Stay(17)

“You never answered me at your apartment. Do you cook?”

“As much as I’m able. The kitchen’s kind of small.”

“I noticed.”

“Still, I have a brain. I’m able to figure things out.”

The corner of my mouth rises with a smile. I remember how smart she is. “So tell me about your son.”

Her entire demeanor shifts with that one question. Warmth fills her eyes, and she fingers the stem of her wine glass.

“What can I say? He’s amazing. He’s incredibly smart. He’s sensitive.” Her eyes flicker to mine. “He’s my best friend.”

She’s so pretty in this light, talking about Eli like he hung the moon. I don’t remember my mother as clearly as I’d like. I only remember Ximena comforting me after her death. Watching Emmy’s entire mood change at the very thought of her son makes me wish I could remember her better.

“What made you decide to homeschool him?” I lift my glass of wine and take a sip. It’s an excellent pinot.

Her eyes become clouded. “He had a bad seizure at school. He fell during PE class. He was down for almost a minute, and when he stopped, he’d… Well, sometimes it causes him to lose control of bodily functions.” Her chin drops, and it feels like a punch in the gut.

He’s a cute kid, curious and thoughtful. “I’m sure he was humiliated.”

“Some kids were nice about it. Others… well, you know.”

I look down as my jaw tightens. “Kids can be cruel. Hell, adults can be cruel.”

“It wasn’t a good situation. He couldn’t continue taking PE, but the school wouldn’t work with me. I could have made a big stink about it, but Burt wasn’t helpful. After a few weeks, Eli didn’t want to go back.”

“Can’t say I blame him.”

Thinking of that cute little guy dealing with jerks teases that old wound in my heart. The disadvantages of not having money, not having power. I’ve always had both…

The waiter interrupts us, putting a plate of beef and ricotta meatballs in front of me. Emmy ordered the polenta with charred carrots.

“This might be the fanciest dinner I’ve had in years.” Her eyes are warm.

We do a little toast, and I dig into my dish, letting out a low groan. “Delicious.”

Her fork is across the table at once, spearing one of my meatballs and stealing it to her plate.

“Hey,” I cry with a laugh. “You didn’t even ask.”

“Oh, sorry.” The bite is in her mouth in a flash. “May I try one of your meatballs? I can? Oh, it’s delicious!”

She says it all so fast, as if we’re having a conversation. I quickly reach out and stab a charred carrot. “Hey!”

I give her fork a parry as she tries to go for another one. “Stay on your side of the table.”

Pressing her lips together, she returns to her plate. “So touchy.”

We chew for a few minutes, and I admire the glow of her skin under the yellow lights, surrounded by dark wood.

“Did you ever work at Sotheby’s?”

She shakes her head. “I had Eli right out of college… I thought I’d go to work once he started preschool, but the seizures started. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him.”

“I’d think preschools would be trained for epileptic children.”

“It’s a different thing, a brain disorder.” She takes another sip of wine. “We weren’t even sure if the seizure meds would work.”

“So there’s no cure?” She’s quiet, and her eyes go to her lap. I’m not sure how to read this response. “I’ve spent the last three years researching every treatment, ever since his first seizure happened. I was terrified. I’d never seen anyone have a seizure before.”

Shifting in my seat, I try to imagine. I can’t. “Is there a cure?”

Nodding slowly, she studies the base of her wine glass. “Only two hospitals in the U.S. do it. It’s an experimental surgery, focused on a very specific area of the brain. It’s very expensive, and there’s no guarantee—”

“You want to do it?”

“I’d love to do it, but insurance won’t cover it. It’s not FDA approved yet.”

“Can you get in one of the trials?”

“They fill up so fast.”

“I see.” I’m frustrated by her predicament.

We’ve finished our meal, and I signal for the waiter to bring us the check. It takes a few minutes to settle up, and I stand, holding the back of her chair as she rises.

The night air has grown chilly while we were in the restaurant, and the crowd has grown thicker out on the sidewalks. It’s Friday in the Village. As we walk back toward her apartment, she doesn’t pull away when I put my arm around her to shield her from the mob.

When we reach her apartment, she stops at the main entrance. “Sorry.” She glances up, and our eyes meet. “I’m not the most entertaining dinner date.”

Placing my hand on the doorframe, I lean in closer. “You’re wrong. I like your son. I wanted to know more about him.”

That gets me a smile. “He really is great. I try not to let the challenges get us down.”