And Cohen was glad. Glad that there had been people to make his mother smile over her lifetime, even when he and Jim, the people who should have made her smile the most, failed in their task.
He was glad his mother was happy, and for once, he felt this without bitterness, anger or a lingering sense of resentment. He didn’t begrudge his mother her happiness, not now when he’d finally had a taste of his own.
His hands curled around the mug in his hand and he sipped at his drink, Esther watching him all the while.
‘It’s good, thank you,’ he said after a minute, and Esther opened her mouth, clearly surprised.
But she only nodded. ‘You’re welcome,’ she told him, sipping her own drink.
For five minutes they sat in awkward silence. It was only when Cohen went to drink again and found his mug empty that he finally spoke.
‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ he said quietly.
But Esther shook her head. ‘I’m surprised you’re here,’ she told him. ‘Normally I have to repeatedly call your office or Michelle and guilt you into seeing me. So yes, I’m surprised.’ She stopped to give him a half-smile. ‘But in my mind, there’s no question of why, Cohen. You know you can come here anytime you like, for any reason. My door is always unlocked for you. I’m happy you chose to open it today. I really am. It’s the best Hanukkah gift I could ever get. And so no, I’m not wondering why you’re here.’ She looked at him pointedly, her eyes wet. ‘I’m simply glad that you are.’
Cohen looked down and swallowed hard.
‘I have something for you,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a small box and pushed it across the table.
Esther picked it up gingerly. ‘Cohen? What is this? A gift?’ Her smile was wider now, her eyes warm when she looked at him. And damn, Cohen thought, but when was the last time he’d given his mother a birthday present? Or a Mother’s Day gift? There were eight days of Hanukkah … how many of those had he ever marked for her with a gift? He had a horrible, sneaking suspicion it was the baskets of focaccia he sent in his post-Christine baking period. And they weren’t even presents, not really. They were simply physical manifestations of his own misery. Cries for help in the form of wheat, starch and gluten.
‘No, not a gift, not really ...’ he began, drifting off when he saw his mother begin to open the box.
‘Cohen,’ she breathed. She brought a hand to her mouth before taking a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Oh, Cohen,’ she said again, and now ... now there were tears on her face. Tears that ran, unrestricted, down the thin lines of her cheeks. Cheeks Cohen remembered gripping as an infant as he pulled his mother close, showering her face with kisses. He recalled the smell of Esther’s hair when she nuzzled his toddler neck, just as he could remember – with a blinding clarity – the feel of her arms around his body, supporting his baby weight.
When was the last time he’d kissed his mother? Cohen could not remember. On impulse he reached forward to rub the tears from Esther’s skin. He kissed one of her cheeks and then the other, before sitting back.
Esther stared at him, clutching the box in her hand. His grandmother’s ring shone in the early evening light, and he gestured to it.
‘I got it back earlier today,’ he explained. ‘I’m sorry I ever gave it to ...’ he paused. He didn’t even want to mention Christine’s name in his mother’s presence. ‘I suppose it doesn’t even matter,’ he finally admitted. ‘But for what it’s worth, I am sorry.’
Esther was no longer crying, though tears still ran occasionally from her eyes. ‘Cohen,’ she said quietly, her voice thick with tears and effort. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’
‘I did,’ he replied firmly.
Esther pulled the ring from the box, admiring it in the palm of her hand. ‘You know my mother died when I was just a baby,’ she told him. ‘I never even saw her wear this ring. I wish I had. I wish I’d seen this ring on her finger. Although, what I think I’m really saying is that I wish I’d seen her. Even if only just once. Just for a minute. All your Uncle Israel and I ever had were pictures, shown to us by disinterested nannies. Our father wasn’t keen on talking about her. Didn’t even like to hear her name mentioned. Strange, I’m not angry at him for that. In the long list of things I hated my father for, that was never one of them.’ Esther looked up at Cohen. ‘I understand grief, you see. I hated my father, but not for loving my mother.’ She stopped, looking at the ring again. ‘When did you start hating me, Cohen?’
Cohen felt a chill, even though the air in his mother’s home was warm and scented with the challah she’d been baking.
‘I don’t hate you, Mother. I’ve never hated you.’
‘It’s felt like it,’ Esther admitted. ‘When you stopped returning my phone calls. When you made excuses not to see me. When you left the Sedler Foundation for Roberts-Canning, knowing how I felt about them. When you married Christine. When you disappeared off to London, without even leaving a message to let me know. Michelle told me, did you know that? One afternoon I called to speak with you, and she told me you’d been in London for three weeks. Three weeks, Cohen. For three weeks you’d been four thousand miles away and you never even told me.’
‘That ...’ Cohen’s throat was dry. ‘That was never about hating you. That was about ...’
And then he stopped. Because his mother was sitting there, her red-rimmed eyes wide, actually listening to him.
‘What was it about?’ Esther pressed him.
‘It was ... It was about being angry at you. At you, and at ... and at ... at Dad,’ and now Cohen’s voice was really thick, choked with his own tears. Because he hadn’t said the word ‘dad’ in a long time. Not since the day Jim had walked away and decided not to be one any more.
Esther sat back, her face white at his words. ‘I always provided for you, even after he left,’ she said.
‘You provided for me,’ Cohen agreed. ‘But it didn’t always feel like you loved me. And I so so wanted you to love me, Mother. I still do.’
‘Cohen,’ Esther spluttered, his name pushed out through her tears. ‘I’ve always loved you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. How could you doubt that?’
‘You were just ... just not there, sometimes, you know?’ Cohen ran a hand through his hair. ‘I felt like an inconvenience to you. Like that summer you went to Guatemala, and left me with Uncle Israel? You probably don’t remember ... I was supposed to go stay with ... but he never came for me and so—’
‘—I remember,’ Esther interrupted him softly. ‘I remember. Jim was supposed to have you that summer. He’d spent all spring telling me about all the grand adventures he was going to take you on. Fishing. Hunting. A road trip through the desert. Camping. All the things fathers are supposed to do with their sons. He spoke with such enthusiasm ... I really thought for once he might come through ...’ Esther shuddered. ‘But he never turned up to collect you. I remember, Cohen. Of course I do. And I’m so sorry for that, I really am.’
‘You spent the entire time at the airport telling Uncle Israel how sorry you were for me. Apologising for the inconvenience of my existence.’