Heart Like Mine: A Novel
Heart Like Mine: Chapter 21

“Grace?” Max’s voice crept into my dreams and tickled me awake. He put his small hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. Victor wasn’t home yet; it was a few weeks after Kelli’s death, and he had started working later hours at the restaurant to make up for the time he spent taking care of the kids in the afternoons. Last night, he’d called at eleven to say he had to finish the wine order and wouldn’t be home until well after the bar closed.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked Max. “It’s so late.” Or so early. I forced myself to open my eyes and look at the clock. Two twenty-three. Ugh. Definitely early.

“I wet the bed,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He started to cry. “I had too much milk last night after dinner and I’m not supposed to and I had a bad dream and I wet the bed!” He began to sob in earnest, and I spun upright, steadying myself on the mattress with one arm and reaching out to him with the other, rubbing his back. The front of his jammies were soaked and cold. I tried not to gasp as a waft of ammonia hit me.

“Hey now. Of course you didn’t mean it. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head rapidly back and forth, not seeming to hear me through his tears. “Mama always says not to but I forgot ’cause I was just so thirsty!”

I wanted to cry, too, hearing him refer to her in the present tense—as though she were still alive. “Max, honey,” I said, dropping into a squat so we were eye level with each other. “I didn’t know that, so it’s nobody’s fault. Okay?” I pushed his damp hair back from his face and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “It’s only an accident. We just need to go get you some new sheets and new PJ’s, right? Everything’s going to be okay.”

“No it’s not!” he shrieked. He stamped his foot. “Not it’s not, no it’s not!”

“Max,” I said again, trying to keep my voice level, but feeling my heart rate begin to rise. “Ava is sleeping. I need you to try to be quiet.” I glanced at the doorway, willing Victor to walk through it. I wasn’t sure how to handle this on my own.

“No!” he screeched, and began to sob. “I want Mama!” he cried, and suddenly swung his arm out, knocking my alarm clock to the hardwood floor with a clatter.

“Max!” I grabbed his arms so he wouldn’t lash out at anything else.

“Did he wet the bed?” Ava said as she entered the room. So much for not waking her. Max yanked away from me, ran over to his sister, and pressed his face into her side. I straightened my spine and nodded. She frowned. “You shouldn’t let him have milk after dinner.”

Before I could stop myself, I shot her an angry look. “I realize that now, Ava,” I snapped. Things had still been a little tense between us since the day she’d fought with Victor over going back to Kelli’s house. I kept my distance, trying to give her the space she seemed to need. Apparently, it hadn’t helped.

She rolled her eyes and wouldn’t meet my gaze. “C’mon, Max. Can you help me strip off your sheets? And then we’ll clean you up a little and get you back to sleep.” He nodded slowly and sniffled away his tears.

“Let me help you, too,” I said, taking a step toward them, but Ava held up a hand to stop me.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it.” They left the room, and after I listened to the murmur of their voices against the backdrop of running water, less than ten minutes later it was quiet again.

Once curled back up under the covers, though, I couldn’t sleep. I thought of everything I didn’t know about Max and Ava—all the things that were as natural to Kelli as breath. And while so far there was little tangible demand on me with the kids around, I felt oddly strained. When we were all home, everything became focused around what they needed, their schedule. I couldn’t help but feel a little bit backed into a corner by the continuous noise—of the TV, their loud video games, and Max, who seemed literally incapable of moving through the house without slamming a door or stomping his feet against the hardwood floors. Accustomed to silence—maybe infused with a little music or the occasional reality TV show—I jumped at every sound he made. Ava—unlike tonight—most of the time was quiet and withdrawn. On some level, that was almost more disconcerting than Max’s constant over-the-top energy level and need for interaction. The counselor at the hospital told Victor that kids tend to process things more internally, and we should watch out for their grief coming out in other ways.

