Chapter 5
IZZY
Mornings in my apartment are never graceful.
They are not the kind of morning you see in cereal commercials, where the parent smiles lovingly over a healthy breakfast while the child eats fruit in color-coordinated pajamas.
Mornings in my apartment means me standing in yesterday’s leggings, trying to butter toast one-handed while packing Noah’s school and afternoon daycare bags with the other and reminding him for the third time that socks are not optional in civilized society.
Noah, for the record, disagrees.
“Mom,” he says, dragging out the word in the long-suffering tone of a tiny man who has already endured too much in this life, “they itch.”
“They are socks,” I say. “Their whole thing is being on feet. They are not supposed to feel like clouds kissed by angels.”
He squints at me from his chair at the table. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“That’s because I haven’t had enough coffee yet.”
He accepts this. Noah accepts a lot of things from me that no adult ever would. One of the many perks of being six.
Or almost seven, as he reminds me roughly every two days.
The kitchen smells like toast, cheap coffee, and the eggs I somehow managed not to burn, which honestly feels like a personal triumph. Noah is working his way through breakfast with that serious little frown he gets when he is thinking hard about something.
He gets that from his father, too. The birthmark and the seriousness and the dark hair and dark eyes and straight features that will one day blossom into a GQ-worthy face.
I try not to think that too often. How much Noah resembles his father. But it’s impossible. He’s the spitting image in so many ways.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
He pokes a piece of egg with his fork and says, as if reading my mind, “Can you tell me about my dad now?”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Of course.
We have had this conversation before. Several times, in fact, just in different forms. Sometimes, it is a passing question.
Sometimes, it is more pointed. Other times, it comes out of nowhere, usually when I am least emotionally equipped to handle it, which is impressive considering I am almost never emotionally equipped to handle it.
I set my coffee down carefully and look at him.
“Noah,” I say gently, “we’ve had this talk before. I’ll tell you when you’re ready.”
His mouth tightens immediately. “But when am I gonna be ready?”
“When I say so.”
He drops his fork onto the plate with all the wounded drama his little body can produce.
“That’s not fair.”
“I know it doesn’t feel fair.”
“It isn’t.”
He’s getting louder now, and I can see where this is going. I also know better than to cut him off too early. There is no point. Once Noah has decided he is going to have feelings about something, those feelings will happen with or without my cooperation.
“I’m the only one,” he bursts out.
My chest tightens.
“The only one what?”
“The only one in class who doesn’t know.” His voice wobbles. “Everybody has a dad. Or they know about him. Or they have pictures. Some kids have two dads. But everybody knows.”
My heart shatters into a million pieces. “Oh, baby.”
“And Jack’s dad is dead, but he still knows who he was, and he has pictures, and his mom told him everything, so why am I the only one who can’t know?” His face crumples. “Why am I the only one?”
That does it.
He starts crying.
Guilt stabs between my ribs, hard.
My chair scrapes against the floor as I get up and go to him. “Oh, Noah.”
I crouch beside him and pull him into my arms. He comes immediately, all warm little limbs and heartbreak. He buries his face against my shoulder like he did when he was three and convinced thunder was personally out to get him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, rubbing his back. “I’m so sorry.”
He cries harder for a minute, and I let him. There are moments in parenthood where the job is to explain, and moments where the job is simply to absorb impact. This is one of the second kind.
When his breathing starts to settle a little, I lean back enough to look at him.
“You are not the only one,” I say softly.
“It feels like I am.”
“I know.”
He sniffs miserably.
I wipe under his eyes with my thumbs. “Listen to me. There is a reason I haven’t told you everything yet. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I think you don’t deserve to know. You do. You absolutely do.”
“Then why?”
Because I was nineteen and stupid enough to believe one impossible night could stay in its box forever.
Because your father belongs to a world that should never touch yours.
Because if I say his name out loud, nothing in our life stays simple again.
Because you have his eyes.
Because you are all I have.
Those were all the words I could have said, but how would Noah understand any of it? Instead, I say, “Because some things are complicated, and I need you to trust me when I say I’m trying to do this the right way.”
He looks at me with those big dark eyes that wreck me every single time.
“When?”
“One day,” I say. “I promise you. One day I’ll tell you everything.”
