I lean over and kiss her forehead, then push myself off the bed and head for the door.
“Aunt Ruth,” Eden calls to me. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “Did you ever like a boy who didn’t like you back?”
I take a quick breath, then clear my throat to mask my discomfort. I cross back to the bed and peer down at her.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” I think of Charlie, and the men and boys who came before him. I think of my college years, when unrequited love was the norm.
Eden sighs. “It’s kind of a bummer, huh?”
“Totally,” I say. I sit back down and gently run my fingers through her strawberry-blonde locks. This is a moment I’ll treasure, a private, quiet interlude between my niece and me.
“But, you know, Eden. Any boy that you like, who doesn’t like you, well, that boy isn’t the brightest watt in the bulb. Not very smart, if you ask me. Because you are amazing.”
“You have to say that because you’re my aunt.”
“I don’t have to say any such thing,” I tell her. “I say it because it’s true.”
“Thanks, Aunt Ruth,” she says.
“Feel better?” I ask.
She gives me a half smile. “Not really.”
I chuckle and tweak her nose. “That’s okay. You will. I promise.”
I kiss her again, then get up and move to the hallway, then head for Jonah’s room.
My nephew’s night-light is Thomas the Train and casts a blue hue over his skin, making it look deathly pale, almost translucent. The stuffed monkey is firmly in his grasp, its head tucked into the hollow of his neck. Jonah’s eyes are closed, and his breathing is so deep and steady that I think he’s asleep. But when I bend over to kiss his cheek, his eyes pop open.
“Hi, Auntie Ruth. We were waiting for you. Marco wanted to say thanks for the lasagna. He told me it was the best lasagna he’s ever had, like, in the entire world.”
“Well, I’m so glad to hear that.” I sit on his bed, as I did in Eden’s room, and stroke Jonah’s forehead. He looks so much like Sam, barely a trace of Rachel in him. I wonder, as I gaze at his dark curls and dark-brown eyes, what my son would have looked like, if Charlie and I had been blessed with one. Would he have taken all of his father’s attributes? Or would I be able to see some of myself in him?
Useless questions. Worse than useless. Masochistic.
“I can’t wait for Marco and me to stay over at your house,” he says, his voice thick with fatigue. I don’t correct him by pointing out that my home is an apartment, not a house. Children are forgiving and easy-going and accepting. Until they’re not. So I’ve heard.
“I think Marco would like your tuna melts.” He yawns.
“Well, everyone else does.”
“Got any bugs at your house, Auntie Ruth? Marco likes bugs almost as much as me.”
I smile down at him and pat his arm. “I think I might have a few cockroaches.”
His eyes go round at that. “Cockroaches are super cool. They got an exoskeleton, and that means their bones are on the outside. And if the world blew up, cockroaches would live through it and you can, like, put ’em in the microwave for like five minutes, and they’ll be just fine and dandy.”
I stifle a shudder. “Isn’t that interesting.”
He yawns again. “Okay, night-night, Auntie Ruth.”
“Good night, little man.” I kiss his cheek for the second time, then pull his covers over his chest and tuck them around him.
I stand and gaze at him, marveling at his preciousness. I think of my few cherished minutes with Eden.
I am not a mother, nor will I ever be. This is the closest to motherhood I will ever get.
I soak it in, revel in it, and cloak myself with it, as though it is armor, as though it will protect me and bolster me for the moment so soon to come, when will I return, alone, to my empty apartment.
FORTY-NINE
SHADOW
I like this time of night, because my ears get to rest. Not that they don’t hear things. They hear everything. They hear the buzz of the poles on the sidewalk outside the house, and the cars—not just the ones that pass on the dark strip outside, but farther away. And they hear the critters outside and the hum inside the walls of the house, and sometimes a big roaring sound from the sky. But at this time, there’s less for my ears to hear, and that means I can sleep good.
I’m not sleeping now because I can’t. My master isn’t home. And usually he’s home this time of night, when the light leaves the sky and it’s black outside and the sounds get less in my ears. But he’s not here now, and I won’t go to sleep until all my humans are here.
Little Female and Little Male are upstairs. When I sniff the air, I can tell that they are both not sleeping. Their smell is awake. But they are quiet. I smell them being tired.
My mistress sits at the table in the food-smelling room. I am in the couch room because that room is closest to the door, and I can greet my master when he comes in. But my mistress smells different tonight. Usually, she smells like happy face and outside air. But not now.
I get up on all my paws. I am going to the food-smelling room, but first my paws take me to the window. I look outside the glass, but I can’t see when it’s black outside. I sniff the air, but I can’t smell the cat.
I trot into the food-smelling room and go to the table, where my mistress sits. She looks down at her little screen. Her face is not mad and it’s not happy, but her eyes are frowning. She puts the little screen thing on the table and picks up a glass bowl with a long glass leg, filled with something that smells like I wouldn’t think it’s tasty. She drinks it down, then looks at me. She pats my head and scratches under my chin and tells me I’m a Good Boy. But the sound of her voice makes me think that even though she said it, she’s not really thinking about me.
I sit next to my mistress’s feet, then slide into down, even though my mistress didn’t tell me down. I roll over so that my belly is facing my mistress. When I do this, my humans always reach over and scratch my belly, like they can’t help themselves. But my mistress isn’t even looking at me.
I roll back to down and look up at her. She empties the glass bowl with the glass leg and sets it on the table, then looks at me. She smiles, and it is a good smile. It’s the smile that tells me she’s about to get down on the floor with me. And she does, putting each leg on either side of me and her arms around me and scratching me until my back paw starts shaking without me wanting it to.
A part of me wants to go back to the couch-room bed to wait for my master, but I can’t leave the scratching and tickling and lovies from my mistress. My mistress is the best human when it comes to lovies. I think I like her lovies better than food. Maybe.
When she stops, I’ll go back to my couch-room bed. And even though I can’t tell how the time passes, I hope she doesn’t stop for a long while.
FIFTY
JONAH