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Hester could only stay for another twenty minutes or so after she shared the first two chapters of her new book and signed a copy for me. When she gave me her email address and said we should keep in touch, I got the sense she was being perfectly genuine.
I can’t tell you how many times I stared at that email address, came up with the dozens of questions I should have asked her when we were face to face. Questions about her books, about her source material, about her life. Sometimes I even tried to muster up the courage to ask for writing advice, but that would be like the author of Dick and Jane asking Pushkin for a tip or two on fine literature.
We reconnected during her grandfather’s last few days. Several of the relatives came over. The house was full of Reginald’s soon-to-be-heirs who’d come to either pay their last respects or get first in line when the time came to divide the plunder.
Hester and I spent two full afternoons together, both of us and little Gracie. I could tell she was just as disgusted with her relatives as I was. I think the fact that Hester was independently wealthy from her book sales made it easier for me to trust her. She’d take her share of her grandpa’s fortune just like everyone else, but it wasn’t really going to change her lifestyle.
Some people say literary fiction can’t pay the bills, but I guess they don’t know about authors like Hester Lynne who get their novels optioned by major Hollywood producers. And even then, even when we were sitting around, giving everyone the chance to give Reginald the kind of loving goodbye a man like him deserved, I never got the nerve to ask her about writing.
But there did develop something of a friendship between the two of us, if you can call it that when one party’s completely starstruck in the presence of the other. I think she sensed I was a little idol-worshipy around her, but it never felt like she let that get to her head. She was far more down to earth than I would have expected from a woman whose film adaptation of her debut novel was about to break twenty million at the box offices. She asked me lots of questions about Gracie and about the postpartum depression, so much so that I wondered if I was turning into fodder for her next novel.
We didn’t talk about the Children’s Corner, the non-profit she’d started, but I kept the information bookmarked in the back of my mind. Sometimes at night I’d lie awake and think about how that would feel. To walk into an office, tell a stranger I didn’t have the means to take care of my kid. To listen to my child cry when I walked out of the room.
But then again, Hester was right about its being easier than going through the state. At the Children’s Corner, parents wouldn’t have to relinquish any of their rights. Her words replayed over and over in my head like some New Age affirmation. You can come pick up your children at any time, no questions asked.
No questions asked.
No questions asked.
I knew I was storing the information away. Knew one day I might need to pull it out and examine it more carefully. But right now, I had more pressing things to deal with.
Like saying goodbye to Reginald.
He regained a little of his strength right at the end. So much so that most of the relatives left after waiting it out a few days with nothing to show for their efforts.
Soon it was just me and Hester.
And then even she had to go back to her home in Seattle. Back to her book tours and publication deadlines and volunteer work at her nonprofit.
The night he died, it was just Reginald and me. Gracie was in the nursery. It’d been a long day, but she’d finally drifted off to sleep. I was sitting by Reginald’s bedside. We were only about halfway through Hester’s third novel, the one about the autistic child. I made myself a promise not to read ahead. I was desperately hoping Reginald and I could finish one last book together.
I followed him into the room, where visions of candy and chocolates tantalized my senses. Teasing me with the promise of delectable pleasure.
“Too wordy,” he mumbled.
It was the first time he’d ever criticized a thing his granddaughter wrote.
“Too wordy,” he repeated.
I wondered if he was just getting tired. “Should we be done for the night?” I asked. I didn’t realize what I was doing then, but I was making my way through Hester’s novel slowly. Hoping that Reginald’s curiosity about the main character and his pride in his granddaughter would give him enough motivation to keep on living day to day.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him yet.
“I should have taken that part out,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I was worried his mind might be slipping away even though his speech was perfectly clear.
“She never did like it when I cut out those flowery words. But she’s got too many descriptions. Makes her sound stuck up and pretentious.”
“Did you do the editing for her?” I asked.
He glanced at me, his eyes widening in surprise. “What’s that?”
“Did you help Hester with her editing?”
He smiled. “Help her? How do you think she made it on the New York Times list?” He sighed, the rattle in his lungs shooting barbs into my heart. He took my hand weakly in his. “Don’t tell her I told you.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I promised. It was the least I could do after everything he’d done for Gracie and me. And he would have done more if he could. I know for a fact that his love for Gracie and me filled his last days with a peace he never would have found from his money-hungry relatives. I wouldn’t be surprised if the joy that came from having Gracie around actually extended his life a few extra weeks, but of course the end was still the same. In some ways, it was like watching my father die all over again. But Reginald had lived such a full life, had touched those around him more than he would ever know. When all was said and done, his homecoming was as gentle and quiet and unassuming as he was.
Lucky Reginald.
At least he never lived to see what a worse mother I turned into once he was gone.