Chapter Seven
Eliza huddled under her quilt in a long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants. She was exhausted, but every time she closed her eyes they popped open again, staring at the shadowy ceiling. When Laura died, Eliza’s brain had forgotten how to regulate her sleep-wake cycle. She’d longed to curl up under the covers and seize unconsciousness, but no matter when she went to bed, she’d be wide awake at 4:00 a.m. Ever since, the fear of losing the ability to sleep again had buzzed beneath the surface whenever she went to bed. Having someone in bed with her was an effective way of turning the volume down on that fear, but when Carter had texted her You up? a few minutes earlier, she’d ignored him.
There was no doubt he could provide pleasant distraction, so she wasn’t sure why she didn’t even consider texting back. Well, for more than three seconds, anyway. Or why she’d had the urge to fling her phone across the room when the text came in.
She’d spent more time Googling Ross Sawyer, but there were too many in the right age bracket to know which one was her mom’s ex-boyfriend. Her father. She suspected he wasn’t the minister in Iowa. But there was a vice president at a Manhattan-based bank who was the right age. And a blogger on Medium who had written a single post about sticking to your New Year’s resolutions. And a Boston College alumnus who had donated at the “Friend” level to the school’s endowment fund. And a few others whose age she couldn’t figure out. But nothing included information either confirming or denying that he’d grown up in the Albany suburb Laura hailed from.
Mo continued to advise caution since this man was, obviously, a complete stranger, whoever he was. But it was more complicated than that. Jack?—the man she’d called Dad all her life?—had just died. Suddenly. Without warning.
When Laura had passed away (Eliza hated that phrase?—there was nothing gentle about the demarcation between life and death), they’d known it was coming. Eliza had come straight home from school every day, doing her homework at the coffee table while her mom rested in the recliner. And, later, at a snack table in her bedroom when Laura could barely get out of bed. They talked about school, and Eliza’s friends, and even what college might be like?—knowing it was too soon for her to have any idea where she’d go, but that Laura would be gone long before the decision was made.
Eliza knew how Laura’s skin changed, and how she could feel the bones in her mother’s fingers when she held her hand. When hospice nurses came and the morphine dose was raised, she started to stay home from school, so that when her mom’s eyes fluttered open in a moment of alertness, she’d be there to tell her that she loved her.
Jack and Scott were there, too, but were hazy in Eliza’s memories. Scott was a senior and playing varsity tennis. Jack went to work, and when he came home, he immediately flipped on the TV. She couldn’t understand why they didn’t want to hold on to every Laura-minute while they could.
And then Laura was gone. And Eliza forgot how to sleep.
But when Jack died, it was a lightning bolt. Eliza couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken. Probably nearly a month before. And the last time she’d seen him? She’d been talked into attending the Fourth of July barbecue he and Carol hosted every year. Which, whether it was intentional or not, always felt like an ode to the graduation party at which they’d met, only a month after Laura’s death.
The truth was, Eliza might as well have lost Jack at the same time she lost Laura. And now she’d lost any chance of ever getting him back?—even as she had a new potential father dangling in front of her. A part of her felt guilty for even considering displacing the dad she’d lost, the dad who hadn’t been there for her as she wanted him to be, but who?—she had to admit?—she’d probably helped push away. But another part of her wondered if, as unlikely as it seemed, maybe Ross was the dad who could actually understand her. Could give her something she’d been missing since Laura died. Something that felt like unconditional love.
By the time Eliza finally fell asleep, she’d decided she couldn’t put off talking to Aunt Claude any longer. When her eyes popped open at 4:26 a.m., before she could change her mind, she shot off a quick text that Claude answered at 7:03. It must have been the first thing she did before she got out of bed. Eliza could picture her, pushing her dark hair behind her ear and reaching for her reading glasses to look at her phone. And then immediately typing a response.
Mere hours later, Claude was at the door of her apartment, carrying a white bakery box. Why does food play such a big role in grief?