“What kind of ways?” I’d asked him, a little panicked by the thought of what their behavior might entail. I suddenly envisioned Max purposely throwing baseballs through our windows or Ava coming home with a tattoo.

Victor had shrugged. “She didn’t really say.”

“How’s the schedule working out?” Melody asked one evening when she’d come over to our house and Victor and the kids weren’t home yet. She and I sat at the dining room table, nibbling at a plate of cheese, flatbread, and fruit she’d brought over, sipping at a small glass of crisp Chardonnay.

I shrugged, crunching on the bite in my mouth before speaking. “Victor says it’s going okay. It’s only for a couple of hours when he picks them up from school, and then I take over so he can go do the dinner shift.”

“Isn’t having to leave the restaurant and then go back later pretty stressful for him?”

I took a swallow of wine. “Are you saying I should change my schedule and go pick them up from school, so he can have a break?” The sudden defensiveness in my tone surprised even me.

She dropped back against her chair, eyebrows raised. “Wow. I’m pretty sure that’s not what I said, Grace.”

I sighed and reached out a hand to squeeze hers. “Oh god, I’m sorry. It’s just been so hard seeing how tired he is, and I feel guilty, like I should be doing more, you know?”

“I get it,” she said, squeezing my hand in return before pulling away. “But your job is important, too, and it’s not exactly conducive to bringing children with you, right?”

“I know. But if I’m going to marry him, isn’t that part of the deal?” Melody didn’t answer, so I went on. “And now Ava wants to try out for the dance team and Victor isn’t sure he can manage getting Max to basketball at the Boys and Girls Club and getting her to practice. He already had to give up his Tae Kwon Do classes because he just couldn’t fit them in.” I sighed. “Jesus. Listen to me. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Can we talk about something else, please? What’s happening with you? How are things with Spencer?”

She sat back against her chair with a dreamy expression on her face. Her brown eyes lit up as she told me how he’d been calling her every day since their first dinner date and how the massage she gave him ended in a highly unprofessional manner.

I laughed when she told me this. “I thought you said that was against the masseuse’s professional code of ethics or something.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It was an accident!”

“Oh,” I said with a snort, “I see. Your hands just accidentally massaged his penis?”

“No!” she said, still laughing. “He rolled over onto his back and there it was, beneath the sheet. I didn’t mean to do it. The opportunity just sort of . . . presented itself.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “In a big way. If you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, chuckling. “Okay, I so did not need to know that.” I paused, thrilled to feel such a sense of lightness in this moment, laughing with my best friend. “Do you think it might be serious?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded briskly. “He’s just the gentlest man I’ve ever met. He doesn’t talk a lot, but when he does, it’s genuine and totally honest, you know?” She paused. “Did you know he was a foster child?” I shook my head, and she continued. “He told me he learned he was more likely to get adopted if he seemed quiet and well behaved, so it just stuck with him to be like that. But he never was adopted, and he really, really wants to have kids, so he can give them the kind of life he never had.” She sighed. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“It’s very sweet. And fits right in with your plans, huh?”

She stared out the window a moment before responding. “I’m trying not to have any plans this time. No agenda. Just appreciating what I like about him, which is a lot. We’ll just see how things go.”

We chatted more about how she wasn’t going home to Iowa for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year, even though her parents were begging her to. She booked more stressed out clients during the holiday season and they tended to tip her extremely well as a bonus, so she decided she couldn’t afford to be gone.

“You’ll spend them with us, then, I hope?” I said. “You and Spencer.”

She smiled. “That would be great.” Holding up her wineglass, she tilted it toward mine for a toast. “To good friends,” she said.

“To friends,” I echoed. “The family you get to choose.”

* * *

Thankfully, Sam and his boyfriend, Wade, offered to host Thanksgiving at their house in Magnolia. We’d sort of overlooked Halloween, since neither of the kids expressed interest in celebrating anything so soon after their mother’s death. Thanksgiving would be the first holiday we’d be spending as a family, and Victor and I were happy to hand the organizing over to Sam and his partner.

