Marcelo focused on her, a tiny buckle creasing his forehead. His expression looked strained, the corners of his lips turned down. He had on an open white shirt, and the edges of his body blurred in the darkness.
“You awake?” he asked softly.
“What time is it?”
Marcelo’s gaze shifted to his left, then back again, presumably to check a bedside clock. “Seven thirty at night. You’ve been asleep since this morning.”
Ellen tried to understand. “I slept the whole day?”
“You needed to.”
“Where am I? I feel funny.”
“You’re at my house, and you took a Valium.”
“I did?” Ellen didn’t remember.
“Yes, you were so . . . upset. I offered one to you, and you said yes. I drug my women only with their consent.”
“Why do you have Valium?”
“An old girlfriend. The relationship expired, but the pills didn’t.” Marcelo smiled, and Ellen sensed from under her pharmaceutical cloud that he was trying to cheer her up. She didn’t dare rewind the day’s events to remember why she was here. She knew, but she didn’t want to know. She had traded in one insulation for another.
“Why did you bring me here and not home?”
“Your house was a crime scene.”
Of course.
“Though it’s since been released. Also, there was press out front.”
“Who did we send?”
“Sal.”
Ellen lifted an eyebrow.
“Who better?”
“Make him tell it right, Marcelo. Tell it true, all of it. I’m fine with it.”
“Good.”
“Just so it’s not Sarah.” Ellen felt bitterness even through her drug haze. “She’s the one who called the Bravermans, you know, for the reward.”
“I heard from the police.” Marcelo’s smile vanished. “Which would probably explain why she quit the other day.”
“She did?”
“Walked in and quit, packed up her desk, and left. No notice, nothing.”
“Did she say she didn’t need it, because she’s rich now? She won the lottery.”
“No, she said I was the worst editor in the country and I was just”—Marcelo paused a minute, smiling—“a pretty boy.”
“She said that?”
“It’s not that funny. I am pretty.” Marcelo stroked Ellen’s cheek, and she started to feel something, which worried her. She didn’t welcome any emotions right now, even good ones.
“Do you have another pill?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you should take it yet. Your lawyer’s here.”
“Lawyer?”
“Ron. You asked me to call him, and he came over at the end of the day.”
“He’s here?” Ellen started to get up, but Marcelo gentled her back down.
“Stay put. I’ll have him come up.” He rose and left the room, and Ellen lay still, trying to maintain an equilibrium. It wasn’t time for emotion, but action. Maybe there was still something that could be done. In the next minute, footsteps scuffed on the stair and Marcelo came back into the room, followed by Ron Halpren, in a dark suit and tie.
“Hi, Ron,” Ellen said, to show that she was a functioning human being. “Please don’t say anything nice or I’ll lose it.”
“Fair enough.” Ron sat down on the bed, his beard grizzled and his crinkly eyes soft.
“Also don’t look at me like that.”
Ron chuckled, sadly. “Okay, I’ll be the lawyer, not the friend. I heard what happened, I read the papers.”
“Papers?”
“The court papers they gave you at the hospital,” Marcelo said, standing behind Ron, his arms folded.
Ellen thought back. Whatever. “So is there anything I can do?”
Ron hesitated. “Nothing.”
Ellen tried to stay in control. “I mean, just about the timing.”
“What about it?”
“It’s so . . . soon. Abrupt. He has clothes at home, and toys, and books, and DVDs, and a cat.” Ellen stopped herself. Will would miss Oreo Figaro. Maybe she could get the cat to him. “Why can’t we ease the transition? And for his benefit, not mine.” She was remembering what they’d said at the hospital.
“It doesn’t work that way, at least not with Braverman. I spoke with Mike Cusack, a big gun at Morgan, Lewis. I gather Mr. Braverman has some dough.”
“Yes.”
“Well, he got out the heavy artillery, and as a legal matter, you can make a transition, as you say, only if they agree, and they’re not agreeing. They don’t trust you or the situation.”
“It’s not about me.”
“I know that, and you should hold on to that thought. It’s not personal.” Ron patted her hand. “Braverman has to go home and bury his wife, and his lawyer says that he wants to start over. Pick up the pieces.”
Ellen’s heart sank. “I can see that, but what if that’s not what’s best for Will? Sending Will into a funeral, his father a grieving widower, right off the bat? He’ll freak.”
“You’re talking best interests again, and remember, that’s not the law. It’s a power notion. Braverman has absolute power and he’s wielding it.” Ron’s gaze rested on hers. “I think you need to pick up the pieces, too. You need to understand that Will will be loved and very well cared for. They already contacted a pediatrician and a therapist specializing in young children.”
Ellen felt tears fighting to surface, but held them back. Will would have medical experts, but no mother. She couldn’t even say the words.
“In time, he’ll be fine.”
“He’s not property, to be delivered. He’s a child, with feelings.”
“Kids are resilient.”
