And then, with the death, William helped me again. He helped me with some of the business aspects—there is so much to do when a person dies, different credit cards to close, and bank accounts and so many computer passwords—and William told me to let Chrissy organize the service, which was very smart of William; Chrissy did all of that.
It was Becka who came and stayed with me those first nights; she did my crying for me at that time. She wept and wept with the abandonment of a child, then flung herself onto the couch, and a few minutes later she said something—I have no idea what—and we both started to laugh. She is like that, dear Becka. She made me laugh, and then she had to go home, as she should have.
* * *
—
At David’s service in a funeral home in the city—which was then, and is now, all a blur to me—I do remember Becka whispering to me, “Dad wishes he could sit up here with us.”
“He said that to you?” I asked, turning to look at her, and she nodded solemnly. Poor William, I thought.
* * *
—
Poor William.
* * *
At Christmastime, Estelle called and asked me if I wanted to come and have Christmas Day with them. I said it was really kind of her to ask me, but no, I was going to be with the girls, and as soon as I said that I remembered Becka’s saying how William had wanted to sit up front with us during the service, and it did go through my mind that William might have wanted to spend Christmas with the girls and me, that maybe he had asked Estelle if we could be included. But he had had Christmas with Estelle and her mother for years now, and Bridget, of course; Estelle’s mother was almost William’s age. I have an image of their apartment all done up for the holidays with a big Christmas tree, Becka had told me about it; she said, wryly, that it was as festive as Macy’s. And I said, “Not as expensive as Saks?” And we had laughed. And there was a yearly Christmas party they went to at night nearby in their neighborhood; William had always enjoyed that.
“I understand,” Estelle said. “But just know we’re thinking of you, Lucy. Okay?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“We know it has to be hard with David gone,” she said. “Oh Lucy—I feel so bad for you.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Don’t worry. But thank you,” I said again. “I really do appreciate it.”
“Okay.” Estelle hesitated. “Okay,” she said again. “Well, bye-bye.”
* * *
So a new year began. And in rather quick succession, two events happened to William. But let me mention just a few more things first.
* * *
In January, William told me—on the phone from his lab, and after we had spoken of the girls—that for Christmas he had given Estelle an expensive vase that she had admired in a store one day. And she had given him a subscription to an online thing where you could find out about your ancestors. I could tell by the way he told me that he had been disappointed with the gift. Gifts have always been important to William in a way I have never understood. “But that was smart of her,” I said. “What a good idea.” I said, “You know almost nothing about your mother, William, this could be good.” I do remember that I said that. And he only said “Yeah. I guess.” This was the William who was tiresome to me, the petulant boy beneath his distinguished and pleasant demeanor. But I did not care, he was no longer mine. And when I hung up I thought: Thank God. And I meant about him being no longer mine.
* * *
But here is one thing I would have told the Pam Carlson woman, had I stayed and talked with her at that party for William: A few years before David died we went to Pennsylvania for his nephew’s marriage. David had been raised a Hasidic Jew right outside of Chicago, and he had left that community when he was nineteen; they ostracized him then, he had had no contact with any of his family until just recently, when his sister got in touch with him, so I did not know her well; she seemed a stranger to me because she was. We went on the train and then his sister picked us up and we drove through the dark for half an hour to a hotel in the middle of nowhere. It had snowed the night before and I sat in the backseat and stared out the window at all the darkness going by, the rare house could be seen and, every so often, various stores—one with a sign on it that said GOING OUT OF BUSINESS FOREVER—or storage-looking places, and my heart was so heavy. Because it all made me think of William and how when we were young and I was in college we would drive through the night from Chicago back East to see his mother and we drove through places like this, snowy areas that looked forlorn, but I had felt so happy with him, I felt snug with him. William had no siblings, as I have said—and in a way, at that point, neither did I—and there was, that night as I drove with my current husband and his sister, a strong memory of coziness, because William and I had been a world unto ourselves, and I remembered one drive back East when he had said I could throw my peach pit out the window, and I had thrown it out his window for some reason, he was driving, and the peach pit hit him in the face, and I remember we laughed and laughed, as if it were the funniest thing that had ever happened. And then also a few years later we would drive to Newton, Massachusetts, to see his mother with our baby girls tucked into their car seats, and there was still that sense of coziness. But that night in the backseat of the car as we passed the snowy acres of land and I sort of heard my husband and his sister speaking quietly of their childhood, passing by billboards that said HIT BY A CAR? CALL HHR, I thought to myself: William is the only person I ever felt safe with. He is the only home I ever had.