She would always miss Tommy—there was no stray piece of her that wasn’t always missing him. But this other child, this child who was not Tommy, had brought a sweet taste to a mouth that had been filled with bitterness. They had been through it, the two of them, and there was that bond that she knew would always be between them.
When they’d said good-bye at the airport he had held on to her for a long time, and she was surprised to realize she couldn’t speak for a minute. Finally she’d said, “I’ll see you in Brooklyn.”
“Okay.”
“Will you show me your room?”
He nodded. “I’ve got stars in my room.”
“Stars? Really?”
“They’re glow-in-the-dark stickers. On the ceiling. All the constellations. My mom put them up there.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see them.”
She made herself smile. She was still holding Noah by the shoulders and he had his hands on her waist, as if they were dancing. She didn’t want to let go of him. She wasn’t sure she could. Around her the other figures were insubstantial, blurry: she saw Janie glancing at her watch and Dr. Anderson speaking softly to Charlie. Then Charlie put his heavy hand on her back and said, “C’mon, Mama, they’ve got to get to their gate,” and she knew she had to do it (Let go) and she let him go.
The three of them walked away from her and stood at the end of the security line: Dr. Anderson, a stiff man like her father had been, of that same breed—farmers and doctors who took their jobs seriously, who had kindness in them under all that proper bearing; and Janie, another mother who was doing her best with the job she was given; and that little boy with the yellow hair for whom she had some love in her heart, no use denying it. (Let go.)
For goodness’ sake, Denise. She’d kept her shit together while the winds of hell were blowing fiery sparks into her mouth, she could certainly keep it together now. She forced herself to watch as they joined the line of people carrying whatever they were allowed to bring with them on their way from this place to the next. Beside her Charlie stood up tall like a man and she was grateful for his steadying hand.
Now she glanced at him in the car. He was looking out the window, having his Charlie thoughts—what did that boy think about? She’d have to find out. She’d have to ask him. He was drumming a beat with his fingers on the windowpane.
Maybe he was thinking about Henry. All these years he’d been the one insisting that she had to face it, that Tommy was dead and never coming back, and yet the discovery of Tommy’s bones had completely undone him. He’d never believed in the death penalty, thought it was unfairly applied and racially skewed, but now he was bitter that the prosecution wasn’t talking about it for Tommy’s murderer, who had been so young at the time. Death consumed him. Still, maybe she’d call him and ask him to come over for dinner. And if he said no, she’d keep trying, and one of these days he might do it.
What she had said to Henry at the graveside was true: she did miss Tommy every second of every day. She missed him and yet she felt his presence at the same time, not in the other child but all around, and she couldn’t hold on to it or make sense of it, any more than she could hold on to Tommy, any more than she could understand why she opened her heart so instantly to Noah or why her love for Henry was an ache she couldn’t get rid of.
“You okay, Mama?”
He’d been watching her. He was always watching her, her Charlie. She turned around to face him. “I’m fine, honey. I truly am. I just need another minute.”
“All right.”
She turned off the engine and they sat in the driveway in the dark.
Forty-Three
Only the good-byes to get through, Anderson thought, as he passed into the busy throng of humanity waiting for loved ones at the baggage claim. All around them families craned their necks eagerly, or fell upon their relatives with cries and hugs and handfuls of balloons. Fathers lifted daughters high up in their arms.
People used to reunite at the gates, but that was a different era. Now people claimed each other and their luggage in this grim, cavernous space, calling out “Mine.” This is mine, the blue one. You’re mine. A young beauty in cutoff blue jeans searched the crowd; an older, heavyset woman stepped forward and enveloped her in her arms.
Only the good-byes to get through—and then—
“All set?” Janie put a hand on his shoulder. They knew each other better now, had achieved that intimacy, whether he liked it or not. She was worried about him. He looked away.
“My car is in the parking lot.” He gestured with his chin. “Do you want a lift?”
“We’ll just take a taxi,” she said, and he nodded, his mind crowing with relief. He would not have to speak then, not after the next few minutes. In his mind he was already on the road in his car, moving through the quiet night. “It’s the wrong way for you,” she added. “Or, if you want, it’s so late to drive, you can stay the night with us until morning. We have a pull-out couch—”
“I’ll be fine.” He avoided her eyes. There was too much warmth there. He didn’t want her to care about him. He was already gone.