“I hate when people say that,” Ellen shot back, more harshly than she intended. “It’s like we’ll all pretend that the kid’s feelings don’t matter, because they get in the way. But you know what happens, Ron? Kids swallow the hurt, and sooner or later, it comes out. One way or the other, the hurt comes out. And you know who gets hurt then? Not the adults. The kid. Will. Someday he’ll be hurting and he won’t even know why.” Ellen gave a little hiccup and covered her mouth, holding back a sob. “He lost a mother at a year old. Now he’s losing another. Can’t we be a little sensitive? Is it so much to ask?”
“We have no choice, and he will be fine, in the end.” Ron patted her hand, then squeezed it, as Marcelo left the bedroom for a minute, then came back with a glass of water.
“Have another pill,” he said, offering her the tablet in his open palm, and Ellen raised herself, popped the Valium, and drank the water like she lived on the Sahara.
“Ron, can I call Will? Can I talk to him at least?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” Ron shook his head. “They think a clean break is best.”
“For who? Them or him? They accused me of being selfish, but they’re the ones who’re selfish.”
“I hear you, but there’s nothing we can do.”
Ellen hoped the pill worked fast. “Where is he now, do you think?”
“Will? In the city, still. They’ll be in town until the coroner releases Carol Braverman’s body.”
Ellen felt a pang. “When will that be?”
“A couple of days.”
“So knowing Bill, they’re at the Ritz or the Four Seasons. I say the Ritz.”
“I say the Four Seasons,” Marcelo said, but Ron frowned.
“Don’t even think about it, either of you. Cusack told me if you try to see Will, they’ll take out a restraining order.”
Marcelo frowned. “These people, they’re cruel beyond belief.”
“There it is.” Ron shrugged. “Cusack said, and I believe him, that this guy is just trying to protect his kid.”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
Ellen tried to process it. “I really can’t call Will?”
“No. Their child therapist sai
d it would be confusing for him and prevent his bonding with his father again.”
“An expert said that?”
“You can find an expert to say anything.”
“Then we should find our own expert.”
Ron shook his head. “No, there’s no trial here, and no judge. They won. They win. On the good-news front, I asked if they’d give you an update on his condition, physical and emotional, next week, and they agreed.”
“Big of them.” Ellen felt anger flare up, muted by the drug.
“We’ll take what we can get and go from there.”
“They need to know his medical history. They didn’t even know that. I have his records.”
“I’m sure we can send it to them or his pediatrician.”
Ellen slumped back into the pillow, trying not to hit somebody. Or cry. Or scream. Or turn back time, to the day she read that awful white card in the mail.
“Try to rest, Ellen. You know what Shakespeare says. ‘Sleep knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.’ ”
“Shakespeare was never a mother.”
Ron rose. “Call me if you have any questions. Hang in there. I’ll be thinking of you. So will Louisa.”
“Thanks.” Ellen watched Ron go to the door, followed by Marcelo, and she called out after them, “Ron, thanks for not saying, I told you so.”
Ron didn’t answer and they walked down the steps, the footsteps scuffling again, and in time, Marcelo came back upstairs with another drink.
“Please tell me that’s whiskey.”
“Coke.”
“Or not.” Ellen raised herself and took a sip, tasting the sweetness.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.” Ellen gave him the glass and lay back down, her head mercifully fuzzy again. Thoughts of Connie and her father popped through the oncoming clouds. “I have to tell the babysitter what happened.”
“She probably knows. It’s all over the TV.”
“She’ll be so upset.” Ellen felt a deep twinge. “She shouldn’t have to find out that way.”
“I’ll take care of everything.” Marcelo put the glass on the night table. “I don’t want you to worry about it. What’s her phone number?”
“It’s in my phone, in my purse. Her name is Connie. Also my father needs to know. He’s in Italy. Getting married.”
Marcelo frowned. “When does he get home?”
“I forget.”
“It’ll wait, then.”
“I need to feed the cat.”
“Let it go. Time to rest.” Marcelo squeezed her arm.
“Thank you for being so nice.”
“Ron’s right, you have to pick up the pieces. I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I’m privileged to.” Marcelo stroked her arm, and Ellen felt her body relax.
“Am I staying here tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“You tell me. I do have a spare room, but I’d like to stay here with you.”
Ellen’s head started to fog. “Is this a date?”
“We’re beyond dates.”
Ellen closed her eyes. She liked Marcelo’s voice, nice and deep, and the accent that made his words sibilant, his speech more like a purr than words. “But what about work? I mean, you’re my editor.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You were so worried about that, before.”
“Let’s just say that since then, I’ve gotten a better perspective.”
And whether Marcelo kissed Ellen on the cheek or she just dreamed it, she couldn’t tell.
Chapter Eighty-five
Ellen woke up, and the bedroom was still dark. She was lying on top of the comforter in her clothes, and Marcelo was spooning her, fully clothed, his arm hooked over her waist. The bedside clock glowed 3:46 A.M., and she waited for sleep to return, but it was as if a switch had been thrown in her brain. A light seared through the dark room of her mind, illuminating every corner, flooding every crack in the plaster, filling the grain in the floorboards, setting even the dust motes ablaze.
