Saturday, October 2
Old Forge, New York
I love you, Mama,” Alex said.
I leaned over, tucking the covers tight around him—he was in his big-boy bed, shaped like a race car, for only the third night, but so far, it was going fairly well. “I love you, too, sweetheart. It’s sleepy time now. Big day tomorrow.”
I hugged him, holding him close, feeling his soft locks of hair on my cheeks and taking in the scent of him—laundry detergent and grass and baby sweetness—then stood, made for the door.
“One more song, Mama?”
“Of course, baby. Of course.”
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . . like a dinosaur in the sky . . .”
I had to sing the song three more times to be exact, but soon enough, Alex was in his sleeping position, hunched over, legs tucked beneath him like a frog, covers pushed all about, and the door was shut. I had a few hours to myself before I’d be crashing into bed.
I knew I indulged Alex—maybe a little too much—but it was hard not to. I had come so close to never being able to hug him again. An extra song, another sip of water—it was nothing, and I gave it happily.
I walked down the staircase, hand on the banister, the gorgeous original wood, one of the few things, along with the wide-planked floors, that I would not be updating when the renovations on the old Victorian started next month, the thing I’d fallen in love with the moment the agent had opened the door—and Alex, too: “Big stairs, Mama, wanna climb big stairs.”
I walked into the kitchen, still littered with moving boxes, and popped a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget into my mouth, the rest into a Ziploc, then put the tray into the deep sink. Grabbing a wineglass, one of the first things I’d managed to unpack, and filling it with pinot noir, I stared at the boxes. There was so much to do, and my sister was taking Alex tomorrow, had a full schedule planned—zoo, ice cream, and maybe even a pumpkin patch—but still, I really should get ahead of it.
In one of the few open boxes, I found Alex’s journal, which had surfaced when the brownstone was cleared out. I grabbed it and one of my favorite pens, then made my way over to the massive leather couch, one of the few holdouts from my Brooklyn life, and sank against the cushions. I checked Alex on my phone—he was squirming around in his bed but looked close to sleep—then opened the journal, flipped to a new page.
My hand hovered over the blank lines, wondering how I could possibly sum up today.
Sometimes it was hard to believe that this life was really mine. I would wake up with that pinch-me feeling, that after thinking I’d lost everything, I was here, living in a home only miles from where I’d grown up, near my mom and my sister. Back exactly where I’d wanted to be.
It had been a wild couple of months.
The police had found Jack still passed out in my rental—alive, but only barely conscious. He’d been taken to the hospital, then into police custody. I’d been worried—terrified, really—that no one would believe us, given all the evidence stacking so easily against Willa, but the 911 call I’d attempted had actually gone through. My whole conversation with Jack had been recorded. It was irrefutable. Cassandra’s voice had been on there, too, of course. But I’d told Morales that a neighbor had found me, helped me, driven me to the station. I got the sense that maybe she didn’t believe me fully, but I’d stood firm in my statement. I’d done my best to protect my friend, this time, at least.
Morales explained to me that per Willa’s own statements, she’d gone to George’s that morning to discuss him threatening her, had arrived to find him already dead. Had slipped in the blood and used the only thing she had in her purse—the diaper—to clean herself up. Just like Cassandra had said. Willa was released after twenty-four hours, though I didn’t see her again before I left to get Alex, to start my new life.
On my phone, I watched Alex’s breathing settle into a rhythm and took another sip of wine.
My transition into single motherhood had been easier than I expected. Between George’s life insurance and the stipend Ruth and Frank had set up so their grandson would be well taken care of, I had more than I needed. Enough to buy a three-bedroom Victorian. To pay for a good preschool. To provide a cushion while I tried to get back on my feet as a journalist. I had managed to interview the CEO for Forbes, and the piece had been published and made its rounds on the internet. I was starting to get more and more assignments, but still, journalism checks took forever to come in. I couldn’t have done it without my safety net.
I knew I was lucky, so much more privileged than most. And I’d made two promises to myself. First, that I would use this freedom, this security, to be entirely me, to stop looking for someone else to complete me, to make me whole. The second promise was to never forget just how lucky I was.
I tapped out of the video monitor app and returned to the journal.
Was it a perfect existence? No. Was I lonely sometimes? For friends, for affection, for sex, for the excitement of the city, even if I always felt I had to be “on” there? The ability to meet someone new and fun, seemingly at random?
Of course, but I had learned something powerful. Loneliness couldn’t destroy me, not as long as I stayed true to myself.
I began to write, detailing how Alex had turned the moving boxes into gigantic blocks that were perfect for climbing on and making a fort.
I knew I was in the right place now.
I’d written a few pages when I heard a knock at the door. I jolted, checking my phone. It was nearly nine o’clock. A friendly new neighbor wouldn’t come by this late, and my mom or sister surely would have called.
My heart ticked up a notch as I stood, made my way for the door, peered out the peephole.
There she was. Her hair blond again, like it used to be, her eyes bright and eager, her sapphire necklace catching the light against an orange fall sweater.
The person who’d lied to me over and over and over again.
The person who, despite my promises to myself, I sometimes still missed.