I DRIVE SLOWLY back to the flower shop, unnerved by what he told me, reliving our conversation, hearing it all in my head. I felt I’d killed him. I remember the haggard look in his face and the veins that stood up in his hands. I think of this burden he carries, that he will carry for all of his life, and I feel so sorry for him.
But as I drive away from him, there’s also a steelier part of me that feels a kind of relief. As though my decision is vindicated by the story he told. How could he ever be objective when something so devastating drives him? He’d be always trying to reach his brother—wanting some proof, some evidence that he’s still alive somewhere, that there’s meaning to what happened. I tell myself that I wouldn’t want to entrust him with Sylvie. That it’s all for the best I decided not to go back.
Lavinia looks up, smiles at me. “Nice lunch, Gracie?” she says.
“Kind of. Well, I don’t know . . .”
She’s planting out fritillaries in a vintage wooden apple box. The flowers are a smoky purple, their petals with an intricate pattern like the skin of a snake.
“I went to see that psychologist—the one I told you about,” I say.
She pushes her hair from her face. She’s wearing an old-fashioned riding coat and rigger boots of oiled leather, and she has a silver poppyhead pin in her hair.
“Good for you, Gracie,” she says. “So how’s all that been going?”
“Not well, really. I don’t think it’s the answer. I went to see him to tell him that we couldn’t carry on.”
Concern flickers over her face.
“Oh, Gracie, what a disappointment. I really liked the sound of him,” she says.
“Sylvie was crying after the session,” I tell her.
“Well, it would be tough for her, of course. Opening up to a stranger like that.”
“I don’t know. I think it was more than that. And then he told me just now about this thing that happened when he was a boy. It shook me up, to be honest. Though it helped me understand why he does what he does . . .”
I tell her his story. She listens quietly.
“Poor bloke,” she says. “How ghastly. Well, he obviously thinks a lot of you, Gracie, to trust you with something like that.”
“But he couldn’t be dispassionate, could he? Not after going through that. Not if he’s always trying to prove there’s something else beyond all this—trying to find his brother . . .”
She rubs her hand across her face. There are crescents of earth in her nails.
“Why we do what we do—that’s a pretty deep question, Gracie. Is anyone really objective? I mean, we’re all human, for God’s sake. We all have hidden things that drive us on.” She tamps the soil down deftly with the flat of her palm. Her silver hairpin glitters with the movement of her body. “Anyway, I’ll shut up now. Only you can know what’s right for Sylvie.”
“I used to think that,” I tell her. “Now I’m just not sure . . .”
“You need to trust yourself,” she says.
I turn a little away from her. I’ve promised myself that today I will tell her about Little Acorns. I know I can’t postpone it anymore, that it’s not fair to her. And yet I feel such reluctance. It’s as though, while she still doesn’t know, I can half pretend it’s not happening—as though, in telling her, I will make it real.
“Lavinia.” My throat is thick suddenly.
She looks up rapidly, hearing the tremor in my voice.
“What is it, Grace? What’s happened?”
“We’re losing the place at the nursery. They say they can’t keep Sylvie any longer.”
“Hell, Grace.”
She stares at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
“You mean—she’s been expelled?”
“Kind of.”
“But—she’s only little. How could they? I hate them, Gracie,” she says.
“I’m trying to find another place,” I tell her. “But nurseries have long waiting lists. I know it won’t be easy.”
“How long have you got?” she says.
“Till the end of the month,” I tell her. “I’m sorry it’s all so sudden . . .”
She looks bereft.
“Only till then? Oh, Gracie.”
She moves her hands apart in a small, despairing gesture.
“I shall miss you horribly,” she says. “It’s been wonderful having you here. How shall I ever replace you?”
I clear my throat. “I don’t suppose you could keep my job open just for another few weeks?” My voice sounds strained and shrill. “Just until I find somewhere? I mean, maybe I’ll manage to find a nursery that will take her . . .”
There’s a small, awkward silence between us.
“Grace, I’m so sorry,” she says then. “I would if I could—believe me. But it’s not like it’s the summer, when I could get a student, perhaps. I have to have stability. It really isn’t possible to run this place on my own.”
Suddenly I see it clearly. Hearing her spell it out like that, I know how it’s going to be—that my job here is ended forever. I see it all in devastating detail, this life unfolding before me, this unraveling of everything I’ve tried to knit together. It’s so wearily familiar, the patching up and making do, so like the life my mother had. Living on child support, resentful, our whole life running aground.
She comes and puts her arms around me, holds me close for a moment.
I don’t say anything. If I speak, I’ll cry.
My last days at Jonah and the Whale pass very quickly. Every lunch hour I ring nurseries, trying places farther and farther afield, but no one can take Sylvie, not at such short notice. I keep thinking something will happen, that someone will bail me out or come rushing to my rescue. But nothing happens, no one comes.
Lavinia finds a young woman to replace me. She’s Polish, with a degree in English and impeccably straightened blond hair. She’s very charming and eager to learn, and she’ll suit Lavinia perfectly. I feel a pang of envy.
On my last day, Lavinia gives me flowers, a lavish bunch of pink lilies.
“You must promise to stay in touch,” she says. “Let me know what’s happening with Sylvie.”
“I shall miss you so much,” I tell her. “You—and working here. I’ve loved it.”
“I know that, Gracie,” she says.
She hugs me, and there’s such comfort in the warm solidity of her body. Yet I feel in this moment of leaving that it will be hard to stay close, that our friendship may be more tenuous than I’d always imagined. The thought saddens me.
At Little Acorns, Beth has put all Sylvie’s things together, her hairbrush and towel and rucksack, in a neat, small pile on the table by the door. She holds Sylvie tightly to her.
“Just you look after yourself for me, okay, sweetheart? Promise me that.”
Sylvie reaches up and kisses Beth’s cheek. Beth’s eyes are wet and full. I thank her for all her care of Sylvie.
We walk to the car through the gathering dark and the pools of orange lamplight.
“Why won’t I go to nursery anymore, Grace?” says Sylvie.
“Mrs. Pace-Barden thought you’d be happier staying at home,” I tell her. “You weren’t very happy at nursery, were you? You didn’t like it very much. Not really.”
She thinks about this for a moment.
“Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t,” she says.