Seven Days of Us(85)

“I did, but there wasn’t a whole lot.” He was surprised Andrew had kept tabs on Leila Deeba.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you, actually,” said Andrew, turning a pan down to a simmer. “Now’s as good a time as any. Come up,” he said, and Jesse followed him to the first floor.

He hadn’t seen Andrew’s study yet. It was nothing like the dark, cluttered smoking room. A bay window overlooked Primrose Hill, and two walls were lined floor to ceiling with books, even over the door. The only furniture was a spartan desk and ergonomic chair. The whole effect reminded him of somewhere, he thought, before realizing it was his own apartment. Dana and his folks had always teased him about being the neat freak in a sloppy family.

Andrew opened his desk drawer and unfolded a sheet of cream paper.

“I should have shown you this when you first arrived,” he said. “But, well, it was complicated because I stupidly hadn’t mentioned it to Emma. She knows now, though. Have a look. You should keep it. It’s for you, really, I think.”

Jesse took the sheet of paper and saw it was a handwritten letter. He looked at the signature—it was from her. His birth mother.

Dear Andrew,

It has been many years, but I hope you remember meeting me, Leila Deeba, in Beirut. I am writing to tell you that, after we met, I discovered I was pregnant with your baby. He was born December 26, 1980. I chose to have him adopted, as I felt unable to raise a child alone. I would like to sincerely apologize for not having informed you. I was young and afraid, and my career, at that time, was my obsession. Beirut was a dangerous place for a child. I thought it would be easier for you if you didn’t know.

But I am writing to you now, Andrew, because I am sick. I have a terminal disease. I have accepted that I will probably die without meeting my son. For many years I hoped he would try to find me, but he has not. I never had any other children.

If, some day, he contacts you, please tell him that not a day passed when I didn’t think of him. My dying wish is that he has been happy. Please believe this letter, for his sake. You will know him if you see him. He was beautiful. I named him Iskandar.

Yours,

Leila

He heard each line over and over in his head. He had always assumed the orphanage staff had called him Iskandar—“defender of the people”—but it had been her all along. “Not a day passed when I didn’t think of him.” He leaned against the desk, forgetting Andrew and everything in the room. The dull, empty sadness he’d felt on hearing she was dead was back. But this time there was something else, too. She had named him. She had hoped for him. She had never forgotten him. And it felt like a circle completing—a circle that had been a C shape, for as long as Jesse could remember.

Andrew looked away, straightening the post on the windowsill. “Wow,” said Jesse, when he trusted his voice. Andrew put a clumsy hand on his shoulder. “Lucky, I’d been planning to—” he said, and then seemed to change tack. “Drink?”





Phoebe


THE STAIRS, 34 GLOUCESTER TERRACE, CAMDEN, 5:15 P.M.

? ? ?

Phoebe paused by the kitchen door. She’d felt bad, seeing her mother look crestfallen earlier. Especially after the big chat they’d all had about her treatment. The outlook was good, apparently, but Emma would need chemotherapy. Phoebe had made it her resolution to stock the freezer with Marine Ices sorbet, which Olivia said was all chemo patients could stomach, and to be a grown-up, and not freak at Emma’s hair blocking the drain. But still, she didn’t have to cancel Caspar, did she? Nobody knew, but the two of them had had a long-running game of eye contact across the office. She wondered how he’d got her number, liking the idea of him searching it out. He’d left a voicemail earlier, confirming their date, and she’d found herself listening to it over and over. If she canceled their drink, or changed the plan to meeting at the party, it would send the wrong message. Surely Andrew would be fine with her skipping dinner. Then again, after that cheesy column, he might try to guilt-trip her into staying. Everyone else had cheered when he’d announced he was quitting The World. Phoebe had been secretly sad—she loved their one-on-one meals in restaurants she couldn’t afford. Even the bad ones were fun, forming jokes for years afterward. She’d hugged him and said it was the right decision, because her mother and sister were saying so. But it stung that she hadn’t got a mention in his parting column, when everyone else had. She was the daughter who’d always been there—if you were getting all #familyfirst about it. Olivia had only come home because she had nowhere else to sit out her quarantine.

She opened the kitchen door. Jesse and her father were surrounded by ingredients, both wearing aprons that barely reached their thighs. Andrew was refilling two glasses of whiskey and ice cubes. The smell reminded her of the Southern Comfort George drank at Edinburgh. He called it “SoCo,” she remembered, cringing. The urge to confront him about Jesse’s theory had already faded. He’d never admit it, even if it was true.

Andrew raised his glass as she came in. “Daddy,” she said, “dilemma—it’s not a big deal for me to miss dinner tonight, right?”

“What?” he said jovially.

“It’s OK if I’m out tonight, isn’t it?”

“Of course—so long as you’re here for the fatted calf. Corn-fed chicken, rather.”