By the time their dark blue SUV crunches to a halt on our bluestone driveway, I’ve been standing nervously in front of the window for nearly a half hour. One by one they climb out, the two passengers and the driver.
“They’re here,” I call out to Matthew, who’s in the kitchen with David.
He joins me, holding our boy in his arms, as we go to the front door together. When it swings open, there is Kelly Randall. My mother. Her emerald eyes, identical to my own, move down to the little boy squirming in his father’s arms and I see the tears flood them and she puts a hand to her mouth.
Standing a little behind her are a teenaged girl with long dark hair and a tall, lean man with a dark beard and glasses. I recognize the girl as Corinne, my half-sister. She’s looking down at her feet, fidgeting nervously with the bracelets that line her wrist.
“Julia, you remember, Corinne,” Kelly says, and I offer the girl a reassuring smile.
“Of course,” I murmur. “Hello, Corinne.” I’m rewarded with a shy grin, shiny with purple-colored braces.
Kelly reaches behind her and the man steps forward. “And this – this is my husband, Drew Randall. He … he’s the one who saved me, Julia. He got me off the streets …” her voice fades with the painful memory.
I consider the kind faced man in front of me and wonder what it was that he saw in her … what it was that gave him the courage to love a woman who was so deeply flawed.
“Drew …” I begin, but before I can do more than utter his name, he leans in and kisses my cheek. He looks as if he’s about to cry, too.
“Julia,” he breathes, “I’ve waited so very long to meet you.”
For a split second I want to point out that he could have met me decades ago, had the two of them taken me out of the North Fork Children’s Home. But I stop myself. That was then. This is now. And now, I understand.
I give my stepfather a shy smile of my own as I place a hand on Matthew’s shoulder.
“And this is my husband … my Matthew.”
Matthew shakes Drew’s hand and opts for a polite nod to the women. I’m stunned that throughout this entire exchange, David has sat perfectly still in his father’s arms, his intense, hazel eyes moving curiously from face to face. But now, all eyes are on him.
“David,” Matthew coaxes, “can you say hello to …” he stops suddenly, and I realize with growing horror that this is the one thing we have not discussed. What will David call this woman and her family? They’re all staring at me now, waiting for the answer.
“Grammy,” I reply after a thoughtful pause. “Sweetheart, this is your Grammy.”
Kelly opens her arms and moves forward. I step aside, assuming she’s headed for her grandson … but she isn’t, she’s headed for me. Before I can react, she pulls me into her arms and smothers my face with kisses, the salty dampness of her tears mixing with mine.
I don’t know how long we stand there, holding one another like that and crying, but when we finally separate, we are alone on the front porch. At some point, the others have gone inside to give us our privacy and for that I am grateful.
Kelly reaches out to put a hand on my immense belly, but stops short, looking to me for permission. I give it with a nod.
“How are you?” she asks, her eyes filled with concern as she rubs my baby bump gently.
“Better. Still tired, but much, much better,” I assure her.
It’s taken months, but the bruises have finally faded away, the fractures have healed and the cast has come off. Still, as much as I may look like my old self, I’m not yet feeling like myself. There are still nights when I wake up drenched in sweat, gasping … sometimes screaming. The doctors tell me that it’s PTSD and that, hopefully, with time … and lots of counseling … it, too, will fade.
With the baby due in another month, Matthew was terrified that I would be overwhelmed and has insisted on getting some live-in help to supplement Nat’s role. I resisted at first … until he cautiously suggested that we might ask Trudy to come and stay with us for a while. I realized at once that it would be more than having another nanny, it would be an opportunity for her and David to get to know one another.
And then, of course, there’s my own mother, so anxious to be of assistance, to make up for lost time and memories.
“Any decisions on a name?” she asks me now.
“Carol. Carol Samantha Ayers,” I smile.
“Oh, Julia, that’s beautiful! How did you choose it?”
“I wanted a musical name and Carol was the only one that Matthew and I could agree on.”
“And Samantha?”
“For an amazing man. A …” I consider whether to say this to her, but I do. “A father to me all of those years I was in the Children’s Home, and after. Dr. Sam. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure.”
She smiles at the idea that I’m including her in my future, that there is a place for her in my life. And she’s right. There is a place for her, because I have made one.
That night on the stairs, Trudy’s words came to me. They gave me the courage to do what I did. Almost as importantly, they gave me a unique insight into my mother’s mind. Standing there, facing Jeremy, I could only think about my perfect little boy. The helpless little creature with whom I am so wholly and completely in love.
It was just as Trudy had said it would be. I knew that Jeremy had to die to ensure my son’s safety. And if that meant I had to die in the process, then so be it. Nothing else mattered in that one perfect second of illumination – not that David would grow up without a mother, or how hard it would be for Matthew to go on without me. The difficulty of their lives was less important than the fact that they would be alive.
And, it was there, on those stairs that night that I had a flash of insight into the mind of Kelly Randall. I understood, suddenly, that she had made the best decision she could at the moment she left me. She hadn’t thrown me out like a piece of trash. She’d left me with my father and his wicked temper in favor of taking me with her into the dark underbelly of the horrific world she was entering. A world where she might have, in a moment of sheer, drug-induced desperation, traded her five-year-old for her next fix.
My childhood was tragic, no doubt. But now I can make the distinction between tragedy and hell. And I’ll take the former over the latter every time … though, God willing, that’s not a choice I’ll ever need to make again while I walk this earth.
From somewhere in the house, I can hear David squealing with delight, while Matthew, Corinne and Drew laugh.
“Let’s go … Mom,” I whisper, taking her hand in mine. “They’re waiting for us.”
She clutches my hand tightly as we step across the threshold and into my home. Once we’re safely inside, I shut the front door behind us against the chill and the dark.