“How do you feel about it?” I ask.
His hand is tapping the table. Feet kicking underneath. “Great,” he says. But what he means is: Hurry up, please.
“Do you remember,” I ask, “the story of when Jesus came back?”
It’s the only way I can think to explain this. By returning to the story we know best.
“Yes.”
“What happened when he came back? Did the disciples recognize him?”
Peter shakes his head.
It’s one of the most mysterious, poignant moments of the gospels.
“Two men were traveling on the road to Emmaus,” I recite, “and Christ drew near to them, and walked with them. But they did not recognize him.”
I used to imagine the two men as brothers, one taller and one shorter. Now I picture a father and son.
“When Mamma comes back,” I say, “she may be different. She won’t look exactly like our pictures of her. She may not act like our stories about her. We may not quite recognize her at first. But she’ll still be Mamma, right?”
He nods, but this is starting to fill him with anxiety.
“And what else did Jesus do,” I continue, “after he came back?”
What a poor teacher I am. A thousand possible answers to this question, and I expect him to intuit the right one.
Somehow, though, Peter knows. It’s taken him a moment to find my wavelength, to align our minds, but we have always understood each other.
“After Jesus came back,” he says with a hint of desperation, “he left again.”
I push forward. “And if Mamma leaves again, we’ll be sad, but we’ll understand, won’t we?”
He turns his head away violently and slips out of my lap. He wipes away tears with lashing strokes of his hand, wanting me to see how upset he is.
“Peter.” I kneel beside him. If I were to make him dread Mona’s arrival, I would be sharing the very worst of myself. The part that is incapable of hope. My own heart drowns in these worries for his sake, but for his sake I have to do better. “Peter, I believe she’s not going to leave. I believe she wouldn’t have come back if she were going to do that. Your mamma loves you. And no matter what happens, she’ll always love you. She would never want to hurt you. Not for anything in the world.”
He nods. His lashes are dewed with tears, but his eyes are drying. This is what he wants to hear.
I place my hands on his sides. His ribs are thinner than my fingers. “When she meets you, she’s going to feel something amazing. There’s no love in the world like a mamma’s love for her little boy.”
The verdict of our whole religion. Between mother and child is the purest love in creation.
And yet I don’t want to ply him with false hope. Neither of us knows Mona’s motives. I don’t even know my own. We’ve created a delicate life here, and the upheaval she could create is total. Right now, our energy needs to be focused on Simon. But I can’t deny Peter this moment. He’s waited so long.
“Can she come over?” he says, reaching for the phone. “Please? ”
This last word is so bottomless that it guts me.
“We can call her,” I say. “Okay?”
His finger is on the button. He itches to press it.