“Oh, thank you, sweetheart. You know, since John got sick I just haven’t felt like eating. Weight Watchers should get in on this cancer game, they’d make a fortune, ha!”
She notices us looking at the wall. “Oh, you’re looking at the painting. Do you like it? My friend at church did it for me, isn’t it beautiful? I just gave her some photos and she painted it from those. Michelle was so beautiful. And I know she’ll take care of my Jimmy and Frankie’s there taking care of her…Isn’t he, Gigi?” Her voice switches from self-comforting to hauntingly desperate, pleading with me for what she said to be true.
“Yes, sure he is, of course, Mrs. C.” An uncomfortable silence settles on all of us until the baby wakes up and starts gurgling.
I juggle him as I unwrap his blanket and take off the long-sleeved T-shirt that’s over his onesie. I know it’s summer but he’s so tiny. I keep dressing him in too many layers and then panicking that I’m overheating him and then undressing him in a flurry of incompetence.
I need to say something, Mrs. C’s refusal to acknowledge the baby is so awkward, so I force out some words. “Mrs. C, I came over to thank you for writing that letter for me for the social worker. It was really nice, everything you said…”
“That’s alright, Gigi.” A shadow falls over her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls. You called a lot of times. I just—I couldn’t talk. John’s very sick and then”—she’s overcome with tears—“and then Michelle. It was too much, just too much.” She takes a few moments to compose herself. She’s so accustomed to crying it doesn’t take her long to dry her tears and then look up at me, smiling weakly. “Thank you for being patient with us, dear.”
“That’s OK, Mrs. C. So how do you want to do this, you know, how often should I bring him over to visit and stuff? The social worker said it would be good if I could start now with making important people a regular part of his life. I…I mean, I know you didn’t want to take him with Mr. C being sick and all, and you had so much going on, I know you weren’t ready to see him but now—”
“It’s not because John is sick, Gigi,” she cuts me off. She sips her coffee, placing the mug on the table carefully, making sure it’s in the center of the ceramic coaster of the Last Supper.
“No, no, it’s because my kids die, sweetheart.” She stirs her coffee and looks into the distance across the room. “They’re both dead,” she says, to clarify, as if we didn’t understand her. Her words hang above me and the baby, hovering, waiting for me to soften them, to contradict or dismiss them. “Oh, Mrs. C—” I reach for her with my free arm. “Mrs. C, don’t say that, don’t say—” But she stops me, pulling an old tissue from her bra strap, her eyes watery and bleak.
“They died. So I don’t want that baby here. It’s bad enough he has whatever poison is in our blood. But this is a house of dead children and now John’s dying too. Don’t bring that baby to this house.” Mrs. C dabs at her eyes. I extend my hand to her, place it on her folded arm. She pats my wrist. We listen to the ticking of the clock above the doorway for a long time. An apostle sits in place of each number, the hands of the clock extending from the cross in the middle. Shock and sorrow catch in my throat.
I can’t believe that she believes what she’s saying, so I try again: “But Mrs. C, you’re his grandmother, his nonna, right? I’m sorry about Jimmy and Michelle, you know I am. We’re all so sorry. But look, Michelle left you a grandson, she left him here for you.” I motion to him in my arms. “I’ll take care of him, of course I will, but please, please be his grandmother. He needs you. I need you…”
Mrs. C looks at me, teary and exhausted. A silent certainty comes over me that after she sees Mr. C through his final passing she’ll just go to sleep and never wake up. She’s ready for that rest that Jesus promised her.
“I know you think you’re doing the right thing. But I wasn’t a good mother, Eugenia. Jesus took Jimmy from me because He wanted him back, but Michelle was dying every day and God was testing me and I couldn’t save her. Then look what kind of mother she became. Leaving her baby like that. I’ll have to answer for it when I get up there, but while I’m still here please don’t bring him back again. She chose you—you go be his mother and forget about us.”
The baby fusses in my lap. I put him on my shoulder again and get up to walk around with him, keep him moving, but every surface is covered with Jesus and his friends or with the ghosts of Jimmy and Michelle and I want to shield his eyes. I should protest, and argue, and turn around and tell her she’s being crazy and selfish and melodramatic. And I would say all of those things if I didn’t see so clearly that her losses are so excruciating that even love and joy feel like pain. The happiness of this grandbaby would just make her grief deeper. Because for her, happiness is what happens before sorrow. And sorrow is inevitable when you love. That’s why Michelle couldn’t live without Frankie. That’s why I’m holding her baby now.
If I could shrink myself, sink me and the baby into the ground, evaporate, I would. His soft cheek brushes my face as I move him to my other shoulder. I really am his mother now. I came here
