I'm not doing any of this to hold it over you. I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do and because he stopped. Because what? He looked at her and the honest answer was sitting right there too close to the surface and he made the deliberate choice to not say it yet. Not because it wasn't true, but because some things needed more time before they were safe to say out loud.
Because you're here, he said instead, "And that means something, even if I haven't figured out what yet." Sophia looked at him for a long moment. Then she looked down at her hands, and he watched her do the same thing he did ti sums. That deliberate private act of composing yourself before you could fall apart in front of someone you who could afford to fall apart in front of. "Okay," she said finally.
"Okay." After lunch, she put Noah down for a nap in the travel crib. And when she came back out, she asked James if she could use his laptop to start pulling together her resume. He got it for her, opened it, set it on the kitchen table, and went to the garage to do the things you do on a Saturday afternoon when you have a house and a car and a restless mind oil check. Tire pressure, the small maintenance that keeps things running.
He was out there for about 40 minutes when he heard the door that connected the garage to the house open behind him. He expected Sophia. It was not Sophia. It was his mother. Evelyn Carter was 67 years old, 4 feet 11 inches tall, and had the moral authority of a Supreme Court justice combined with the relentlessness of a prosecuting attorney.
She was wearing her Saturday clothes, a nice blouse, good slacks, the low heels she wore whenever she was going somewhere that wasn't church, but still wanted to look like she could go to church if the situation demanded it. She had Ava by the hand. James straightened up. Mama. Ava's not supposed to be back until I know when she's supposed to be back.
Evelyn said, "We came early because I made the mistake of looking at your kitchen window from the driveway and seeing a woman I do not recognize sitting at your kitchen table using your computer." She looked at him. "Your door was unlocked, by the way." "Daddy, who's the lady?" Ava asked.
Ava was 9 and a half years old and had James's eyes and her own mothers, her biological mothers, the woman who had given birth to her and not been part of her life, her biological mother's bone structure, which meant she had ended up with a face that was going to cause problems for James when she got older. And he knew it. She was wearing the purple jacket she picked out herself and her hair was in two puffs and she was looking at him called with those clear direct eyes that never missed anything. Someone who needed some help, James told her. Her name is Sophia.
She's going to stay with us for a little while. Ava processed this with the speed and efficiency of a child who has had to process unexpected information before. Does she have kids? She has a baby. His name is Noah.
Ava's eyes went wide. A baby, how old? Eight months. Ava looked at her grandmother. Her grandmother looked at James.
James looked at the ceiling of his garage. Evelyn, he started. Don't Evelyn me, his mother said. Who is this woman? "Come inside," he said.