Chapter xxviii
xxviii
WHEN DARREN brINGS THE KIDS BACK TO MY HOUSE on Saturday nights, there’s less of a set tradition than when I bring the kids to his. I know they’ll arrive around seven P.M., right after they finish dinner at his place. Sometimes they walk over with Courtney and the twins in tow. Sometimes they come with bags of treats, other times not. Sometimes, if they’re running late, Darren or Courtney drives them the few blocks, the kids tumbling over each other like puppies when they pull up in front of my stoop. That night Darren drove them over, and Liam jumped out of the car first to get a set of kid-sized crutches from the trunk to hand to Sammy.
“Oh!” I said. “Hadn’t heard about those.” I was thinking about our house, the stairs, the narrow hallway the bedrooms all spun off of.
“Only a couple more days,” Sammy said. “And Liam figured out how I can go up and down stairs on my butt, so it’s not a big deal.” Darren’s house had a lot of stairs, too.
Violet pulled everyone’s backpacks out of the trunk, gave Liam his, and held on to hers and Sam’s.
Then Darren drove away, and I hugged all three of my kids at once.
“How was Key West?” I asked, taking Sam’s backpack from Violet.
“Fun minus the foot problem,” Sammy said. “Lots of other stuff happened, too.”
“Oh?” I asked. “Nice,” Liam said at the same time.
“It was cool to see everyone and celebrate Nana’s birthday,” Violet added, “but we missed you.”
I’ve wondered for years if Violet says things like that because she doesn’t want me to feel bad when they have fun without me. Or if she truly means it. It’s been so hard for me to know how much she’s anticipating my feelings and how much she’s sharing her own.
When we got to the stoop, Liam took Sam’s crutches, and Sammy sat on his butt and bumped himself up the stairs backward.
“Easy peasy,” he said.
“As easy as telling a story,” I answered.
He smiled at me. “Speaking of stories,” he said. “You won’t believe what Harry did!” Harry was Darren’s youngest sister’s youngest son, who had just turned two.
“He’s a real pain in the butt,” Liam added. “I know he’s little and whatever, but a real pain.”
“He’s not that bad,” Violet added. “He’s just a little kid.”
“Little kids can be pains in the butt,” Liam said.
“He’s just kind of bananas,” Sam said as he crutched himself over to the living room couch and sat down. “He, like, literally ran around with a pull-up on his head for probably ten minutes, and then peed on the floor. Dude, the pull-up was on your head!”
Violet laughed and I did too.
“I know some two-year-olds who were equally bananas,” I said.
“Not us,” Liam said. “No way.”
“Way,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Now, I know you had dinner at your dad’s, but what about dessert?”
“Well,” said Sam, “we each got one cookie, but that doesn’t seem like a whole dessert.”
“Agree,” said Liam. “How about we finish dessert here?”
I just love those kids, Gabe. They are my whole heart.
“Sounds like a perfect plan,” I said. “I picked up some ice cream this afternoon.”
Liam headed to the freezer, and Violet helped Sammy up so he could crutch his way to the table.
Italy seemed like a distant memory.
LATER THAT NIGHT, I WENT THROUGH YOUR BOXES again, looking for the right envelope that might have the Lampedusa photos in it. I knew what dates to look for, approximately, but there were so many envelopes, so many photographs.
I picked up the photo of you and your mom again and put it up on my dresser while I searched. I found what seemed like it might be the right envelope and opened it up. Inside was a flash drive that, when I opened it on my computer, had photos that looked like the ones from the library.
I opened up a new email to Eric Weiss: Jackpot , I typed, then attached one of the photos. The file size was so big that I uploaded the rest to my Google Drive and sent him the link. Anything else you need? I added at the bottom.
I put the flash drive back into the envelope and started getting ready for bed.
As I climbed under the covers, exhausted, my WhatsApp pinged. It was Dax.
Hope you got home safely. Thanks again for such a great night. We brought 200 people to shore just after you left yesterday, so it’s been incredibly busy. And now a case of strep throat seems to have broken out among the crew of the Maspero.
I wasn’t sure what to write. I’d told him I was bad news, but being with him, eating dinner with him, sleeping next to him, walking hand-in-hand—it had felt wonderful, so much better than I was willing to admit to myself. But had it felt good enough to quell the fear of letting someone new into my heart?
Thanks , I wrote. Home safe and sound. Thank you again for a great night too. And glad you were there to help the people who arrived. Good luck with all the strep. Hope you don’t get it—
His response came back quickly: Even if I do, I have friends here with prescription pads, so should be okay.
I gave him a thumbs-up, and our conversation seemed to end there.
Now that I was back in my house, back to reality, the whole trip to Italy seemed like a fever dream that somehow had real-life consequences. A fantasy with a serious realization at its core I closed my eyes and wondered what I would dream about that night.
The answer, Gabe, was you.