It was wonderful to see my brother in such a loving relationship, since his first couple of boyfriends had a hard time with the concept of monogamy. Then Wade showed up at the AIDS center as a support person for a mutual friend who’d recently been diagnosed as HIV positive, and sparks flew. Almost two years later, they were still going strong.

“Can we bring anything?” I asked Sam the Saturday afternoon before the actual holiday.

“Well, you know Wade is an absolute beast in the kitchen,” Sam said. “But if you want to bring some kind of appetizer for us to munch on while he cooks, and maybe a dessert, that would be great. Tell the ankle biters I’m looking forward to it.”

I hung up the phone and smiled at Ava, who was sitting at the dining room table painting her fingernails bright orange. Max was having a playdate at a friend’s house and Victor was at the restaurant to make sure everything was organized for the holiday rush.

“Sam says he’s looking forward to seeing you two on Thanksgiving,” I said. She didn’t respond but gave the barest shrug of her shoulders. I tried again. “Is there anything you like to eat every year? Something we could make to bring?”

She looked up, then, her eyes wide. “My mom always made the best pumpkin cream cheese Bundt cake.”

Buoyed by the fact that she’d actually spoken to me in a normal tone of voice, I seized the opportunity. “Well, why don’t we do that, then? We can go to the store and get what we need.”

She gave me a doubtful look. “Maybe we should wait for my dad.” She was thinking, I was sure, about my tendency to avoid the kitchen.

I stood up. “I think we should just do it. I actually do know how to cook, it’s just not my favorite thing.” Maybe this was all we needed to get over the tension between us. I’d been holding back, not wanting to push, waiting for her to reach out to me, when it was me, as the adult, who needed to reach out to her.

Ava nodded slowly, her expression lightening the slightest bit. “But we don’t have the recipe. It’s at my mom’s house.”

My spirits fell. “Are you sure? Your dad didn’t bring her cookbooks back with him?”

Ava slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She stared at me, wary, waiting to see what I’d do.

“Well,” I finally said. “Do you still have the key? We can go pick it up and come right back.” She nodded, and I swallowed the apprehension I felt in going against Victor’s wishes, rationalizing that we’d only be at the house for a minute or two, just to grab the recipe. “We’ll have to be quick, though, okay? Like ninja quick.”

She granted me a small smile and less than twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of Kelli’s house. I turned to look at her as we took off our seat belts. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?”

She nodded again and we headed inside. There was a small pile of mail on the entryway table—Victor had asked Diane to put it in the house for him to pick up. He knew he needed to get the house completely cleared out so he could get it listed for sale, but he’d been so busy, he hadn’t found the time. I also suspected that because it had been his mom’s, it was possible he’d have a hard time letting it go.

Ava walked slowly into the kitchen, and I followed behind her, watching for signs that being in her mother’s house was too much for her to handle, but she seemed to be okay.

“Do you know where it is?” I asked her.

“Yep,” Ava said, reaching to the left of the stove, where there was a shelf filled with various sizes and shapes of cookbooks. She pulled down a small one and opened it, flipping through the pages until she looked up and smiled. “Here it is. It’s all covered with splatters.” Her eyes began to fill with tears and she quickly looked away.

I could almost see the memories flashing through her mind—in the kitchen with her mother, laughing together as they baked. A thought struck me. “Ava, you know how the pictures in your mom’s photo albums kind of stopped after she was fourteen?” She nodded but still didn’t look at me. “Well, do you happen to know where she kept her yearbooks from high school? Did she ever show them to you?”

She snapped her gaze back to me and her eyes were free of any tears. “No, I never saw them. I don’t know where they are.” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “Why?”

I didn’t want to tell her about the yearbook I’d found, since Victor had never brought the issue back up after our talk the day of the memorial. It was bad enough I had brought Ava here when he had specifically instructed her not to come.

