom's disappearance from his life, but I've decided I have to tell Artie everything I know. Artie would want to know, even if it hurts him. I don't know how he'll take it.
Artie's door is closed. I knock quietly and then open it a crack. Artie is sitting up in bed. He looks thinner, and I realize that when I'm away, I have a mental image of Artie that I've refused to update—a healthier, more robust Artie, not completely well, but much better, a version of Artie on the mend. So it comes as a bit of shock that he looks so ragged and pale and small. The oxygen tubes are still in place—my mind had erased them.
He says, "I know the whole story now."
"What story?" I ask, wondering how in the world the news got to him before I did.
"You have to hear him out," Artie says.
"Who?" I ask.
I open the door the rest of the way, and there is John Bessom, sitting in a chair by the window. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept. His eyes are weary. The scratch on his face is still there—angrier-looking than before.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"I'm coming clean," he says.
"What?" I ask.
"Let me tell you what's going to happen here. Lucy, you're going to sit in the armchair," Artie says, "and the kid is going to talk while you listen. That's it. The end. Do you understand?"
"But . . ."
"No," Artie says. "You're going to sit in the armchair and the kid is going to talk."
I move slowly to the armchair and sit.
"Go ahead," Artie says.
John clears his throat. He's nervous, fiddling with the edge of the curtain. "I always thought that Artie was my father, growing up," John says. "My mother told me he lived far away and couldn't visit because he was an extremely busy and important man."
"I am extremely important," Artie interrupts as a joke. He's still trying to disarm the situation. I know I must look confused and more than a little caught off guard. "That part was true."
"I found some old envelopes from Artie's monthly checks in a drawer in a hutch when I was around twelve, and I figured out by the return address that he lived not too far away. So I spent that summer spying on him. I'd catch the bus to his neighborhood whenever I could, and I'd hide out in the neighbor's bushes and watch him mow his lawn, talk to neighbors, have barbecues. I even had a notebook, trying to keep track of everything he did and everything I could hear him say. And I would go home and practice saying the things he'd said and walking like him." I try to imagine John Bessom as a twelve-year-old kid, crouched in someone's bushes, spending the summer trying to act like Artie. I have to admit it's really sweet— even though I don't want to admit to any of John's sweetness at present. John looks at Artie. "I didn't know then that he was spying on me, too—here and there—all of those years."
Artie nods. "I was."
John goes on. "But it was hard, too. I'd see him moving in and out of the house with other women." I glance at Artie and he shrugs sheepishly. "I was devastated that he didn't want to be with me and my mom. I admired him like crazy. Finally my mother found out where I was going, and she told me flatly that he wasn't my father, that my father was dead. 'Stop spying on the poor guy,' she said. 'He's a stranger.' " John looks like he's replaying this moment in his mind's eye, and I kind of hate Rita Bessom—not just for duping Artie, which was cruel even though it kind of served him right in the long run, providing a kind of balance of justice—but because she ripped Artie away from her son.
I look at Artie and then back at John. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to respond. This doesn't make everything all better. John Bessom was an accomplice all those years, and, worst of all, he lied to Artie on his deathbed. "I'm sorry about that," I said. "But still you lied to me. You lied to Artie all of these afternoons up here talking. Just to get his money."
"I never did it for the money," John says. "I had two reasons, I guess." He looks toward Artie as if asking for permission.
Artie nods. "Go on."
"First off," John says, "I never had a father, so why not Artie? Why not, at this awful time in my life, get some advice? I've never gotten advice, fatherly advice, in my whole life." Then he stops.
Artie smiles at him. "I never had a son, it turns out. Not really," he says. "So why not now, at this awful time in my life."
"And so we decided . . ." John says.
"We made a pact," Artie adds. "He's my son."
"And he's my father."
There's something sad in this, but so sad, it's tender. I realize that John has finally said it—finally called Artie his father. I hadn't expected it to turn out like this—to find out that Artie isn't his father and then to find out that, on this other level, he is. I take a moment to let it sink in. This is what I'd been wanting—this moment—for Artie and for John.
I gaze around the room, my eyes dart over Artie's pill bottles, the busted frame of the photo of Artie and me on Martha's Vineyard, the oxygen tank still noisy in the corner of the room. I want to know what the second reason is, too. I want to know if Elspa was right. Would he confess to this in front of Artie? "What's the second reason?" I ask.
