Twenty-Eight

TWENTY-EIGHT

ONLY JIMMY AND brIGID knew about the miscarriage, one month into my second trimester, in what also turned out to be the last trimester of my marriage to Martin.

Now Dr. Ben Kalinsky knew, too, and knew about how after the miscarriage I found out I could no longer have children.

It was going to be a boy.

Going to be the son my father never had, as badly as he'd wanted one.

I finally announce when we sit down for dinner that I'm through talking about Martin Elian for tonight and maybe until the end of time. The dinner, by the way, is a complete triumph in Ben's estimation, not just the beef but the sides of potato-fennel gratin and the honey-glazed carrots.

"Please tell me this isn't one of his recipes."

"Ina Garten!" I say.

Before we change the subject, Ben says he'd like to make one final observation about Martin.

"Because of what he said about you having lost the baby, I fully intend to punch his teeth through the back of his head if I ever meet him."

"And you a man of peace."

"Do you ever see him?"

"Never."

"Do you still hate him?"

"I have long since decided he's no longer important enough to hate."

After we've finally cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher and treated ourselves to a shared glass of Hennessy, we're leaning against the kitchen counter and Ben pulls me into a kiss.

"So why did you finally show off your cooking skills?"

"Because doing that made me happy tonight. Mostly because you're not him."

We're in the bedroom a few minutes later making love. Ben has already announced he can't spend the night, because of a ridiculously early surgery. When he's gone, I lie there in the dark, listening to Rip snore, thinking about how much I told Ben tonight, and how much I left unspoken, embarrassed to tell him how even after the divorce I would go up to the Upper West Side sometimes and stare through the window of Café Martin, hoping for a glimpse of him.

Hating him and loving him at the same time.

But then I go to a much happier place, thinking about Ben Kalinsky again, everything we've shared tonight, how easy things are between us, the opposite of the theme-park ride that my relationship with Martin Elian was, even in the good times. I think about all this even as I worry, constantly, that the only reason that I've found someone I can live happily with—making a liar out of Martin Elian—is that I know it's probably not going to last.

As if cancer has hedged my bets for me before I can do that for myself.

I did open up to Ben Kalinsky, in a way I haven't opened up to any man, not even Jimmy Cunniff, in a long time. Or maybe ever. Somehow it felt easier, safer, opening myself up, even a little bit, with Fiona Mills, a perfect stranger.

Tonight was different. This was me telling my secrets to the man I really am in love with and realizing in the process—maybe—that I needed more than my work to make me feel alive.

For an hour tonight, the kind of precious hour Fiona spoke of, I didn't feel the need to be tough-guy Jane. I wasn't Jane Effing Smith. I opened a door and let Ben Kalinsky in.

And honored my promise to Fiona in the process.

When I finally fall asleep, I dream about my mother again. She's still young, like we're sisters, and we're walking on the beach, smiling and holding hands.

Behind her, hanging outside the window, is her hummingbird feeder, swaying slightly in the breeze.

This time a bird is there.

She turns to see it and smiles, not looking as if she's sick or dying.

She looks happy, watching the bird suspended in midair next to the feeder, as if frozen in time, and memory, from before she got sick.

The last thing I remember before I fall asleep is her staring at the feeder, the glass looking as shiny and new as it was the day my father built it for her.

She's smiling and reaching for the bird, as if wanting to put it in the palm of her hand, when my phone wakes me up.

JIMMY.

"We got two more bodies," he says.

"Who?"

"Another mother-daughter deal."

I realize I'm already standing next to my bed.

" Who, Jimmy?"

"Elise Parsons and her kid," he says. "The other Elise."

"How?"

"Two each in the head."