A Little Hope(50)

The weather. It is one of the nicest springs she can remember. The sun is generous over the patio. A robin shakes itself off in the birdbath. Kay has never appreciated a season so much before.

Homework. Addie’s teacher gives her assignments that first Monday. Not much. Some math. Some writing. Kay is surprised a seven-year-old gets homework, but she likes sitting at the kitchen table with her, sliding the completed work back into the folder.

The dog. Addie worries about him in the kennel. His name is Wizard. Alex drives there to pick him up. The dog lies by the television and barks when the UPS man comes. He seems to wink at Kay when she walks by. She remembers how sad she was when Toby died, how he seemed to take more of Benny with him—her last connection to her son. Now Wizard stares at her in the same wise way. She thinks she will tell Alex they need a dog when things go back to normal (knock on wood).

The cat. They stop by Freddie’s house to check on the cat, Kitty. She’s fine. Addie bends down to kiss the top of her head before they leave. Addie looks around the house and touches Greg’s red plaid coat that hangs from a hook in the mudroom.

The big day. The day comes for the transplant. Freddie says the nurses call it Greg’s new birthday because it might be the day where he is reborn. Freddie sighs and rolls her eyes on the FaceTime call. Addie blows Greg a kiss. He smiles with the tube hooked up to his arm. He gives them all a thumbs-up. Alex claps for Greg. “Attaboy,” he hollers.

“You just want me back at work,” Greg says.

It’s a girl. Iris is having a girl. She comes for lunch one day.

They have seen her several times, but she has never been in the house before. She hugs Kay when she walks in the door, and Kay holds her a few seconds.

“What a cozy place,” Iris says. Kay feels so comfortable around her—as if she’s known her longer.

At their first meeting, back in December, in a café near Iris’s apartment, she approached Alex and Kay shyly and Kay offered to shake her hand. “I’m more of a hugger,” Iris said, and when she reached for her, Kay melted. She had prepared herself to be positive, to be polite, but realized she didn’t need any of these preparations. Alex had been right. Kay found herself that day laughing at their similar shirts (polka dots). They both ribbed Alex when he took out his flip phone for a call. They both ordered split pea soup, both snickered when a man at another table called his son the wrong name. Iris looked at her so sincerely that day and said, “I want to know you. I want this to be good for you.” Kay felt tears in her eyes, and she nodded and smiled. Within minutes, Alex was sitting back, sipping his root beer, and Kay and Iris were chatting about brands of chai tea and their mutual love of the color orange. Kay couldn’t explain the connection she felt to Iris—not like a child of hers, but very much like someone she knew in that deep, always way.

On the day she visits the house, Addie runs to meet Iris, and when she tells Iris about school, about the small footstool she helped Alex build, her eyes keep looking over at Iris’s belly. Kay marvels that Iris has Alex’s nose. They all eat lunch like some new version of a family. Addie shows Iris her nail polish, reports that Kay said they could plant a garden in the backyard. Iris tells Kay her tomato panini are the best. Kay is moved when Iris invites her to feel the baby kick. She is surprised she doesn’t want to take her hand away once it’s there. The baby shifts and twists under Iris’s shirt, and Kay closes her eyes and loves the sensation. “Bless the little angel,” Kay says.

Panic. Panic comes as quickly as the happiness, like its side effect. Did she forget to pack Addie a snack for school? Lunch money? Is Alex picking her up today? She is too old for this, she sometimes thinks. She panics when it rains one day: rain and rain, overflowing the roof gutters. She panics that the basement will flood from this fast rain. She panics about Greg. These weeks of recovery in the hospital. She knows they will all hold their breath for every blood test. She panics that she is not panicking enough some days when Addie is reading to her, when Iris is texting her an ultrasound picture, when the dog is putting its paw gently on her lap.

The boxes. On the day Addie leaves, after she waves to Kay from the backseat of Alex’s car and they drive away, Kay is able to look at the boxes in the basement. She has thought about Benny’s stuff so often, but she could never look. Her sister packed up his things. Kay lifts one lid and exhales. His Walkman, a Beastie Boys cassette still inside. She slides the battery pack open because she is worried they rusted, but they are fine. She holds the two small batteries in her hand and looks at them. She sees his stack of MAD magazines. The small plaque he made in shop class with his name burned into it. He was real, she thinks. This was all real. She lets her hand hold the key chain from Bar Harbor that used to hang from his backpack zipper. She closes her eyes. “Benjamin Scott,” she says, and sighs.



Kay hears a noise and turns around. The dog has followed her downstairs. They are keeping Wizard for a few weeks to help Freddie. “Well hello,” she says quietly. His stare is compassionate. He waits for her and follows her up the stairs. She looks around the clean kitchen. The sun makes the granite on the counter sparkle. A vase of pussy willow branches sits on the table. How odd it will be to not have Addie here tonight. She knows she and Alex will feel the quiet. Maybe they can go out for dinner, for a drive in the lengthening evening. Maybe they could walk the dog the way they used to when they had Toby.