Chapter Thirteen Mallory
June 2022
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
The email arrives in my inbox during the early hours of the morning. I hear the ping but resist the visceral urge to check my phone, which sits on a chair on the other side of the room, just to make checking my phone an effort in the middle of the night. Just so I can get some damn sleep.
Turn off your notifications, Paige tells me. But you can’t turn off notifications when your son’s kidneys don’t work. Trust me, you’ll sleep even less. Wondering what you’re missing.
So I hear the ping and ride the surge of adrenaline until it subsides. Concentrate on my breathing as I lie in this position, that position, falling occasionally into a brief, shallow unconsciousness—let’s not dignify those episodes with the word sleep—until the sun breaks the horizon at five, until my alarm goes off at six-thirty.
I trudge across the room and turn off the noise. Open my Gmail and learn that the convent of St. Hilda’s in County Galway cannot answer requests for confidential records without presentation of two forms of identification from an official government body, and a copy of the original adoption certificate. Very truly yours.
I toss my phone on the bed and rummage in the chest of drawers for my running clothes. Before I head out, I poke my head inside the door of Sam’s bedroom to make sure he’s asleep. And breathing.
He has dialysis today at 9 a.m.
While Sam’s in dialysis, I drag out my sketch pad and try to focus my mind on a design I’m working on, this hibiscus motif, but I keep wandering back to the email from the convent. No signature, no human being attached, just this prim legal language.
On my wrist, one emerald eye peers up at me, speculative.
A news alert lights up my phone on the coffee table. I stare at the home screen—a photo of me and Sam, taken two weeks ago on the beach at Summersalt—as it fades and goes dark. Underneath the phone lies a crisp new copy of Us magazine, on which a photograph of a woman’s face has been retouched to doll-like perfection. My phone rests along the line of her eyes and nose, so it takes a minute or two of staring to realize who this is.
Then I notice the headline. Wedding Joy! Lennox Talks Monk, Marriage he’s avoiding carbs, he says. He asks about Sam, pretends interest in kidneys. All the while he’s dropping glances at the cobra on my wrist, until I take it off and hand it to him.
“Here. Stop drooling, okay?”
The tender, reverent way he takes the bracelet from my fingers, you’d think it was his newborn child. “Mary Mother of God,” he says. “This is something.”
“I know, right? I’ve always thought it was special somehow. My mom wore it all the time. Hardly ever took it off.”
“This workmanship, it’s incredible. I haven’t seen anything like it. Where’d she get it?”
“So that’s the crazy story. My sister, Paige, was going through some old papers in the attic, and long story short it turns out Mom was adopted from an orphanage in Ireland. And this bracelet came with her. The birth mother wanted her to keep it.”
“The birth mother.” He looks up. “You mean your grandmother?”
“Yes. Technically. Biologically. And because of Sam, you know, needing a kidney and everything, Paige and I have been trying to do some research into where she came from. Paige did a DNA swab, and me, I’m just a girl sitting in a café trying to find out where this woman got her bracelet. And why she gave it to Mom, even though she couldn’t keep her. Because…well, because I’m hoping that might help point us in the right direction.”
“Off the top of my head, I’d say Egypt.”
“Egypt?”
“The cobra, for starters. That’s an Egyptian cobra.”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “I have a snake thing. So I’m guessing Egypt, maybe 1930s. I see some art deco influence, some traditional motif—you get a lot of that in Egypt, European mixing with Arab. But that’s just an educated guess. And you know she might have picked up the bracelet on a visit, or from somebody who visited there, or who knows what.” Luca lifts his gaze to me. “Can I take it with me?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then I’ll have to take some hi-res photographs.” He reaches into his handbag and pulls out a jeweler’s monocle. “For a start, I might be able to tell you where the stones come from, though I warn you, geology isn’t my gig. And that info won’t necessarily tell you where the cuff was made. Jewelers source their gems from all over.”
“Can I take a photo of you wearing that monocle?”
“Girl. Only if you want to be dead.”
As I pull up the long gravel driveway at Summersalt, I spot another car in the place where I usually park. An old Jeep Wagoneer with vintage wood panels, a bit spiffier than I remember her.
I pull up behind, turn off the ignition, and stare out the windshield at Bessie’s familiar ass for a minute or two before I climb out of the car. Around back, I hear some noise and follow my ears.
On the lawn, near the edge where the clipped green grass turns to beach scrub, Monk Adams is playing catch with my son. As you might expect, Monk knows how to throw a baseball. The elbow, the shoulder rotation, the release—all enter the world perfectly formed. The ball goes straight into Sam’s mitt. The thwack of leather might be the smack of my heart. I stand a minute or two, not moving. The ocean breeze sifts through my hair.