He is quiet for a moment.
Then he asks, small and shaky, “Really?”
“Really.”
“And you’re not lying?”
I put a hand over my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
That gets the tiniest almost-smile out of him. Progress.
I kiss his forehead. “You have to trust me, okay?”
He thinks about that with all the solemn gravity available to a first grader.
Then he nods.
“I trust you.”
My throat tightens.
“Good.”
“And I love you.”
That one hits me right in the ribs, as usual.
“I love you too,” I say. “More than toast. More than coffee. More than finally getting to pee alone.”
He pulls back just enough to look offended. “That’s gross.”
“It’s the highest form of love a parent can offer.”
He gives a watery laugh, and the crisis passes, or at least settles into something manageable. Which is the best you can hope for with childhood grief. It doesn’t disappear. It just gets distracted by waffles and cartoons for a while.
By the time we are out the door, he has recovered enough to chatter about a class project involving dinosaurs and glue sticks. Children are incredible like that. They can break your heart at breakfast and be completely fine by the time they put on their shoes.
I, meanwhile, am absolutely not fine, but that is motherhood in a nutshell.
At school, the morning gets worse.
Of course it does.
I’m signing Noah in when the woman at the front desk gives me that look. The one adults use when they are about to say something unpleasant in a careful voice and hope politeness will somehow soften the blow.
“Ms. Hartwell,” she says, lowering her tone, “your last monthly payment bounced.”
For a second I just stare at her.
Of course it did.
Of course.
Because why would my life let me have one breakfast-induced emotional breakdown without throwing in a financial threat for seasoning?
“I’m sorry?” I say, even though I heard her perfectly.
“The payment didn’t go through.”
I force my face into something calm and normal. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
“Will you be able to sort it out within the week?” Her face turns apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“Policy,” I complete the sentence, because this is not my first rodeo. “I know. I’ll fix it.”
She nods like this is an acceptable answer, but I can already feel the panic starting under my skin.
Fix it how, exactly?
The overtime Donald has been “forgetting” to put through?
The money that is currently evaporating into daycare fees, sitter wages, groceries, school supplies, and rent now that my landlord has decided the privilege of living in a box with plumbing is worth more than it used to be?
Sure. I’ll just go shake my magic money tree and see what falls out.
Noah is tugging on my hand.
“Mom?”
I smile down at him.
“You go have fun, okay? I’ll see you later.”
He hugs me, backpack and all, then runs off like the last ten minutes of my life did not happen.
Must be nice.
I walk back outside trying to keep my expression neutral, but inside I am swearing like a dockworker in a storm.
Donald has been holding back my overtime for weeks. I know he has. I also know he thinks I won’t push too hard because he’s right: I need this job too much to make myself difficult.
Well.
Today, I am choosing to be difficult.
I cross the street toward the subway and notice a dark car half a block behind me. It slows when I slow, turns when I turn.
My stomach dips.
Then I force myself to keep walking.
No.
I have been imagining things lately. Shadows moving where they shouldn’t. Cars lingering too long. That sick feeling of being watched. It’s exhaustion, probably. Stress. The natural byproduct of raising a child alone while running on coffee and bad decisions.
By the time I reach the corner, the car turns another way.
See?
Coincidence.
I need sleep. Or vitamins. Or a full nervous breakdown, maybe. Something to reset the system.
By the time I get to the road leading to Notte Bianca, I’m already braced for a bad day and an even worse night.
I am still somehow underestimating it.
The second I step inside, I know we’re fucked.
There is an unfamiliar girl standing by the host desk with a bouquet and the expression of someone who has been dropped into enemy territory with no map. Rose sent a replacement from the florist shop, which can only mean Rose herself is not coming in.
Bad enough.
Then my phone buzzes with two texts.
One from Erin. One from Savannah.
Both calling in sick.
My stomach drops.
Three girls. Three.
Rose replaced herself, thank God, but that still leaves Erin’s section uncovered and Savannah missing from the kitchen. Gerard can cook, yes, but not alone on a full night. And I cannot run the dining room properly while also trying to patch over kitchen delays and table disasters.
As expected, lunch rush is a nightmare. Somehow I manage, but only because we’re never as full during the day as we are in the evenings.
It’s still hell on earth.