“You know, you’re not too far from the truth,” he says, with a smile that could light most of Brooklyn. He walks a few steps to the cluttered yellow Formica table, the one that had been in my mother’s kitchenette when I was a kid. He sweeps away two paper napkins and reveals two dinner plates, each with a scoop of tuna-mayonnaise salad, a wedge of iceberg lettuce covered in a bright pink sauce—Russian dressing…or did he injure himself cutting the lettuce?—and neatly buttered slices of toast with the crusts removed.

“You are an amazing sous chef, Willie. Just amazing,” I say.

“No, Mom. A sous chef is an assistant. I’m the guy in charge of the cold food course. I’m the chef garde manger.”

When you’ve got a nine-year-old who knows what a chef garde manger is, you’ve got a perfect kid or a future Emeril Lagasse…or both.

Everything about this little supper is perfect. It even erases my incredible tiredness. At least for a minute. But when the first forkful of tuna feels heavy in my hand, and when the first gulp of apple juice nauseates me, I hallucinate about the bed once more.

“Häagen-Dazs chocolate for dessert, Mom,” he says.

I smile, too exhausted to talk.

And then, the phone.

“Lemme get it,” Willie says.

“Only if you know how to deliver babies,” I say weakly.

“I’m a quick learner,” he says. He hands me my cell phone.

“Lucy, it’s Troy,” comes Troy’s voice.

“What’s up, buddy?” I ask. “I’m tired top to bottom. I’m about to pass out.”

“I just wanted you to know…Well, it can wait.”

“Don’t mess with me, Troy. Why’d you call?”

Then he spits it out: “Another baby’s gone missing.”

I don’t scream. I don’t speak. I don’t move. Instead, I cry. That’s it. I just start to cry.

Why? Why the hell? What’s happening? I should go in. I will go in. I’ll call an Uber. I’ll expense it. But I’m still crying.

“Lucy, you okay?” Troy says.

“No, I’m not okay,” I say quietly. “But I will come in.”

I glance over at the folded-out foldout couch. Then I look down at the crazy pink river of Russian dressing. Then I look at Willie, who’s staring intently at me.

“Mom, you gotta choose the right thing,” he says.

Like I said, he might just be perfect.

“You’re right,” I say. I stand up from the table.

Then I walk to the foldout and almost fall onto it.

Willie smiles. “Good choice, Mom.”

Chapter 9

Chapter 9