Chapter 8: The Drive Home
I picked up my purse from the back of my chair.
Claire was leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, watching her mother the way you watch something you love that has become unfamiliar.
Evelyn had not moved from her seat.
"Sarah," she said.
I stopped.
"I know I have no right to ask you anything tonight."
I waited.
"Don't take him from me." Her voice was quiet.
Not commanding.
Not calculating.
Just quiet, in the way of someone who has run out of the other options.
"Whatever you decide to do.
Whatever happens between you and Daniel.
Don't take my son from me."
I looked at her for a long moment.
"I didn't take anything from anyone tonight," I said.
"I just stopped letting things be taken from me."
I walked down the hallway.
Daniel was sitting on the front step.
He had not gone to his car.
He was just sitting there, in the November cold, with the letter in his hand and his coat still inside.
I sat down next to him.
We did not speak for a while.
A car passed on the street.
Someone's porch light came on and then off again.
"I don't know who I am," he said finally.
"You're the same person you were this morning."
"That's not true."
"The facts changed," I said.
"You didn't."
He turned the letter over in his hands.
"I have a brother," he said.
"Somewhere in Arizona.
A half-brother.
I don't know his name yet.
It's in the letter but I couldn't—" He stopped.
"I couldn't finish reading it in there."
"You don't have to read it tonight."
"I have to read it eventually."
"Yes," I said.
"But not tonight."
He looked at me then.
Really looked at me, the way he had not looked at me in a long time.
Maybe since before the diagnosis.
Maybe since before the secret had settled between us like a third person in the room.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For tonight.
For the eight months before tonight.
For letting her—" He stopped again.
"I'm sorry, Sarah."
"I know."
"That's not enough."
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
He nodded.
He had expected that.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"We go home," I said.
"We sleep.
Tomorrow we figure out what's next."
"And us?"
I looked at the street.
"I don't know yet," I said.
"I need you to give me time to be honest about that."
"Okay."
"And I need you to never ask me to hide something for you again."
"I won't."
"I mean it, Daniel."
"I know you do." He folded the letter carefully and put it in his shirt pocket, close to his chest.
"I know."
We sat there a little longer.
Then I stood up, and he stood up, and we walked to the car together.
Not holding hands.
Not separated either.
Just walking, side by side, in the cold, toward whatever came next.
He drove.
I watched the Dallas streets go by.
At a red light, he said, "Do you think Robert is okay?"
"I think Robert is the strongest person in that house," I said.
"I think he'll be okay eventually."
"And Claire?"
"Claire showed me something tonight," I said.
"She's going to be fine."
He glanced at me.
"What did she show you?"
"A letter," I said.
"I'll tell you about it tomorrow."
The light turned green.
He drove.
And I thought about Evelyn sitting alone at her dinner table, with the baby clothes stacked on the sideboard and the rattle that had started all of it lying still and silver in the quiet.
I did not feel sorry for her.
But I did not feel triumphant either.
I felt tired.
And clear.
May you like
And, underneath all of it, something I had not felt in eight months.
Like myself again.
