Six years ago I had come home to an empty apartment and been told a story about where she’d gone, and I had believed it, and it had nearly killed me.
I looked at her, and I looked at the four boys climbing into the warm car, four small versions of my own childhood face, and I did not have room in my body for all the questions at once.
“I’m not deciding anything,” I said finally, quietly.
“I’m not claiming anything.
I don’t understand what’s happening any more than you do.” I looked at the boys, then back at her.
“I’m just trying to understand why four children have my face.
That’s all I know how to do right now.
Take the apartment.
Please.”
She held my eyes a moment longer, looking for the lie she was sure was in there somewhere.
Then she got in the car with our sons, and it pulled away into the traffic, and I stood on the freezing sidewalk in my Manhattan-tailored suit and took out my phone.
Chapter 8 — Cancel Tonight
It was 4:18 when I called my assistant.
“Cancel tonight,” I said.