Long Bright River(90)

Still, I held him, and in the short-lived moments of peace that presented themselves like oases when I thought I could no longer go on, I fell in love with the baby, watched as his lit-orb eyes opened slowly, in wonder, to take in his small world. Cheered him through each physical accomplishment, through the vowels that poured out of him fluidly, and then through each new consonant pronounced.

Who on earth can explain, in words alone, the great gutting tenderness of holding your child in your arms? The animal feeling of it—the baby’s soft muzzle, the baby’s new skin (which throws into relief the wear your own has endured), the little hand reaching up to your face, searching for family. The quick small pats, light as moths, that land on your cheek and chest.

The strongest grief I’ve ever felt in my life arrived one afternoon as I was feeding him. I was sitting on my bed, Thomas in my arms, and as I looked down at my son—the soft tiny wisps of hair on his scalp, the balloon-animal arm, its new plumpness segmented at the wrist and elbow—a sudden storm of disbelief and sorrow burst about me, and I opened my mouth and—I am embarrassed to admit it—I wailed aloud.

Because for the first time I understood the choice my own mother had made to leave us—if not by design, then by her actions, her carelessness, the recklessness with which she sought a fix. I understood that she had held me—us—in her arms, and gazed at us as I was then gazing at Thomas. She had held us like that and had decided to leave me, to leave us, anyway.

In that moment, I made a promise to myself, one that has become the guiding principle of my life: I would protect my son from the fate that befell Kacey and me.



* * *



—

    Thomas’s struggles continued for the better part of a year. Watching him, my anger with my sister rose and rose in my throat. How could she, I thought to myself. How could anyone.

Nights blended into days and then back again. I often forgot to eat and to use the bathroom.

Gee was the only person, aside from Simon, to whom I revealed the particulars of our arrangement. And although she was diligent at first in stopping by, soon her visits became less frequent.

The one time I ever mentioned to her how difficult it had been since Thomas’s birth, she looked at me and said, Imagine two of them.

I never complained again.



* * *



—

Those months made me determine one thing with certainty. I would never let Thomas’s beginning hold him back. I’d never let him use his history as a crutch. In fact, I promised myself, I wouldn’t even tell him, until he was ready to receive the information without allowing it to negatively affect his self-perception.



* * *



—

It is for this reason that, today, Thomas believes me to be his biological mother.





I thought that Kacey would return to the street and forget.

I thought she’d be angry with me but quickly move on: the routine of seeking and finding and seeking a fix is immersive and hypnotic, and it’s difficult to emerge from that cloud for long enough to care.

And yet, several times during my maternity leave, I peered out my upstairs window to see Kacey outside, sitting on the stoop of the house across the street, or on the curb, her legs stretched out before her, dejected. She turned her face up, squinting toward the house, her gaze darting rapidly over its facade, from window to window, seeking a glimpse of her son, I imagine. My son.

Once or twice, she even went so far as to ring the doorbell.

I never answered.

On these occasions I made sure the rooms inside the house were darkened, and I gave Thomas a bottle so he wouldn’t cry, and I stayed far away from the door as she pounded on it, as she rang the bell, over and over again, wailing for the baby.

Once, toward the end of those months, I walked outside with Thomas in a carrier I used to wear strapped to my body. I intended to walk to the corner store. As always, I had checked out the window before walking outside, ensuring that my sister was not present.

But ten yards from the front of my house, I heard the footsteps of someone quickly approaching, and I turned, shielding Thomas’s head protectively, and there was Kacey, wild-eyed, her hair a mess, an angry ghost. She had been hiding, I suppose.

—Please, Mick, she was saying. Please let me see him. I just want to see he’s okay. I’ll never ask again.

I don’t know what came over me. I should have said no.

Instead, after hesitating, I turned wordlessly in her direction, allowing her to gaze upon Thomas’s small face. He was sleeping. His cheek was pressed into my sternum. He was—is—a beautiful child.

Kacey smiled, just a little. She began crying, which made her look even wilder. She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. A neighbor passed and looked at us both, goggle-eyed. Then she tried to catch my eye to ensure I was all right, presuming, I’m certain, that I was in the midst of being harassed by a crazed stranger. I didn’t look back at her.

Tentatively, Kacey stretched out one hand, as if to put it on Thomas’s forehead—a benediction—but I jerked away, instinctively.

—Please, she said again.

It was the last word she would speak to me for the next five years, aside from our occasional encounters on the job.

I shook my head. I walked away. She stood in place behind me, as still and as sorry as an abandoned house.