Sam spots me first. Or maybe Monk saw me all along, who knows.
“Mom! Hey. Where were you?”
I step forward. “In P-town, having lunch with a friend. Would you two like something to drink? Kind of hot out.”
“I’ll have a beer,” says Monk.
“I’ll have a Coke,” says Sam.
“Nice try, kiddo.”
“Fine. Water’s good, I guess.”
I walk into the kitchen and set my hands on the counter to compose myself.
“Sorry,” says Paige. “Didn’t you get my text?”
“I was driving, dumbass.”
“Forgot that old beater of yours doesn’t have CarPlay. You look thirsty. How was Luca? Did he tell you anything about the bracelet?”
“Luca was fine. He took a bunch of photos. They have a couple of in-house experts for historic jewelry. He thinks it might have come from Egypt.”
“Egypt?”
“Just a guess, though.” I head to the drinks fridge and take out two beers. Then a glass from the cabinet, which I fill with water and ice from the dispenser on the fridge. “How long has he been here?”
“Couple of hours.”
I walk outside and set the drinks on the table, under the umbrella. Monk catches a final ball from Sam and says, “That’s it. Time for a cold one.”
I open the beers and hand Sam a glass of ice water.
“Sip slowly, buddy.” I turn to Monk. “Can’t have too much to drink, because the kidneys don’t flush it out.”
“Gotcha,” Monk says, as if we’re discussing math homework instead of the complications of renal failure. He gives Sam a gentle punch to the shoulder, such as guys do. “Kid’s got a good arm. You play some ball at school?”
“Sure,” says Sam.
Monk sinks back a long, thirsty drink and looks at me. “If you’ve got a second, could we have a word?”
We sit at the kitchen table. Monk brings in a nylon laptop bag, which he sets on the empty chair next to his.
“So how the heck do you keep Bessie on the road?” I ask.
“A lot of tender loving care, believe me. Treated her to a full engine rebuild a couple of years ago. Still gets me around pretty good.”
“I figured you might have upgraded by now. I mean, I assume you can afford it?”
“What? I can’t do that to Bessie,” he says. “Plus, she’s good for driving around incognito, right? Stick on a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses and nobody gives me a second look. How was Provincetown?”
“Good. Already filling up for the Fourth. So what did you want to talk about?”
Monk sips his beer and looks out the window at Sam, who’s settled himself on a lounger to scroll through his phone. “I have a favor to ask. I was wondering if you’d let Sam spend the Fourth of July weekend with me. On Winthrop. Just the two of us.”
“Just the two of you? What about Lennox?”
“She’ll be spending the weekend with her folks in Texas.”
“Haven’t you told her?”
He makes a jerk of surprise. “Of course I’ve told her. She’ll be his stepmother.”
The word stepmother hits me in the ribs. “And she’s okay with it?”
“I think so, once she’s had time to process everything. She—” He catches a breath and turns his face back to the window. “We’ve been trying to get pregnant for a few months now. So, this coming up was not the best timing for her. That’s not a you problem, obviously, but full disclosure.”
“Gotcha,” I said.
“Between you and me.”
“Of course.”
“So how about it? I know you’re worried about his care. I mean, I’m well aware I’m a newbie to all this. So I’ve gone ahead and sourced a nurse practitioner to be on call, plus a dialysis specialist to come out and give Sam his treatments—”
“You what? You’re bringing in dialysis?”
“We don’t have a lot of time together. Anything I can do to make it easy for him.”
I stare at the neck of my beer bottle and peel away a little foil that turns into a lot of foil.
“Mallory,” Monk says softly, “I know it’s a big ask. I want to get to know him, that’s all. We’ve got a lot to catch up on. My life…Look, you may not believe it, but I do work pretty hard to carve out some privacy, keep things as real as I can, but my life is what it is. It’s the world I’m in. And I know you want to protect him from that. I realize that’s a big reason why you never…I mean, I get that. I do. I want to protect him too. For this weekend, I’ve cleared everything else out. Nothing but me and Sam. I promise, I swear, I’m not trying to take him away from you. Drag him into the circus. I just want to know him. Make a start.”
“All right,” I say. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”
Monk lays out a long breath and finishes the beer. “Thank you,” he says. “And now for the boring stuff.”
He reaches for the laptop bag on the chair next to him and extracts a brown portfolio. It’s the kind with the flap that folds down like an envelope, held shut with an elastic cord. He slips off the cord and takes out a stack of papers.
