She was nervous—about seeing her own son. She wondered what he had to say to her. Serious, he said. And what should she say to him? It had all been so much easier when Sam had been around. He’d always been the buffer between them. And they’d both adored him. Maybe they fought over him in their hearts. And when he died, that fighting in their hearts spilled over into their lips. And they had words. And over the years, she and Mister, well, over the years it had just gotten worse. Maybe they just were painful reminders to each other. They preferred to look away. Because it hurt too much.
He would ask how she was. That’s how he would begin. She would say, “Fine.” And she was fine, wasn’t she? And if she wasn’t fine, what could she or Mister or anybody do about it?
He was at a table for two. In the corner. Waiting. Always a few minutes early. Just like Sam. He waved, a smile washing over his face, and for an instant, nothing between them was wrong. She smiled back. He started to get up, but she motioned for him to stay seated. By then she was pulling out the chair and seating herself across from her son. “You look fine, Mister. You look just fine.”
“So do you, Grace.”
They looked at each other, then looked away, then looked at each other again.
“How’s Liz?” She tried to sound sincere.
“She’s fine. It’s nice of you to ask, Grace.”
“I’m feeling nice.” She smiled.
Mister nodded. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Of course I am.”
“You were walking out of an oncologist’s office when I saw you.”
“My doctor happens to be an oncologist. He also happens to be a very fine internist.”
“Yes. I remember.”
They both nodded.
Mister caught a waiter’s eye and waved him over. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”
“Chivas. I remember.”
A Chivas for Grace. A beer for Mister. They sat quietly as the waiter walked away. “Grace,” he said softly, “Liz and I are going to adopt a baby.”
Grace nodded.
“We can’t have any.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not the end of the world.”
“So you’re adopting.”
“I got a call from this lawyer I know at the Child Advocacy Center, and well, this kid, they found him in a trailer house. He was naked and soiled and soaked in his own urine and sweating and roasting to death. It must’ve been 110 in there. Hell, the police had to open all the windows, couldn’t stand the stench of urine and rotting food. God, Grace. They were looking for his mother—drugs, well, you know the story, drugged out, makes her money dancing in clubs, leaves the kid at home. Jesus Christ, Grace—” He stopped. “Anyway, we had a home study done about six or seven months ago, and we’ve kind of been waiting, and this seems—well, Grace, this boy, Liz and I want him.”
“He may have a lot of problems, Mister.”
“It’ll all work out.”
“You can’t just order a kid and say everything is going to be fine. The world isn’t a waitress asking to take your order.”
“Oh, I thought she was. I thought she chewed gum and was always about to serve me apple pie—and looked a little like you.”
“Don’t mock me, Mister.”
“I won’t mock you, Grace, if you don’t mock me. We’re not kids. We know what we’re doing.”
“Do you, Mister?”
“We want this boy.”
“You haven’t met him yet, have you?”
“I’m twenty-eight years old, Grace. I want to be a father. Liz wants to be a mother. There something wrong with that?”
“This boy may have a lot of problems, Mister.”
“I know that, Grace.”
“And does Liz?”
“Don’t start with Liz.”
Grace clamped down on her jaw, then relaxed her face. Her poker face was useless in Mister’s presence. The waiter placed her drink in front of her. She reached for it. She took a sip and then another. Why was all of this so hard? “What if you can’t save him, Mister?”
“What if we can? What if Liz and I take the chance? What if we take a child into our home and try to love him?”
“What if you fail?”
“So we shouldn’t do it—because we might fail?” He took a swallow from his beer. He tried to smile. “Sometimes I really want a cigarette.”
Grace nodded. “Me, too.” She put her finger in her scotch and stirred it. “Mister, you can’t fix everyone who’s broken.”
“Well, Grace, you’re the expert. You’ve spent a whole career trying to fix people who were broken. You’re a fixer, Grace. That’s what you do.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mister, I didn’t always succeed. And I never brought them home with me.”
“Now, that’s a lie, Grace. You brought a helluva lot of clients home with you. I could see them written all over your face in the evenings. You brought them all home.”
“Is that why you’re mad at me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of it.”
He was so like Sam. So willing to let other people see him, touch him, examine him. That’s why people hurt him. Not that he seemed to care. A part of her wanted to reach over and hold him. Another part of her wanted to get up and walk out of the room. They sat for a while, each of them sipping on their drinks. A scotch, a beer, the quiet.
“I’m going to visit him tomorrow night.”
“What’s his name.”
“Vicente Jesús.”
“It’s a good name.”
“Yes, it is.” He bit his lip. “You can go with me if you like.”
She was surprised by his question. “What?”
“I’m inviting you to go with me to see the boy who’s very probably going to become your grandson.”
She took another sip from her scotch. She understood the depth of his gesture, was moved by it. “Liz won’t mind?”
“She doesn’t hate you, Grace.” He smiled.
God, he looked so much like Sam. So much like her Sam.
“Liz is out of town this week. Her father died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is Liz—is she all right?”
“She never knew him.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes. It’s a common enough experience—children not knowing their parents.”
Grace nodded.
“You’ll come with me, then, Grace. To meet Vicente?”