Chương 12
“Of what?”
“Losing another one.”
He looked down.
“Oh.”
Emily rubbed her palms together.
“And for a long time, I thought losing you meant something was wrong with me.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Like maybe I wasn’t supposed to be a mom.”
Noah frowned.
“That’s dumb.”
Emily laughed.
“It was.”
“You’re okay at it.”
“High praise.”
“You make terrible eggs.”
“Okay.”
“And you check if I’m breathing when you walk past the couch.”
Emily froze.
He looked at her.
“I notice stuff.”
“I’m working on that.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Understood.”
He smiled.
“But you can still do it a little.”
Emily looked away before he saw her eyes fill.
In August, almost a year after the storm, Robert brought the suitcase to Emily’s apartment.
The latch he had repaired had loosened again.
“I fixed it badly,” he said.
Emily examined it.
“Grandpa would be disappointed.”
“Your grandfather thought duct tape was a structural material.”
“Fair.”
They sat on her living-room floor and went through the last compartment.
Emily had avoided it.
The small metal cash box required the brass key Arthur had given her.
She inserted it.
The lock turned.
Inside were photographs.
No money.
No final legal miracle.
Photographs.
Arthur holding infant Noah.
Daniel asleep in a chair with Noah on his chest.
Marissa feeding him.
Linda standing beside a hospital bassinet, her face younger and terrified.
Then one photograph stopped Emily.
Arthur had taken it from behind a hospital nursery window.
Noah lay beneath a warming light.
A paper card near his bed showed his date of birth.
Someone had written BABY CARTER.
Emily touched the edge.
Robert sat beside her.
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
He had said it many times now.
The phrase no longer enraged her.
It also did not erase anything.
“I know.”
At the bottom of the box was another letter.
Not to Robert.
To Emily.
This one had been written later than the first.
Arthur’s handwriting had deteriorated.
Emily read it slowly.
I have spent too much of my life believing that fixing a mistake means returning things to the way they were. Sometimes there is no way back. There is only deciding what kind of damage you will refuse to add.
Emily stopped.
Robert looked over.
“What does it say?”
She handed it to him.
He read.
After a moment, he smiled sadly.
“Sounds like him.”
“Yes.”
There was more.
Arthur wrote that he loved Daniel.
That he was furious with him.
Both were true.
He wrote that Linda had done something unforgivable and was still his daughter.
Both were true.
He wrote that Noah had become attached to people who had no right to hide him but every human capacity to love him.
Both were true.
Then he wrote:
If Emily ever learns the truth, do not ask her to make everybody else comfortable with it.
Robert stopped reading.
He handed the letter back.
“I wish I’d listened to him more.”
Emily folded it.
“You didn’t have this.”
“No.”
“But you probably had other chances.”
Robert nodded.
“Yes.”
Noah came out of the guest room holding a game controller.
“What are you doing?”
Emily looked at the suitcase.
“Going through old things.”
“Anything good?”
“Pictures.”
He sat between them.
Emily showed him the photograph of Daniel asleep with him on his chest.
Noah smiled.
“I’ve seen that one.”
“You have?”
“Grandma has a copy.”
Of course she did.
Emily handed him the hospital photograph.
He stared at it.
“That’s me?”
“Yes.”
“I was tiny.”
“You were.”
“Was I ugly?”
Robert snorted.
“All newborns are ugly.”
Emily elbowed him.
“What?”
Noah laughed.
Emily looked at the photograph.
“You were beautiful.”
Robert shook his head.
“Delusional.”
Noah grinned.
They argued about it for several minutes.
Nobody won.
Later, Robert left.
Noah stayed.
He was spending the school year with Robert and alternating longer weekends with Emily, an arrangement everyone agreed to revisit as he got older.
Ethan visited twice under the guidance of the therapist.
Noah liked him more on the second visit.
That frightened Emily.
Then she noticed the fear was hers, not Noah’s.
She worked on letting it remain hers.
That evening, Noah dragged the suitcase toward the hallway closet.
Emily stopped him.
“Careful. The latch is loose.”
He examined it.
“Grandpa fixed it?”
“Badly.”
“I can fix it.”
“You?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re eleven.”
“So?”
Emily smiled.
“Fair.”
They found a screwdriver.
Noah sat cross-legged on the floor.
Emily held the flashlight.
He removed the bent screw, turned the latch over twice, and announced that Robert had put one part in backward.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am.”
“That’s genetic.”
“From you?”
Emily considered.
“Unfortunately, probably from all of us.”
Noah laughed.
He worked quietly for several minutes.
Emily watched his hands.
Daniel’s hands had been wider.
Ethan used to bite his nails.
Robert’s fingers were thick and scarred from years of fixing things that did not need fixing.
Noah belonged to none of them in pieces.
He was himself.
When he finished, he snapped the latch shut.
It held.
“See?”
Emily tested it.
“Nice.”
He stood.
“Can I keep it?”
Emily looked at the suitcase.
For a second, every old instinct rose.
It was evidence.
It was Arthur’s.
It was hers.
It had carried the documents that gave her back the truth.
Then Noah shrugged.
“It’s okay if not.”
Emily put her hand on the handle.
The leather was worn smooth where Arthur’s palm had carried it through airports and hotel lobbies decades before any of them knew what the suitcase would become.
She slid it toward Noah.
“It’s yours.”
His face brightened.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What should I put in it?”
Emily looked at him.
“Whatever you want.”
He carried it toward his room, then stopped.
“Mom?”
Emily froze.
Noah froze too.
Neither of them moved.
He looked embarrassed.
“I mean—”
“You can call me Emily.”
“I know.”
“Or Mom.”
He stared at the floor.
“Okay.”
“Whatever feels right.”
He nodded.
Then he looked up.
“Mom?”
Her throat tightened.
“Yeah?”
“The latch works now.”
Emily smiled.
“I see that.”
May you like
He carried the suitcase into his room.
The door stayed open behind him.
