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Iwon’talways have the Captain—he’s already a senior cat—but he’s here now.
And now is all I’m capable of focusing on at the moment.
I’ll tackle today and then the next day and the next, until eventually I forget to be sad about Hunter. Until my joy over the life growing inside me eclipses my pain, and I embrace this new version of happily ever after, with just my little one and me.
No matter how desperately I wish this story had ended differently.
twenty-one
HUNTER
Eight months later…
Portsmouth,New Hampshire, in March isn’t what most people would consider ideal vacation weather, but my mother loves it. She says the way the wind whips off the ocean reminds her of growing up on the shores of Lake Constance in Germany, though my grandparents left the country when she was barely five years old.
Still, she insists she remembers their small home with the dark wood shutters carved in the Bavarian style, and the way the sun dipped behind the softly rolling green mountains in the summertime.
My grandparents survived Hitler’s Germany by carrying false papers procured by my grandfather’s wealthy Gentile family. They hid in plain sight in a small, but brave Protestant community that closed ranks around them, keeping them safe as the country went mad.
But the constant fear that my Jewish grandmother would be discovered and taken to the concentration camps left scars that refused to heal while they still lived in their native land. After thewar ended, as soon as they were able to save up enough money, they immigrated to the United States, eventually moving into a tiny home in a development not far from Buffalo, New York.
There, my grandmother gave birth to three more girls, one after the other. Mom suspects her mother was trying to do her part to make up for all the relatives she’d lost. Neither she nor my grandfather had any idea that the little house they’d scrimped and saved to purchase was built on toxic waste, or that all their children would be barren and dead before the age of fifty.
All except my mother…
That’swhy she’s always hoped for grandchildren.
I am the last chance for our family line to live on, the last chance to prove that the Mendelssohns are survivors.
I hate that I couldn’t make her dream come true, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved that Elaina and I parted ways before it was too late. I was a fool to think I’d be able to impregnate the woman I loved, then vanish from her and our baby’s lives without a trace.
Turns out, I’m not that cold or callous.
Though sometimes, I wish I were.
It’s been eight months since we said goodbye, eight long, miserable months, and I still see her everywhere. In the glossy ponytail of a woman walking down the street ahead of me, in the cut of a vintage-style dress in a shop window, in my dreams, where she haunts me every night with her beauty, her kiss, her laughter…
“Are you all right?” my mother asks from across the table, concern in her voice. “You’ve been quiet since we sat down.”
I push the dark thoughts away and force a smile. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. I’m not used to marathon shopping.”
She sits up straighter in her chair, looking pleased. “Who would have thought? Me tiringyouout! Think how spunky I’ll be once I’m done with the last round of chemo.”
“I’m a little afraid to, honestly,” I tease, making her laugh. “I’ll never be able to keep up with you.”
We spent the day wandering Portsmouth’s historic downtown, ducking in and out of shops while avoiding the bracing wind off the harbor. Mom insisted on visiting every soap, kitchen, and kitschy New England store we passed, cooing over the lobsters and seagulls adorning everything from sweatshirts to olive oil bottles to hand cream.
Lobsters…
Theyalsoremind me of Elaina. Of that night at the lobster boil, when we had no idea that we were on our way to falling in love, and the lobster-print pajamas she sometimes wore to bed when we actually bothered to put on clothes.
The fact that Mom chose a lobster restaurant by the bay for our early dinner, complete with lobster art covering every wall, carved lobsters hanging from the ceiling, and a lobster napkin holder that crouches by my plate, looking smug, feels personal.
“But there’s still more to see tomorrow,” Mom says, taking a sip of her chardonnay. “The woman I was chatting with at the soap store says the craft collective has some incredible art, and there’s a witch store tucked away on a side street that’s fascinating to poke around.”
I arch a brow. “A witch store?”
She nods. “You know, one of those places where you can get crystals and incense and ingredients for spells. She said their tarot card reader is extraordinary and very reasonably priced.”