Christopher called me before his trip, Isabella continued. I didn’t tell you this, it didn’t seem relevant. Now, of course, I wonder. He left a message, saying that he had something important to tell me.
Her voice was questioning, probing. I was unable to look at her. Christopher must have decided to tell Isabella that we were separated. I leaned back into my seat—it was more upsetting than I would have thought likely or even possible, so it had been truly over for him, with no hope of reconciliation or repair. I must have been flushed or breathing strangely, I felt myself to be on the verge of tears. Mark suddenly leaned forward and asked if I needed some water, I waved my hand to say no. I saw him exchange a glance with Isabella.
She cleared her throat.
Of course, we wondered if you were pregnant, Isabella said. He said that he had something important to tell me. And the fact that you weren’t traveling—
I looked at her in bewilderment. She could not keep herself from looking at me with hope, it was another question that was concealed as a statement, he died loved, we wondered if you were. I did not immediately reply—I was too surprised, although I shouldn’t have been, what else does a mother hope for, when her son gets married, but the issue of progeny? The horror of other people’s expectations. And yet I could understand that unruly hope, which would have been made stronger by the premature death of Christopher, her only son.
Her eyes were still resting on my face, it was pure fantasy or delusion, an idea that had passed through her mind—something important to tell you, like taken care of, is a phrase that seems to have a single meaning, until it doesn’t—and then taken root. In her gaze there were shades of both avarice and distrust, I possessed something that she wanted, some kernel of information (was I pregnant or was I not?) or even the embryonic kernel itself, the fantasized grandchild. I was a hope, that something might yet redeem the unfortunate hell of her only son, senselessly murdered, I was the possibility of a continuation that would not undo the death of her child, but might nonetheless in some way mitigate it.
It would be so much better that way. A grandchild, Christopher’s child. The child in which the features of the son would be visible, a resurrection of sorts. Also—the thought built into the fantasy from the start, integral to its allure, Isabella would have admitted it to herself, if to no one else—then the money, not just Christopher’s money but theirs, all their money, would pass to a descendant, someone they could rightly call an heir. There were no other descendants and I was nothing but a dead end, undoubtedly I would marry again (undoubtedly I would).
I did not blame Isabella for making so callous a calculation—I did not blame her, but I believed her to be capable of it—it seemed natural, perhaps I would have felt the same. And I wished that I could say yes. For a brief moment, it was as incomprehensible to me as it was to Isabella: Christopher was gone and there was nothing, no material remnant—which is what children are, in one sense—nothing but a web of emotions, which would fade with time.
I was not pregnant. The money would not pass from blood to blood. Isabella and Mark would disperse their money amongst various charities.
I’m not pregnant, I said.
She nodded, it was as she had expected, it had only been a hope after all. She lowered her head. As I watched, suspicion crept into her eyes—quickly, as if the emotion had already been lurking, as if it were to hand. I could have told her then—the idea had already half come to her, it was a mere suspicion, but the germ of it had sprung, if I wasn’t pregnant, what then had Christopher wanted to tell her?—she would have been upset but perhaps not entirely surprised. It would have been another terrible adjustment, but after the adjustment of death, the idea that her son was no longer alive and in the world, would this secondary adjustment have meant so much, would it have meant anything at all?
I hesitated—the words were simple enough to say, Christopher and I had separated, that is why I did not come to Greece—and yet the words were impossible to say, they were repulsive to me, a truth I could no longer bear to articulate. I would have sooner invented some perpetual fiction, an alternate reality, in fact we had been talking about having a child, Christopher had been hard at work on his book, he had been very close to finishing, as soon as he was finished writing we would start trying in earnest.
Abruptly, she turned away.
It’s terrible to think that Christopher left nothing behind.
There is his work, I said. He was so close to finishing the book. He came to Greece on his own because he needed to concentrate on his writing, he got so much more work done when he was alone.
There is his work, she repeated.
Perhaps we could set up a fund in Christopher’s name.