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fifty-nine f

Reunion

M y wastebasket overflowed with drafts of apologies and explanations to Tom and my kids. The one thing missing was the courage to take the first step.

School would end in a few weeks. I wanted to send them to summer camp, so I needed to act quickly. On a Wednesday afternoon, I took a deep breath to stop my hands from shaking and dialed Tom’s number.

“Hello?” A young man answered.

“Hi. I’m looking for Tommy,” I said.

“This is Tommy.” My fifteen-year-old son sounded so mature.

“It’s your mom.” My voice trembled.

“Mom?”

I sensed confusion in his voice. “I’ve been looking for you for two years,” I said.

Silence.

“I wrote. I called. Your dad never told me you moved.”

“You deserted us.” Tommy finally spoke.

“No, honey. Dad told me to stay away.”

“That’s not what Dad said.”

Your father’s a liar and a drunk. “Can we start over?”

Silence.

“I want to visit you and Lee,” I said.

“You’ll have to ask Dad. He gets home at six.”

“Is Lee home? I’d love to say hi to him.”

“He’s not home, either,” Tommy said. “I have to go now. Bye.”

I curled into a ball on my sofa and sobbed until I fell asleep.

The sun was beginning to set when I came to. I’d wanted to call Tom before he entered a drunken stupor. I hoped it wasn’t too late.

Tom was cordial to me, which told me he was in that liminal space between feeling no pain and inflicting pain. He agreed to a visit on Saturday.

Two trains and a taxi took me to Tom’s 1960s split-level in Bridgeport. As I stood on the sidewalk summoning the courage to ring the bell, I reminded myself I’d survived a month in a Kenyan prison. Finding the courage to visit my children paled in comparison.

A teenage version of Tom opened the door. Tommy greeted me with cool suspicion.

“Come in.” His invitation was guarded.

I knew better than to ask for a hug. Instead, I said, “You’ve become a handsome young man.”

And I missed watching your transformation.

An athletic twelve-year-old boy stood in the living room. “Hello, Mother,” Lee said formally.

“Lee, I hardly recognize you.” As soon as I spoke, I regretted my words.

“That’s what happens when you abandon your children.” He stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I hope we can change all that.”

The three of us sat stiffly until Tom joined us.

“Ava, you look good,” Tom said.

I couldn’t return the compliment. Tom looked like he’d aged twenty years.

I asked about their lives, interests, school, and friends. Tommy slowly warmed to me. But not Lee. He cocooned himself in a wing chair at the far end of the room.

“Can I treat you two to lunch?” I asked.

“Okay!” Tommy quickly agreed. “Can we go to Bernie’s Place? They make the best sandwiches.”

At the mention of Bernie’s, Lee perked up.

“Don’t keep them too long,” Tom warned.

After more than two years, I deserved more than lunch, but I was on Tom’s “turf.”

For me, lunch was pure joy. I doubted Tommy and Lee felt the same. I told myself to take things slowly. So many questions remained unanswered. So many explanations and apologies remained unsaid.

For a while Tom allowed me to visit every other weekend. I took the boys shopping, to lunch, and to the movies. I felt our barriers lift and hoped I could invite them to spend some of their summer with me.

As summer vacation approached, I asked Tom if I could give each of them $1,000 for camp.

A gradual rage spread across his face. “I don’t want you bribing them.”

“I’m trying to make up for lost time,” I said.

“You mean jail time.”

“ What? ”

“I know what happened in Africa. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. But it’s gonna cost you.”

“I was set up.” I doubted he believed me. “How did you find out?”

“None of your business how I found out. Do you really think I’m gonna let the kids stay with you?”

“It’s better than living with a drunk.”

Tom raised his hand to slap me, then retreated. “Maybe I drink but I never abandoned them.”

“It’s your fault. You took them from me.”

“Bullshit. Since you’re back, they’re actin’ out. You’re messin’ with their heads. It’s time you backed off.”

“I want to hear it from them,” I said.

“You won’t. I raised ’em to be polite.”

Tom still had power over me. I’d never learned how to fight for my children or for myself. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed to back off.

I convinced myself teenagers don’t want their mom in their faces on the weekends. I continued to call, write, and visit less frequently. Whenever I had extra cash, it went to them—or to Tom. I was never sure.