Broken Country (Reese’s Book Club)

19. 1968

1968

Every day at Meadowlands the phone rings dead-on six o’clock. It’s my signal to go home, and let Leo speak to his mother, who is calling from California to say good night. She’s coming over for a visit soon and Leo talks of little else.

Leo races to pick up the phone. “Hello, Mama!”

He sounds so happy to hear her. I can’t imagine how it must tug at his mother’s heart, being on the other side of the Atlantic, hearing her child’s voice but not being able to see him. I wonder how she bears it.

Gabriel told me the only reason he has temporary custody of Leo is because his wife was feeling so guilty about falling in love with someone else, she gave Leo the choice: America with her, or England with his father? For now, he’s chosen England.

I am only half listening to Leo as he tells his mother about his day, a story he wrote during English, the boy in his class who was sent out for saying a rude word.

“Bollocks,” Leo says, just as Gabriel comes into the room.

“Charming,” says his father.

We both turn in alarm when Leo shouts: “Are you kidding me? You’re not coming?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, listening, and although his body is turned away from us, I read his despair in every curve.

“That’s not a reason, that’s an excuse, you just don’t want to come,” he yells, dropping the phone and running from the kitchen.

Gabriel starts berating his ex—“For God’s sake, do you think you might have told me first so I could have broken it to him gently? Can you really not come?”—when the front door slams.

I am torn, wondering if I should leave Leo alone with his anger or go after him. Sometimes I get the feeling Leo is hanging on by a thread and the only thing that has kept him going is the thought of his mother’s visit.

I find him sitting in front of the lake. He doesn’t look up as I approach.

“I’ll go away again if that’s what you want.”

Leo says nothing.

“I know how much you were looking forward to seeing her.”

“She only cares about the baby.”

“Why can’t she come?”

“Because of him, of course. He’s teething. Too miserable to fly. It’s just an excuse.”

“I suppose that might be hard. Babies aren’t very good at traveling.”

“She could leave him behind.”

“Easier said than done with a baby. They take a lot of looking after.”

“I thought you were meant to be on my side.”

He doesn’t sound like him; there are brittle, hard edges to his voice, and something else, a thickness that makes me think Leo is holding back tears.

“I am on your side. One hundred percent. And so is she. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

“You’d never have left your son behind in a different country. I’ve seen your face when you look at the photo of him in your bag.”

His words knock the breath out of me. I keep a photo of Bobby with me and I look at it so many times during the day I’m almost unaware I’m doing it. But to think of Leo, a boy who always tries to hide the missing of his mother, watching me, a woman who always tries to hide the missing of her son, shocks me. It is all the more obvious to me why Leo and I clicked straightaway, but it also feels increasingly dangerous. It’s not the real thing. I need to keep a grip on that.

“Look, here’s your dad,” I say, and we watch Gabriel hurrying across the grass toward us.

He sits down on the other side of Leo, puts an arm around his shoulder. “I’m really sorry,” he says.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough.”

Gabriel doesn’t say anything else and I think how sensible that is, his not trying to make things better, just accepting the disappointment and sadness which cannot be fixed for now.

After a moment, Leo drops his head onto Gabriel’s shoulder.

A hawk swoops from the sky in a dramatic curve, skimming the surface of the lake before settling on the grass.

“Look, a buzzard,” Gabriel says. “Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?”

“It’s a sparrow hawk, Dad. Buzzards are bigger, and their feathers are brown not gray.”

“Get you.” Gabriel punches him on the shoulder. “What else have you been learning behind my back, country boy?”

The lake is surrounded by woodland; it’s a haven for birds, particularly in early summer. Leo and I have been identifying them using a pair of binoculars that used to belong to Bobby.

“Bobby knew the names of hundreds of birds,” Leo says. “I only know a few so far.”

“Bobby?” Gabriel asks, then catches himself. “Beth’s son. Of course.”

Is it strange I talk to Leo about Bobby sometimes? He’s curious about him, probably because he is ten, just a year older than Bobby when he died. I like telling him about the things we used to do together. I like the fact Leo is getting to know Bobby, even a little bit, and talking about him helps me to keep his memory alive.

I listen as Leo tells Gabriel about the things Bobby could do. Milk cows, trill like a blackbird. He sounds almost proud of Bobby, a boy he will never meet. I feel touched by how much he has taken in.

But then Gabriel turns his gaze upon me and I see the question in his eyes. Why are you doing this? Why are you telling Leo about your dead child?