“No reason, really,” I said. “Just curious.” I glanced at my watch. “We should probably go so we have time to make the cake before your dad gets home.”

“Are you going to tell him we came here?”

“Yes,” I said, though inside I wanted to say no. “I’ll just explain about needing the recipe and he’ll understand.” This time, she followed me into the living room. She stopped in front of the table by the front door, grabbed a pile of letters, and began to thumb through them.

“Are you expecting something?” I asked. “We should take them with us, so your dad can make sure any bills get paid.” Not seeming to hear me, Ava set the bulk of the mail back down, held on to a single envelope, and then tore it open. “Ava. That’s not yours.”

“It’s from a doctor in California,” she said, ignoring me. “Why would she get a letter from there?” She read it out loud, quickly. “ ‘Dear Ms. Hansen: I’m sorry to inform you that I do not have you listed as a patient in 1993 or 1994. I wish you luck in replaceing whatever it is you’re looking for. Sincerely, Dr. Brian Stiles.’ ” Ava looked at me. “Do you think she was sick back then? Do you think it might have had something to do with what happened to her?”

“I don’t know, honey,” I said. “Maybe we can ask your dad, okay? Maybe he knows.” I doubted that was true. Victor had made it clear to me that Kelli didn’t like to talk about the specifics of her past. But after I did some quick math in my head, I realized that 1993 and 1994 would have been her freshman and sophomore years of high school, right when the hole in her life appeared. My mind flipped through possibilities and landed on one that made the most sense: If she had suffered from depression, maybe her parents sought treatment for her and she was looking for her medical history. Not being in contact with them, she might not have known—or remembered—the doctor’s name. I smiled at Ava, gently taking the letter from her hand and slipping it into my purse. “Let’s go, okay? We can talk about it with your dad later.”

On the way home, we made another quick stop at the grocery store to pick up the ingredients we needed for the cake. Soon we were back in the kitchen, and I was happy to focus on something other than Kelli’s past. “Okay,” I said. “What do we do first?”

“I don’t know,” Ava said quietly. “My mom always made this. I just watched.” She was obviously distracted by the letter we’d found at Kelli’s house. I was, too, but I was also determined to finish what I’d started with her—to bake her mother’s cake.

I hesitated. She wasn’t going to make this easy on me. “Well, let’s look at the recipe, then. What does it say?”

She leaned over the cookbook and told me we needed to cream the butter, cream cheese, and sugar until it was fluffy. I grabbed the three cubes of butter and two packages of cream cheese from the refrigerator with feigned confidence. I really wasn’t a baker—in a pinch, I could do decent tacos, spaghetti, or meatloaf—but I couldn’t stop and call Melody or Victor for help now. “Here,” I said, “you unwrap these and put them in the mixer while I measure out the sugar.”

Ava complied and put the cubes in the mixer. I added the sugar and turned the machine on, horrified by the sudden thunkthunking noise it made. “That butter’s pretty hard, huh?” I said.

Ava gave me a pointed look. “It never made that sound when my mom made it.”

Of course it didn’t. I sighed internally and kept a bright smile on my face. “Now, what do we add?” Eggs came next, the recipe said, and over the next five minutes, we added the rest of the ingredients to the mixer according to the instructions on the page.

“ ‘The batter should be light and creamy,’ ” Ava read, then looked at the gloppy mess in the bowl. Hard little bits of butter and white cream cheese chunks floated to the surface; the batter looked about as appetizing as spoiled milk. “I don’t think this is right,” she said.

“Let’s bake it and see what happens,” I said. “Maybe the clumpy bits melt and disappear when it’s in the oven?”