"The second is more complicated. I came here and told Artie the whole story and this is the honest truth." He looks at Artie one more time to get his approval, and then, with the words spilling quickly out of him, he says, "I fell in love with you."
My chest tightens. I glance at Artie. He isn't angry, but there is a certain anguish in his face, a very slight contortion. I can tell that he's come to some new marker in accepting his death, that he's realized that my life will go on, and he has to let it, though the realization isn't without pain.
"I was drawn to you that first time you found me sleeping in the showroom, but then, during the tour, well, I fell in love with you," John says.
"No," I say. I close my eyes.
"Yes," he says.
I shake my head. "I can't tell when men are lying and when they're telling the truth anymore."
"That would be my fault, in part," Artie says.
"I helped out, too," John says.
"And you wanted the money?" I ask.
"I don't want the money," he says, and then he winces. "I do need the money. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to that. But I'm not here because of money."
"You should settle for the money," I say, stiffening up. "I'll give you all of the money from that old fund Artie had for you. You'll be fine."
"I don't want to be fine. That wouldn't be sticking to the new plan. I'm supposed to be feeling it all."
"Artie," I say. "Artie, what do you want me to say here?"
"Nothing," Artie says. "He isn't asking you for anything."
John looks at me intently with his tired eyes. "I'm not asking you for anything. I can't explain it," John says. "It's like you woke me out of a dream, and I didn't know it, but you were the dream I'd been dreaming."
I sit there for a moment. No one moves. I'm trying to feel all of it—this kind of love. At first I press it down with a knot in my chest, but it doesn't work. The knot unravels and there it is again, untied, set loose. I feel like I've come back to some essential part of myself—love. I might love John Bessom. Can I let myself feel that much again?
"Artie," I say. "What about you? What can I do?"
"I'm not asking you for anything either."
Now th
at I've felt love—or something close to it—for John, I feel like I can breathe again. I know I can bring this love to Artie. We need to love each other again, with all that love entails—even the hard things, like forgiveness and acceptance. I don't think it makes logical sense—that one love can bring back another love—but it's true.
Chapter Thirty-four
A Family Can Be Tied Together by an Unlikely Series of Knots
There's the unbelievable, glorious chaos of a three-year-old in the house. The refrigerator is adorned with crayon drawings; the counters are sticky with spilled juice; the dining room sofa covered in poppies has become a field for a herd of ponies with pink manes. There's a wee potty in the downstairs bathroom, a step stool at the sink. There are toys that sing and blink seemingly all on their own. Bogie has learned how to hide under the sofa in a far corner and to beg at the bottom of the stairs for someone to tote him up. The guest bedroom has been turned into a little girl's room, complete with a canopy bed from Bessom's Bedding Boutique, and the theme is frogs—Rose's idea. There are frog sheets and a frog nightlight and frog stuffed animals, which, it turns out, get along well with ponies of the pink mane variety. And there is Rose in the middle of everything—chirping, singing, dancing, stomping, pouting, laughing, roaring. She is this creature fully herself, so fully alive.
And, at the same time, there is a man dying in an upstairs bedroom.
As Artie grows weaker over the next few days, we're all there with him, trying to make him comfortable in the smallest ways—cooling his wrists with damp washcloths, plumping pillows, feeding him ice chips. The oxygen tank makes the room hotter, so we turn up the air.
John Bessom and I, we work together with a common goal. What was said in that room—the three of us—it hasn't stalled there. It exists still. But all our love at this moment, from every well and reserve within each of us, is being handed over to Artie. There isn't any left over. Not now. Not yet.
Still, sometimes I catch myself wondering what a life with John Bessom would be like—the same way I once thought about my life with Artie. I'm not as naive now, thinking only of the good things: beach vacations and our kids' birthday parties. I think of many different possibilities. I think of the beginning, when I first woke up John where he was sleeping on the floor model of a mattress, and the middle, which might include beaches and birthdays, and I think of the end, too. There's so much fierce emotion in an ending—or at least Artie's ending—that it has a lush beauty within all the sadness and loss. When I think of a life with John Bessom, Artie still exists. He's the intricate mechanism that's made this possible future. In a moment, my heart can feel like it's been ripped from me and in the next moment, it feels flooded with love—so much love that there's an uncontrollable current, a riptide.
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