“So. Before you freak out, this is not a big deal.”
“You’ve talked to your lawyers already? It’s been one week, Monk.”
Monk looks back out the window at Sam on his lounge chair. “Mallory, I think it’s important we set aside our personal feelings right now and do what’s best for our son.”
“It may surprise you to know that I’ve been pretty damn busy doing what’s best for Sam for the past thirteen years.”
“Mallory, I know. You’ve been a good mother. Obviously. You only need to spend a minute with Sam to see what a great kid he is. I’m not trying to sic a bunch of damn lawyers on you.” He presses his knuckles against his forehead. “Okay, yes. I have a lot of questions running through my head right now. Why you never told me, why you decided for both of us that Sam should grow up without his father even knowing he existed—”
“Monk—”
“But like I said before, I want to set that discussion aside until later. If I stop and think about what’s happened, the time that’s passed, everything I’ve missed, I’ll—I’ll lose it, Mallory. I will. And I can’t go back to that angry place again, Mallory, you understand? I can’t do that all over again. I just want to focus on what I can do for Sam right now. Given the situation we’re in. Does that sound fair to you? Postpone the melodrama until we’ve dealt with the big stuff?”
My hands are knotted together in my lap. The words spear me. I dig my fingernails into my palms to distract myself from the pain of impact.
“Fair enough.” I nod to the stack of papers. “I’m sorry, but that does look like a big deal.”
“I know it looks like a lot, but it’s just boilerplate, mostly. They do a lot of these, apparently. Paternity agreements, they’re called. You can read it through in detail. You should read it, make sure you understand everything. But I promise you there’s no tricks, Mallory. You know I wouldn’t do that to you. At the end of the day, I’m just grateful he’s here. I’m grateful beyond words that I have a son.” The word son makes his voice crack. He clears his throat and fingers the edge of the papers. “I want to do right by him. I want to have a relationship with him. Most of all, I want to make sure that he’s able to access the top level of care for his condition.”
“That all sounds reasonable. I mean, yes. I trust you.”
“So, first. Financial arrangements.” Monk reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a pair of glasses.
“Oh my God. Are those reading glasses? When did you start wearing those?”
“None of your business. And that’s circle of trust info, by the way. If this gets into fucking Page Six…”
“I would never betray your guilty secret.”
He settles the glasses on his nose. “Financial arrangements—”
“Monk, stop. Seriously. I don’t want your money.”
“Yes, Mallory. I know. But I have a moral and legal responsibility to support my child, so just hear me out, okay? I undertake to cover all of Sam’s medical, education, travel, and security expenses until he turns twenty-one—obviously we can revisit that when he reaches adulthood—plus child support payments to you in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars a month—”
“What?”
He looks at me over the top of the reading glasses. The effect is so professorial, a giggle chokes in my throat. “Look, do you have any idea what Kanye’s paying? This is peanuts, trust me.”
“Peanuts? I barely make fifty thousand a year, Monk.”
Monk takes off the glasses. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been raising my son on fifty thousand a year?”
“News flash. A lot of people raise kids on fifty thousand dollars a year. Less.”
“Shit,” he says.
“Paige helps. Obviously. She’s always sending me clothes and shoes. I mean, shoes are the worst. They go on these growth spurts. But that’s taken care of. And we spend our vacations here on the Cape, so…you know. It’s all good. We’re good.”
He sits back in the chair and fiddles with his glasses. “Sounds like your sister’s really been there for you, hasn’t she?”
“She’s my guardian angel. When he got sick? Paige—she stepped right in. She took care of everything. Everything.”
Monk’s eyes blink a few times. He turns away and hooks the glasses back over his ears. “All right. Child support. As of last month, from Sam’s date of birth, the arrears come to four point two million, which will be deposited into an escrow account until—”
This time I shoot to my feet. “Four million dollars? Are you insane? I’m not taking four million dollars from you.”
“Chill, Pinks. Jesus. Do you think I didn’t already figure you’d hit the roof? If you look at the papers, you can initial this clause here and we’ll put that money into a trust for Sam until he’s twenty-five. Or later. Or earlier. Whatever you think is best.”
“You really do live in a different world, don’t you?”
“What am I supposed to do, Mallory? What do you want me to do? I’ve been living in fucking la-la luxury all this time, like an asshole. Am I supposed to sit on my hands and watch my son live with nothing?”
“He doesn’t have nothing! He has everything he needs. Sam is surrounded by love.”
“He doesn’t have a dad, Mallory. You didn’t give him that chance. You didn’t give me that chance.”