“Eliza...” Claude’s voice trailed off, her lips pressed together.
Eliza smiled sadly in response.
“I brought pastries.” Claude held the box aloft. “Are you eating?”
“Sort of.”
The expression on her aunt’s face suggested that she could recognize a lie when she saw one.
“Well, you’re not going to be able to resist these.” She opened the lid and tilted the box toward Eliza, simultaneously flipping back the wax paper to reveal the crowded collection of mini cannoli, sfogliatelle, madeleines, cream puffs, and napoleons.
“I’ll get some plates.” She went into her matchbox kitchen and pulled a couple of square white dishes from the cabinet alongside the refrigerator. “Do you want anything to drink? I can make tea.”
“Sure, if you’re getting it for yourself.”
Eliza busied herself with the teapot while Claude took off her quilted jacket. When Eliza turned back toward her, Claude was gazing around the apartment, seemingly looking for something.
“Just put your jacket wherever. No coat closet. No coatrack.”
Claude laughed softly. “Right. New York City apartments.” Once she’d arranged it on one of the two chairs that hunched around the small table alongside the refrigerator, she moved toward Eliza, who was dropping tea bags into two mugs. One had the NOY logo on it; the other was white with blue block lettering: Life’s a bitch, and then you die. Eliza picked that one up and held it toward Claude.
“Kinda perfect, right?” she asked.
Claude sighed. “Eliza. I don’t even know what to say.”
Eliza shrugged in response. “There’s nothing to say. Anyway, sit. Sofa is comfier than the table.”
A few minutes later, they were seated on the couch, the box of pastries open on the coffee table next to the envelope with Laura’s and Claude’s handwriting on it. Eliza had spent a long time turning her apartment into a home. She’d scoured thrift shops and boutiques choosing furniture and accent pieces, supplementing with Wayfair and Joss & Main. She especially loved the round distressed-wood coffee table and the plush area rug that was cozy under bare feet. Eclectic art, mostly purchased from street artists, decorated the soft gray walls.
Snuggled into the sofa with her feet tucked under her, Eliza took a small sip of her tea and then put the mug down. “So,” she started. “Here’s the letter.” She passed the envelope to Claude.
“You want me to read it?”
Eliza nodded, and watched her aunt slip the paper out of the envelope. She’d read it herself so many times that she almost thought she could recite it by heart as Claude read it silently. Her aunt’s eyes widened and she brought her hand to her mouth, glancing at Eliza before refocusing on the letter. When she finished reading, she carefully refolded the piece of paper and slid it back into the envelope. It was as if she’d been struck mute.
“So I guess you didn’t know?”
Claude shook her head slowly. “I’m speechless. I... I can’t believe Laura didn’t tell me. I can’t believe Laura...” Her voice trailed off.
Eliza bit the inside of her lip. Her aunt was her only hope when it came to getting information about her father. “Do you remember him? Ross Sawyer?”
Claude stared at her for a moment before seeming to realize that she was expected to answer. “Sure. Of course. He and your mom were together for a long time. A couple of years at least. They started dating sophomore year in high school, I think.”
“What was he like?” Eliza reached for a cream puff from the box and brought it to her mouth before realizing she didn’t think she could swallow a single bite. She dropped it onto one of the plates instead.
Her aunt made a sound like a laugh. “It’s funny. I kinda had a crush on him myself. I mean, I was twelve when he started coming around... Cool older guy...” She made air quotes around the word older .
“He was cool?” Eliza had a sudden, ridiculous image of someone resembling the Fonz?—or James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause ?—sauntering through her grandparents’ living room.
“Oh, I don’t know what I meant by that.” Claude stared off into the middle distance for a moment. “I remember when he got his license?—he’d saved up for a car. It was blue. God. I know that’s not telling you anything.”
Eliza shook her head, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking.
“Let’s see. He was tall. At least, he seemed tall to me. Taller than your mom. Sandy hair, kind of curly. Our dad?—Grandpa?—used to say he should get a haircut. He was lanky.” She paused. “There have to be photos somewhere. I know your mom had some up in her room. I doubt she would have thrown them away. Or at least the yearbook. For sure that’s still around.”
