My apartment wasn’t, actually. But just that morning, my mother had told me I could take one of the beds and whatever else I wanted from her place—and there was certainly plenty to choose from—so I could move up there right away. Except every time I went up there, I kept having the same thought.
And that was that I just could not imagine my baby up there. There was nothing wrong with the single set of stairs, or the size of the apartment, or the view of southwest Brooklyn, which was actually pretty nice. It was just that when I imagined having a child, I pictured a grassy yard where they could play, and a cute little bungalow where you didn’t have to worry about whether the upstairs or downstairs neighbors would be awoken by the sound of your baby wailing, and—well, something decidedly other than the way I’d grown up. It wasn’t that my mother and father had done such an awful job, or that being a kid in New York had ruined me. But wasn’t part of the point of parenthood the opportunity to do it differently than your own parents had? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that, more than anything, raising my child in Michigan would be symbolic. I loved my mother, but I was not going to be the kind of mother she’d been.
“Mom calls them all mew,” I said to Hadley, but she was frowning at our mother, who was holding the tabby up to her face.
“Careful with your eyes, Mom—it could scratch your cornea! Or give you rabies,” she said with a shudder. She turned back to me. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, and they’ll all be vaccinated by tomorrow,” I said. More quietly, I whispered, “Give Mom a break. She’s been through a lot.”
“Yeah, well, so have I,” she volleyed back. “Forgive me for wanting to spare myself from yet another trip to the hospital.”
I looked at her. She was wearing the same button-down she’d been wearing the day before. I wasn’t one to judge; since Belle had died, it was all I could do to put pants on each day, and if I didn’t have a reason to leave the house, sometimes I simply didn’t bother. But for Hadley, her outfit was a sign she was running herself ragged. And although I did still feel guilty about my role in that, I had a feeling there was more to it than whether or not I was playing caregiver.
“Hey, Mom? Hadley and I are going to go make you a snack,” I said, grabbing my sister’s elbow lightly. “Watch the kitten, please.”
“Happy to, but I’m not really hungry,” said my mother.
“That’s okay,” I called. “Remember the doctor told you to make sure you were getting enough calories? We’ll be right back.”
“What is it?” Hadley said as I pulled her into the kitchen.
I turned to face her. It was just Hadley—the sister I’d known for nearly thirty-eight years, who’d been through most of the best and worst moments of my life with me. There was no need to feel nervous.
But I was. Because beneath her tough exterior, she seemed . . . vulnerable. I wasn’t used to that. And I really didn’t want to make it worse.
I took a deep breath. “Had, what’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” she said grumpily. “Mom just got back from the hospital, I don’t know what we’re going to do about her long-term, let alone next month, and Ainsley was up at three in the morning to nurse. Forgive me if I’m not in the best mood.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “It’s something else.”
“I’m fine, Laine,” she said, but she was looking out the window at the back patio where Josh was sweeping the pavers; the man truly didn’t have an off switch.
“You’re worried that I might not stay,” I said.
She looked at me briefly. “Well, it wouldn’t make things easier for us if you didn’t.”
“But? There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
Instead of answering me, she lowered herself to the floor. Then she leaned against the cupboard and put her head in her hands.
She looked so small and helpless and unlike her usual take-charge self that I almost wondered if I should have brought it up.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it right now,” I said, squatting beside her. “But I know something’s wrong, Hadley, and I don’t want to pretend otherwise.”
She didn’t say anything for a long time. But when she did turn to look at me, her eyes were full of tears. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty for going home. It’s just that everything feels so hard right now,” she said in a choked voice.
I wiggled closer and sat down beside her. “I know.”
“But it’s not supposed to feel hard.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because what?” I pressed.
“I have two beautiful children. A husband who’s crazy about me. A job I love but don’t actually have to do because I don’t need the money.”
“Yeah, you pretty much won the life lottery,” I said with a small smile. I was pretty sure that the grass was still greener over on Hadley’s side, but our conversation was reminding me that every yard had plenty of weeds. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel bad.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Laine—I know you’re getting ready to try to get pregnant. I’m not trying to scare you.”
“You’re not,” I said, and, in fact, I had half a mind to thank her. She’d reminded me of how difficult it was to raise kids—not only in New York, even if you had every resource known to womankind, but just in general. I’d been thinking about juggling raising a child and caring for my mother in the broadest possible terms. I knew tackling both was going to be hard, but I’d been telling myself it was doable. Listening to Hadley, though, made me think I’d been selling myself a fable. Was it even possible to be a parent and a full-time caregiver?
I wasn’t sure that it was.
I swallowed hard, trying to think about how I was going to phrase what I wanted to say. After a moment, I added, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here more to pitch in up until this point. I really didn’t understand how bad it had gotten. To be honest, I don’t know if I’m going to stay in New York. But I’m going to figure out a way to support you and Piper. And Mom, of course,” I said. “You know how you told me I didn’t have to do the whole mothering thing alone?”
She nodded.
“Well, you don’t have to feel like you have to deal with the situation with Mom alone. I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks, Laine,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder.
“No, thank you,” I said, leaning my head on hers.
“By the way,” she said quietly, “I’m glad you and Ben are talking again. Maybe this sounds weird, but you look . . . younger when you’re around him.”
“You’re such a weirdo,” I said, swatting at her.
But it occurred to me that I kind of felt younger, too.
Or maybe it was just that right between the stress and grief, a sliver of light was shining through, hinting that something brighter was still up ahead.
On my suggestion, Hadley decided to head home to take a nap and try to recover from the chaos of the past twenty-four hours. My mother was still manhandling the kitten when I went back to her room, but the tiny beast didn’t seem to mind. I wondered how old it was. Old enough to survive without a parent. I looked at it, and then at my mother, and suddenly felt incredibly sad. One day soon, I’d be surviving without a parent, too.
“You girls have a heart-to-heart?” she said, twirling one of the strings on her bathrobe in front of the cat, who batted at it wildly.
“A little,” I said.
“You must have plenty to talk about, with me losing my memory,” she said, waving the hand she wasn’t using to bait the kitten.
This was the first time I’d heard her state it as fact, and I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Yes,” I said, sitting on the stool near the end of her bed.
“Laine, the thing is, I do remember most things,” she said, not really looking at me. “Well, at least I think I do. It’s a real brainteaser, losing your memory.”
“You’ve been telling us you were fine, Mom,” I said. “But finding you in the park . . . it tells me that maybe you’re not. So I’m glad you’re talking about it.”
“I’d like to think I’m fine, but yes—maybe I’m not, Laine. I don’t know.” She looked sad as she glanced away.
“I’m sorry. That’s got to be terrible.”