“You know what?” She held her mother’s gaze, eyes and voice a flat sheet of ice. “I’m tired of accepting what Earlier Oona laid out for me. I’ve done it before and it fucking backfired. I’m sick of being treated like Present-Day Oona doesn’t know what’s best for her. And what’s best for me right now is to see Kenzie. Now are you gonna tell me where he is?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Then I’m sorry, but you need to get out of my house.”
Madeleine opened her mouth in slow motion but no words came. No sound at all as she stood, collected her things, and left.
The tea was tepid, but Oona gulped it anyway; it quelled the dryness in her throat, but not the ache. All this time spent missing Dale while part of him lived on, in secret. While her mother knew and said nothing. Yes, Madeleine was an easy target for her ire and betrayal—a betrayal that eclipsed Edward’s, because this was a matter of blood—but she also had Earlier Oona to blame. How could she have abandoned Kenzie? It was confounding, this self-loathing for something she’d already done and had yet to do, like being a warped version of Schrödinger’s cat.
Not warning herself of a doomed marriage was one thing, but hiding her own child from herself? Earlier Oona might’ve considered that to be sensible and wise, but this Oona wanted to tell her to fuck off, to beat the shit out of her, to punch and kick her to a bloody pulp.
Empty mug in hand, Oona reached back to throw it, aiming at the mantel. Except—there it was, the white envelope with her name on it. Her arm sagged.
“Fuck you … me…” she muttered.
Might as well see what her so-called sage self had to say.
Oona,
Anger is a poison and forgiveness is the antidote.
“What kind of fortune-cookie bullshit is that?” she seethed.
Of course, that’s not going to help you right now. Your anger is totally justified. There’s nothing I can tell you that’ll make you understand certain choices I made. I keep thinking if I share some of the things I’ve learned, you won’t have to learn them the hard way. Instead, trying to protect you often ends up making things more convoluted. So I’ll keep it simple.
In your top desk drawer is a plane ticket and a Post-it with an address.
Kenzie is in Boston. More information awaits when you get there.
25
All Oona brought to Boston was a backpack, a small suitcase, and her guitar. The taxi dropped her off on a narrow cobblestone street in Beacon Hill lined with brick row homes. Snow dusted their black window shutters and old-fashioned gas lamps dotted the block. Picture-postcard perfect.
Is this where my son lives?
She matched the number on the door to the address on the Post-it. As she was about to ring the bell, she stopped, her finger an inch away from it.
What if Kenzie’s life was as lovely and perfect as these homes? Could she really come stomping in amidst all this quiet charm? Could she cause such a disruption?
Then again, how could she not see her child? A child she had with her first—arguably only—love. However idyllic his home, however much he might be thriving under the upbringing of his adopted mothers, it was no substitute for his biological mom.
I’m doing a good thing here.
It shouldn’t have required so much self-coaxing, but she rang the bell. Waited agonizing seconds before the door opened. A rotund rosy-cheeked woman with wispy white hair and Ben Franklin–style eyeglasses stood before her.
Is this one of the women raising my son? She’s old enough to be his grandmother. Older than his actual grandmother.
Oona opened her mouth to deliver the impassioned speech she’d silently practiced on the journey to Boston. All that came out was a cloud of foggy breath.
“Oona, how lovely to see you. Happy New Year!” The woman drew a shawl around herself against the cold, her face friendly, absent of suspicion.
“Happy New Year,” Oona echoed, though the phrase rang hollow. Shocking New Year, more like. Bitter New Year.
“Come in, come in, it’s nippy out there.” She beckoned, opening the door wider. “I’ve got your keys and paperwork close by.”
Taking cautious steps, Oona set her bags and guitar case inside the threshold.
Keys to what?
“How frightful, having your purse stolen. That’s why I never ride the subway when I visit New York. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” She sorted through a wicker basket on a side table in the foyer. “I changed the locks as soon as I got your message. Now I know I put these keys in here. Where are the darn things?” Jingling and rustling as she sifted through odds and ends.
I have an apartment in Boston? Oona tried to remain quiet so she could gradually piece together what was going on. But tempering her impatience was tricky. “Do you…” Oona crafted the question as innocuously as possible. “Do you know my mother, Madeleine Lockhart?” It was unlikely, but she had to know if this woman was raising Kenzie.
“I’m afraid I don’t.” Her eyebrows scrunched together. “Do I look like someone she knows? I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.”
“That must be it.” Oona scraped her lower lip with her teeth.
“Ah, I remember what I did with them. I put them with the copy of your lease in this drawer. Here we are.” She held out a folded sheet of paper and two shiny keys. “Now you must promise you’ll be more careful.”
“I will. Thank you. How much do I owe you for the locksmith?”
“You paid a year’s rent up front, double what I would’ve charged for the place, so I won’t accept an extra cent from you.” A dismissive wave and firm shake of her head.
The address on the lease took Oona to a ground-floor apartment several doors down, a spacious one-bedroom decorated in black, white, and red—minimalist and modern. Many would’ve found the living space sterile, but Oona took comfort in its starkness.
Taped to the bathroom mirror was another letter.
Oona,
The situation with Kenzie is delicate. You must respect that he’s being raised by caring, responsible women, Shivani and Faye, who are terrific parents. You must also be aware of a legal agreement in place with them. It includes terms akin to a restraining order. You’re not allowed to contact Kenzie before he turns eighteen. But now that you know he’s your son, I’m sure nothing will stop you from seeing him, so I’ve come up with a way for you to do so.
After school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Kenzie goes to High Strung, a coffee shop/record store, to do his homework.
At the end of 1998, I secured us this apartment so you could visit High Strung and see your son (he should be back from winter break in a few days). Three afternoons a week might not seem like a lot, but it was the best I could do.
Obviously, you can’t tell him you’re his birth mother. Maybe say you’re a BU grad student. You may even want to use a different name and change up your look. If he or one of his adopted moms finds out who you are, the situation could blow up and hurt Kenzie. Before you consider telling him the truth or whisking him across state lines, remember the wonderful man he’ll grow up to be, raised by Faye and Shivani. He has only a few years left with them—you’ll be part of his life much longer than that. Plus, they have nearly fifteen years of experience parenting him—you have none (sorry if that’s harsh). Just don’t do anything extreme.