Chương 3
“She died.”
Lily accepted that.
“Like Grandpa Joe?”
“Sort of.”
“Was she old?”
“No.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
Lily looked up at her.
“Did you know her?”
The car arrived.
Daniel opened the door.
“We’re talking at home.”
Lily climbed in.
Rachel followed.
Daniel sat in the front.
He had never done that before when they rode together as a family.
Their apartment was on West End Avenue, twenty-eight blocks from the museum and ordinarily twenty minutes away at that hour.
It took thirty-seven.
No one spoke for most of them.
Lily leaned her forehead against the window and watched water distort the red taillights ahead.
At Columbus Circle she said, “I’m hungry.”
Daniel turned slightly.
“What do you want?”
“Toast.”
“You had six tiny hamburgers.”
“They were tiny.”
Daniel almost smiled.
So did Rachel.
The moment hurt more than shouting would have.
At home, Rachel changed Lily out of her formal dress while Daniel made toast in the kitchen.
Lily lifted both arms for her pajama shirt.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you steal me?”
Rachel’s hands stopped.
“Why would you ask that?”
“I heard that man by the coats say maybe you stole me.”
Rachel sat on the edge of Lily’s bed.
The museum crowd had been quieter than she had realized.
“No. I didn’t steal you.”
“Okay.”
Lily trusted answers quickly.
That was another thing Rachel had damaged tonight.
“Did I come from your tummy?”
Rachel looked at the pattern of small yellow stars on Lily’s pajama pants.
“Yes.”
That was true.
It was also not the whole answer.
Lily climbed onto the bed.
“Then I’m yours.”
Rachel’s eyes burned.
“You’re not anybody’s property.”
“You know what I mean.”
Rachel laughed softly.
She had heard Daniel say exactly that.
“Yes. I know.”
Lily picked at a loose thread on her blanket.
“Was the dead lady my other mommy?”
Rachel went still.
Children did not always understand what adults hid.
Sometimes they simply walked around the hiding place.
Rachel took a breath.
“Her name was Evelyn.”
“Was she?”
“Yes.”
Lily stared at her.
Rachel could hear Daniel moving in the kitchen.
“There are different ways to be someone’s mother,” Rachel said. “Evelyn helped make you. I carried you in my body. And I’m the person who has raised you.”
“Did she hold me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She died before you were born.”
Lily’s face tightened.
Not tears.
Concentration.
“So she never saw me?”
“She saw pictures from the doctor.”
“The black-and-white ones?”
“Yes.”
“Did she like me?”
Rachel’s voice failed once before she got the word out.
“Very much.”
Lily looked down.
“Did she know my name?”
“Yes.”
That was not entirely true.
Evelyn had known three possible names.
Lily had been her favorite.
Rachel had chosen it after the birth.
“Was that lady her mommy?”
“Yes.”
“So she’s my grandma?”
Rachel did not answer quickly enough.
Lily noticed.
“Mom.”
“Biologically, yes.”
“What does biologically mean?”
Rachel rubbed her forehead.
“It means we are having too many complicated conversations when you should be eating toast.”
Lily smiled.
“Dad made it.”
“I know.”
“He burns it.”
“He does.”
“I can smell it.”
Rachel could too.
For thirty seconds they sat together listening to Daniel scrape burnt bread over the kitchen sink.
Then Lily asked, “Why did you tell Grandma I died?”
Rachel looked at her.
There was no way to make the answer six years old.
“Because Evelyn was afraid.”
“Of her mom?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rachel took Lily’s hand.
“That part belongs to Evelyn too. I want to tell you carefully.”
“When?”
“Not tonight.”
Lily frowned.
Rachel almost apologized.
Then she stopped herself.
Not every uncomfortable thing could be fixed immediately.
“Tonight,” Rachel said, “you get toast, one story, and sleep.”
“Two stories.”
“One.”
“Dad lets me have two.”
“Your father is weak.”
Daniel appeared in the doorway holding a plate.
“I can hear you.”
Lily laughed.
Daniel did not.
He handed her the toast, kissed the top of her head, and said, “Eat.”
Then he looked at Rachel.
“Kitchen.”
Rachel followed him out.
Daniel waited until the bedroom door was nearly closed.
“Tell me everything.”
Rachel leaned against the counter.
He moved the toaster aside as if it had personally offended him.
“How much do you know?” she asked.
Daniel stared at her.
“That is not how this works.”
“I’m trying to figure out where to start.”
“Start with the fact that my daughter apparently has a dead biological mother whose wealthy mother thinks the baby died.”
Rachel flinched at my daughter.
Daniel noticed.
He looked away.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
“She is my daughter.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Rachel folded her arms.
“That’s cruel.”
“So was tonight.”
Neither spoke for several seconds.
The refrigerator hummed.
Daniel loosened his bow tie and pulled it free.
“Who was Evelyn Hale?”
Rachel looked toward Lily’s room.
“A woman I loved.”
Daniel’s expression changed again.
Not because Evelyn was a woman.
Because Rachel had said loved.
He sat at the table.
“Before me?”
“Yes.”
“How long before me?”
“She died fourteen months before we met.”
Daniel nodded slowly.
“You told me Lily’s biological father was an anonymous donor.”
“That part is true.”
“And you said you had decided to become a mother alone.”
Rachel said nothing.
Daniel laughed once.
A short ugly sound.
“I remember that conversation.”
“So do I.”
“No, apparently I remember a fictionalized adaptation of that conversation.”
“Daniel.”
“You sat across from me at Veselka. Lily was asleep in that ridiculous stroller with the broken wheel, and you told me you didn’t want to date anyone who couldn’t handle the fact that she came first.”
“She did.”
“You told me you’d used a fertility clinic because you were tired of waiting for your life to start.”
“I know.”
“You let me admire you for it.”
Rachel looked down.
That landed.
Daniel stood again.
“Whose egg?”
“Evelyn’s.”
He turned away.
May you like
Rachel continued because stopping would make it worse.
“Evelyn froze eggs before her second round of treatment. Later she decided she wanted a child. We chose a donor together. We created embryos. I agreed to carry one.”