Will is gone.
Ellen imagined him in a hotel. He’d be wondering where she was, what had happened, why he wasn’t home, why he wasn’t with his cat, why he wasn’t going to school. Bill would be calling him Timothy and smiling in his face, and there would be lawyers and pediatricians and shrinks, but there would be no mother. His world had been turned upside down and stood on its head. He’d gone from life with a single mother and no father, to a life with a single father and no mother, like the negative to his positive, his existence in obverse.
He’s just a little boy.
Ellen knew what she had to do next, or tears would flow and engulf her. She plucked Marcelo’s hand from her hip, edged toward the side of the bed, and rolled out as quietly as she could. She padded downstairs in the dark, running her fingertips along the rough brick wall to guide her way. Her feet hit the floor, and she crossed the room to the glass coffee table, where a black laptop sat with its lid open. She hit a key, and the screensaver appeared, a color photograph of an old wood fishing boat at ebb tide, its orange paint weathered and peeling, with a tangle of worn netting mounded from its bow, in a twilight sun.
She opened Microsoft Word and pressed a key, so that a bright white page popped onto the screen, then slid the laptop around and sat down on the couch, pausing a second before she began. The title came easily.
Losing Will
She stopped a minute, looking at it in black and white, the faux newsprint making it real. She swallowed hard, then set her feelings aside. She had to do this for her job. And for Marcelo. And mostly, for herself. Writing had always helped her, before. It always clarified her feelings and her thoughts, and she never felt like she could understand something fully until the very minute that she’d written about it, as if each story was one she told herself and her readers, at the same time. In fact, it was writing that began her relationship to Will, and she found herself coming full circle again, so she began:
Last week, I was asked to write a story about what it feels like to lose a child. We were concerned that, among all of the statistics and bar graphs attending an article about the city’s escalating homicide rate, the value of a child’s life would be lost. So I set out to interview women who had lost children.
I spoke with Laticia Williams, whose eight-year-old son Lateef was killed by stray bullets, a victim of violence between two gangs. I also spoke with Susan Sulaman, a Bryn Mawr mother whose two children were abducted by their father several years ago.
And now, to their examples, I can add my own.
As you may know, I lost my son this week when I learned that, unbeknownst to me, my adoption of him was illegal. My son is, in fact, a child by the name of Timothy Braverman, who was kidnapped from a Florida couple two years ago.
I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous in inserting my own experience into this account. I know that my child is alive, unlike Laticia Williams. But forgive me if I suggest that how you lose a child doesn’t alter the fact that, in the end, he is lost to you. Whether you lose him by murder, abduction, or a simple twist of fate, you end up in the same place.
Your child is gone.
What does it feel like?
To Laticia Williams, it feels like anger. A rage like a fire that consumes everything in its path. She feels angry every minute she spends without her child. Angry every night she doesn’t put him to bed. Angry every morning that she doesn’t pack him his favorite peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich and walk him to school. In her neighborhood, all the mothers walk their kids to school, to make sure they get there alive.
Of course, that the children remain alive after they get home is not guaranteed.
Her son “Teef” was shot in his own living room, while he was watching TV, by bullets that flew in through a window to find their lethal marks in his young cheek. The funeral director who prepared Lateef’s body for burial to
ok all night to restore the child’s face. His teacher said he was the class clown, a leader among his classmates, who stuffed his desk with posthumous Valentines.
To Susan Sulaman, losing a child feels like emptiness. A profound vacancy in her heart and her life. Because her children are alive with their father, or so she assumes, she looks for them everywhere she goes. At night, she drives around neighborhoods where they might live, hoping for a chance sighting. In the daytime, she scans the small faces on school buses that speed past.
Susan Sulaman is haunted by her loss.
I asked her if she felt better knowing that at least the children were in their father’s hands. Her answer?
“No. I’m their mother. They need me.”
I know just how she feels, and Laticia, too. I’m angry, I feel haunted, and it’s still fresh. It’s so new, a wound still bleeding, the flesh torn apart, the gash swollen and puffy, yet to be sewn together or grafted, years from scar tissue, bumpy and hard.
Losing Will feels like a death.
My mother died recently, and it feels a lot like that. Suddenly, someone who was at the center of your life is gone, excised as quickly as an apple is cored, a sharp spike driven down the center of your world, then a cruel flick of the wrist and the almost surgical extraction of your very heart.
And like a death, it does not end the relationship.
I am still the daughter of my mother, though she is gone. And I am still the mother of Will Gleeson, though he is gone, too.
I have learned that the love a mother has for her child is unique among human emotions. Every mother knows this instinctively, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need articulating.
And it remains true, whether the child is adopted or not. That, I didn’t know before, but I’ve learned it now. Just as it doesn’t matter how you lose your child, it doesn’t matter how you find him, either. There’s a certain symmetry in that, but it’s no comfort now.
I didn’t give birth to Will, but I am tied to him as surely as if we shared blood. I am his real mother.