She looked at me, one eyebrow raised, but handed me the buttered Bundt pan, and I poured the mixture in, then slid it into the preheated oven. “Voilà! We did it.” Half an hour later, when the timer went off, I pulled the cake out of the oven. It was a hard, dark brown, and lumpy mess. “Well, at least it smells good,” Ava said, and we both looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

Just then, we heard the front door open. “Dad!” Ava yelled, scooting into the living room. “You’ll never guess what Grace did! She tried to bake!”

I followed her and saw Victor hugging his daughter. He looked up and smiled when he saw me, his eyes lighting up in a way they hadn’t for over a month.

“ ‘Tried’ is definitely the operative word,” I said. “I think it’s more of a science experiment than a cake.”

Ava looked up at her father, craning her neck. “The batter was gross,” she said, and I chuckled.

“Really gross,” I said, agreeing with her. “We’ll make another one on Wednesday, okay? Maybe your dad will be kind enough to give us some helpful hints.”

“I can do that,” Victor said, still smiling. He looked down at Ava. “I need to talk with Grace, honey. Can you give us a minute alone?”

Ava’s smile vanished as she let go of Victor and walked down the hall to her bedroom. I waited until I heard her door click closed, then looked at him, concerned. There was no way he could have known that I’d taken Ava to Kelli’s house. It had to be something else. “What’s up?”

He sighed, pulling off his coat and hanging it in the closet by the front door. “Spencer slipped in the kitchen a little while ago and landed hard on the cement floor. I’m pretty sure he broke his arm.”

“Oh no!” I said. “Did he go to the hospital?”

“He’s there now,” Victor said. “And I’m down my head chef for Thanksgiving.”

I felt something in my belly drop down a notch and realized the last thing I needed to do right then was tell him where Ava and I had gone. It would only give him more to worry about. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m screwed. I gave a lot of people the holiday off and there’s no one else to cover. Spencer was supposed to manage all the catering we’re sending out plus the reservations we have for dinner tomorrow. Now I’ll have to do it all.”

I didn’t respond right away. I thought of the huge pile of work I needed to get done before Monday—the client files I needed to review, the budget that needed tweaking before the end of the year. I had hoped to make some headway on it before the holiday weekend, so Victor and I could actually enjoy some time together. A tiny thread of irritation shot through my veins, but then an idea struck me. “Can’t you hire someone to cover for him temporarily?”

He shook his head. “There’s not enough time. And even if I hired someone next week, I’d have to be there to train them on the menu, anyway, which is really more work than just biting the bullet and doing it myself.”

I thought about how Victor would have to run the restaurant at night on his own until after New Year’s, and the holidays were his busiest season, when he needed to make enough money to make it through the leaner times. From Thanksgiving on last year, he’d worked fourteen-hour days, six days a week—I was lucky to see him at all. And now, with the kids to manage on top of the restaurant, I couldn’t fathom how he’d make it work. It was doubtful he would hire someone to babysit the kids—I’d suggested this right after the kids had moved in, thinking an after-school nanny would alleviate the pressure he was feeling to be with them when they weren’t in school, but he’d nixed the idea. “They need me,” he told me. “Not some stranger. I don’t want them to feel like I’m shoving them off on someone else. Like they’re somehow inconveniencing me.” I understood what he was saying, but now, considering the circumstances, it seemed like a good time to reevaluate. Kids had caregivers other than their parents all the time. I knew from years of being in HR the challenges parents faced in the workplace—rare was the family who didn’t employ the help of day care or a nanny to enable both parents to be at their jobs. But there was something deeper in Victor driving him to be so completely hands-on with the kids. He was worried after the loss of their mother that if he hired a babysitter, they might feel he didn’t want to be with them.

“Couldn’t the kids be alone for a few hours after school?” I suggested now. “I was already taking care of Sam when I was Ava’s age.”

“And you enjoyed that so much, right?” he said, raising a single eyebrow. I was silent, so he went on. “Christ. If Spence really is totally out of commission, I’ll need to rework my whole schedule. I’m not sure how I’m going to pull it off.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I said, wishing I were entirely convinced that he would.