“Where?”
Claude shrugged. “I don’t know. It could be in the attic at your parents’ house... I mean...” Claude suddenly stopped, clearly hung up on the word parents .
“I know what you mean. I mean?—my dad is my dad. Jack, I mean. He raised me.”
Claude nodded. “Jack and Ross were pretty different, actually,” she said thoughtfully.
Eliza pushed her cold hands under her thighs. “In what way?”
“This is going to sound woo-woo...” She fluttered her fingers in the air. “But they had a different energy. Jack was always steady. Ross bounced in different directions. He had trouble sitting still. He’d jump up from his chair a lot. Fiddle with things. Wow. I hadn’t thought of that in?—well?—forever. It drove Grandma insane. After he left our house, there’d always be a ballpoint pen taken apart. He talked about doing stuff like taking time off after high school and going cross-country on a motorcycle.”
Eliza had that flash of James Dean again. Maybe it wasn’t so far off.
“He wanted to change the world. I remember Grandma saying he could get his college degree and then change the world.”
“Why did they break up?”
Claude bit her lower lip. “I’m trying to remember. They stayed together for a while after they left for college. Ross went to... it was Hamilton or Haverford... I can’t remember. Small school kinda around here. You know this was all before cell phones and email. They talked on the phone, but it was hard because of the time difference with Laura in California. There was a big fight, though. I think Ross met someone else...? Laura was really upset?—but she didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And then she met Dad? Jack?”
Claude nodded. “You know this part. He was in business school. Your mom was working in the library, and he started going there to study when she was at the circulation desk.”
This was the family lore. When Eliza had seen The Music Man , she’d pictured her dad as Harold Hill, romancing Marian in the Gary, Indiana, library?—though Jack was hardly someone who would dance around among the stacks. At least not the Jack she knew.
“It’s funny,” Claude continued, “they really were different?—in what they cared about, and how they carried themselves?—but they were both pretty... I don’t know. Strong-minded? What was right and what was wrong was pretty clear for both of them.”
“Dad certainly never hesitated to share his opinions.”
“Nope. And neither did Ross. Funny. Never thought about that before...”
“Why would you? You probably forgot Ross existed.”
“True.” Claude took a sip of her tea and put the cup down on the table. “Sorry, Lize. I just don’t know what to say. I can’t believe it.”
“Me either.” She twisted her fingers together. “Did Mom talk about him at all? Was he ‘the one who got away’?”
Claude shook her head. “I don’t remember her ever saying anything. But when you kids were little she was always so busy and overwhelmed?—and then I had my kids. We were close, but we didn’t talk all the time. I can barely even remember her going to that reunion.”
“What about Dad? Jack? The letter said that their marriage wasn’t great.”
Claude sighed. “What marriage doesn’t have its ups and downs? Look?—I wasn’t ever super close to your dad. I think you know that. So if your mom was going to complain about him, it wouldn’t have been to me. If that makes sense.”
“So who would she have talked to?”
“Good question. Maybe no one.”
One dead end after another.
Poor choice of words.
Claude picked up the envelope again and ran her finger along the words on the outside. “All the years she kept this secret. I can’t even imagine what that was like for her. I wish...” Her voice faded away, and she blinked rapidly before clearing her throat to begin again. “So, what are you going to do now?”
“Honestly? I have no clue. Do you have any idea what happened to him? Ross Sawyer?”
Her aunt shook her head.
“Scott doesn’t think I should look for him. That Dad is Dad and that’s that.”
“Well, all due respect to Scott?—it’s not his decision.” Claude put her mug down on the coffee table and reached for Eliza’s hands. “Only you can decide what to do about this. But if you want my advice... give yourself some time. You just lost your second parent. This is huge news. Don’t rush into anything.”
Eliza knew that was sound advice. But she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to take it.