I look at my hands.
“I have an appointment tomorrow at the kidney center in Barnstaple,” he says.
“I already told you, there’s no rush—”
Monk’s voice rises. “There damn well is a rush. I don’t need to think about this, Mallory. Why would I need to think this through for even a minute? He’s my son. If he needs my kidney, I’ll give it to him. If he needs both goddamn kidneys, he can have them. My liver, my lungs. I would rip my heart out, if I could. Rip my fucking heart out and hand it to him—”
“Would you stop making everything into a fucking song, Monk Adams? This is my life! This is me! And you, you’re just a vampire sucking everything out of me so you can write a catchy tune about it, so everyone can shower you with praise and money and tell you what a musical damn genius you are.”
The color washes out of Monk’s face. He slides the glasses off his nose, folds them into his pocket, and rises from his chair. “I’ll just leave these papers with you, okay? There’s a return envelope. You can mail them back when you’ve had a chance to read them over. I’m not suing for custody, just visitation rights. I hope you’ll find it’s fair. I’ve tried to be fair. Respectful. I hope you’ll sign so we can get these payments lined up for Sam. So we can set up a visit schedule that works for you both. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“One more thing. At some point, we’re going to have to release some kind of statement. Lee wants to wait until after the wedding—”
“Whatever you want,” I say. “Just let me know when to brace myself.”
“That being said, the news might get out on its own, before we’re ready. It happens. So, regardless of what’s going on between us, I want you to know you can call me, at any time of day or night, and ask for whatever you need.”
“Like what? Security? PR?”
“Like anything. It’s going to be a shit show, I’m warning you. I’m sorry about that. You’ll need a detail, plus driver. I’ll make sure everything’s in place.” He raps his knuckles on the papers. “Also, could you ask your sister to draw up a list of any expenses she’s covered on Sam’s behalf. I don’t need receipts or anything, just round numbers.”
“You know what she’ll tell you to do with that.”
“If she doesn’t give me a list, I’ll have to estimate. I’m just going to say goodbye to Sam before I leave.”
Monk turns around and walks out to the terrace. I sink back on the chair and watch while he walks up to Sam on his lounge chair and says something. Sam sits up straight and puts his phone down. The old grin appears on Monk’s face, the old loose grace around his shoulders. He holds out his hand and they do that arm-clasping thing, in between a handshake and a hug.
I look down at the stack of papers in front of me.
Paternity agreement between Barclay Benjamin Monk Adams (“father”) and Mallory Rose Dunne (“mother”) in reference to Samuel Michael Dunne (“minor child”)
“Hey,” says Paige.
I turn my head. My sister stands next to the kitchen counter, nursing the dregs of what I assume is a vodka Spindrift. Her hair’s scraped back into a ponytail; her lip gloss has evaporated. Eyes puffy.
“How’d it go? Are you letting Sam stay with his dad?”
“I guess he told you about the Fourth of July thing.”
“Yeah, we had a little chat when he turned up. I have to say, he comes across as a decent guy, Mallie. He’s not being a dick about this.” She sips her drink. “And let’s face it, he has grounds. Under the circumstances.”
I rise to head for the built-in kitchen desk and the blue-and-white Delft cup full of pens that sits on its immaculate quartz surface. “He told me to ask you to give him a list of expenses you’ve covered for Sam over the years. So he can reimburse you.”
Paige slams the glass down on the counter. “What the actual fuck? I hope you told him to fuck off.”
“Not in those words. Trying to keep things civil for Sam’s sake.”
She lifts the glass again and finishes off her drink. “I guess that’s just his male rock star way of taking responsibility for his seed.”
“Let the money do the talking, right?” I select a pen and stroll back to the kitchen table. “He wants to give me twenty-five thousand a month in child support. Like what am I even going to do with twenty-five thousand dollars a month?”
“Twenty-five? You need to tell his cheap ass to ante up. Kanye pays two hundred.”
“How do you people know this stuff?”
“Buzzfeed.” She disappears under the counter to snatch another can of seltzer from the fridge. “So hear me out. Sam’s hanging with his dad and Jake’s away in Charlotte all weekend. His parents are coming up anyway to see the grandkids. What do you say the two of us take a little trip together?”
I flip through the papers until I reach the last one, where a red-and-yellow arrow sticker directs me to sign here.
“You mean like a boozy girls’ trip? Like where? Newport?”
I sign my name on the line atop the words Mallory Rose Dunne (“mother”) and add the date.
“Actually,” says Paige, “I was thinking of Ireland.”