Then:
“You’ll babysit Saturday because I said so.”
I closed my eyes.
The sentence contained everything.
Not:
Noah needs you.
Not:
We are desperate.
Because I said so.
I let the silence sit.
Then I said:
“Clare, you have the right to decide where Noah goes, what he eats, when he sleeps, and how you raise him.”
I breathed slowly.
“You do not have the right to decide what I do with my life.”
Nothing.
“My answer is no.”
She ended the call.
I drove to Savannah the next morning.
Clare called three times before eight-thirty.
I let every call ring.
At 8:19, Daniel called.
I answered.
“Hi.”
“Mom, where are you?”
“I’m on I-16.”
Silence.
“You actually left.”
“Yes.”
“Clare said you told her you were going, but I thought—”
“You thought I would change my mind.”
Another silence.
“She has her off-site.”
“I know.”
“Noah is here.”
“I assumed.”
“What are we supposed to do?”
I kept my eyes on the highway.
“Call a sitter.”
“We’ve been trying.”
“Call a neighbor.”
“Mom.”
“Daniel, I told Clare clearly last night.”
“She’s really upset.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Can you turn around?”
“No.”
His breathing changed.
“Mom.”
“I love you.”
“This doesn’t feel loving.”
“That doesn’t make it unloving.”
He said nothing.
“I told Clare no. She told me I would babysit because she said so.”
Long silence.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes.”
I heard him exhale.
“What did you say?”
“I told her she doesn’t control my time.”
“I didn’t know she said that.”
“Now you do.”
He went quiet again.
Finally:
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up.
My hands were steady.
Ahead of me, the sky was pale blue.
For the next ninety minutes, nobody called.
Rosalind met me on her porch in Savannah.
She was sixty-one, short, silver-haired, and incapable of greeting anyone quietly.
“You came!”
“I said I would.”
“You said that four other times.”
“This time I had luggage.”
She hugged me for nearly a minute.
Then pulled back.
“Something happened.”
“Coffee first.”
“Correct.”
We sat on her back porch for two hours.
Coffee became sweet tea.
Sweet tea became pecan cake.
I told her everything.
The calendar.
Patricia.
The painting class.
Clare’s phone call.
Daniel’s silence.
The sentence.
Because I said so.
Rosalind listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said:
“You have been apologizing for being alive.”
I stared.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
She leaned forward.
“You cancel things before anyone has to ask twice. You rearrange yourself before anybody else experiences inconvenience.”
“I love them.”
“I know.”
“I love Noah.”
“I know.”
“That matters.”
“Of course it matters.”
Rosalind’s voice softened.
“But your presence in their lives became more important than your presence in your own.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Gerald would have liked it.
Actually, Gerald would have hated how long it took me to understand it.
“He would have called Daniel months ago,” I said.
“Gerald would have called Daniel the second time you canceled lunch with Patricia.”
I laughed.
“He would.”
“He would have said something inappropriate but correct.”
“That was his specialty.”
Rosalind smiled.
Then became serious.
“You know one trip to Savannah isn’t enough.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked at her.
She had known me too long to be fooled by good intentions.
“You have taught them for years that you will always move.”
She tapped the table.
“You moved in another direction once. They are shocked.”
“What do I do?”
“Keep your word.”
“To them?”
“To yourself.”
My phone buzzed.
Daniel.
We found a sitter. I think we need to talk when you get back. Not about babysitting. Just talk. I miss you.
I read the last sentence twice.
I miss you.
Not:
We need you.
I miss you.
I wrote:
I miss you too. We’ll talk. Love you.
His reply came immediately.
Love you too, Mom.
I spent three days in Savannah.
Real days.
Rosalind and I walked through Forsyth Park.
We went to a bookstore where I bought four novels I absolutely did not need.
We ate shrimp and grits.