Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

God, there were so many people in the world. How could you ever be sure you’d found the right one?

She had talked to Chess once the afternoon before, acknowledging that that was to have been the night of the rehearsal dinner, tapas and caipirinhas for a hundred close friends at Zo, Chess radiant in her orange polka-dot dress-but it was not to be. Acknowledging this, they both decided, was better than ignoring it. Chess had sounded weepy, but she ended strong; she was on her way to work. She had gotten a job as the sous chef at a popular French Vietnamese bistro in the Village; the kitchen staff was all-female and the head chef was a woman named Electa Hong, who had become a friend to Chess. Chess had moved back into her old apartment, but she was thinking of moving someplace closer to work. Too many memories in the old place, she said.

Tate had called Chess that morning and they had acknowledged that, had life gone differently, they would be in their mother’s house, half-dressed, their hair in curlers, drinking mimosas and, most likely, bickering.

Tate asked Chess if she had plans for the day. Chess said that she was working a double shift. The restaurant was a safe place. Fair enough, Tate thought.

She said, “I miss you.”

And Chess said, “I miss you, too.”

Kevin Youkilis from the Red Sox got a hit and the crowd roared. Tate looked out at the thousands and thousands of people in the stadium and her heart sank. She had only two and a half innings to find her seat; the ice cream was melting in her hand. She chastised herself for not paying closer attention to the section or row number, but it had felt good to let Barrett lead the way. When they arrived at the park, Tate had taken Tucker to the bathroom, and a woman had said, “Your son is adorable.”

Tate said, “Thank you.”

Tate walked around to the left; she passed a hot dog and sausage stand that she thought looked familiar. Someone was selling Italian ices. Then Tate passed the Legal Sea Foods concession, where there was a long line for chowder. A woman with sunglasses on top of her head said, “I can’t believe the summer is over.”

Tate couldn’t believe it either. In the car, on their way here, Cameron and Tucker had been talking about their Halloween costumes.

My sister’s wedding, she thought.

Section nineteen. That was it! Tate turned left and descended the stairs. Even from the top of the section, she could see the back of Barrett’s head. He was sitting between Cameron and Tucker; Tucker was sitting in a plastic booster because he wasn’t heavy enough to keep the folding seat down.

Barrett twisted in his seat and craned his neck, scanning the stands behind him. He was looking for her, Tate knew. She had been gone forever.

She waved to him, madly, the way people waved to each other in stadiums. Here I am! I’m right here!

He saw her. He grinned. He made a fist and put it over his heart. I love you.

On September 21, the autumnal equinox, William Burroughs Bishop III was born at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, weighing in at nine pounds eleven ounces and measuring twenty-two inches. Heidi had battled in labor for nearly twenty hours before they took the baby in a C-section. Both mother and baby were doing fine.

India had been to the hospital each day to visit her grandson. He was a beast as far as newborns went; he looked like he was already a month old. But still he was a tiny, tiny person, a nub, a nugget. India held him and she wept and she laughed, and she looked at Billy and Heidi and said, “Bill would have loved this. Holding this child would have made him high. ” There was something about a grandchild. What was it? Well, first of all, India was relieved of the heavy burden of parenthood, the impossible responsibility of raising a child-navigating the pitfalls and wonders that life presented each and every human being. And, too, there was something about a grandchild that made India feel immortal-like she would live on, one-quarter of her in this child, one-eighth of her in this child’s children. It humbled and amazed her.

On September 25, the day Chess was to have been married, a fact that didn’t escape India, she visited the baby on his first day at home, and she brought Lula with her.

Lula was nervous. She had her hair up in a bun, then she released it so that her hair flowed over her shoulders, and then she whipped it back up again. She checked her eye makeup in the mirror on the passenger side of India’s Mercedes. India didn’t have the heart to say so, but how Lula’s eye makeup looked or whether her hair was up or down would matter very little. The fact that she was a woman in her twenties and was having a relationship-the parameters of which would be nebulous to Billy and Heidi-with India would matter a great deal. India had had half a mind to keep her burgeoning relationship with Lula a secret, at least from her sons. (Everyone at PAFA, and she meant everyone, knew that India and Lula were a couple and that this was why Lula had reenrolled. Spencer Frost had pitched a purple fit when Lula destroyed the canvas he had purchased for the school, so Lula spent the final part of her summer painting a different canvas to hang in its place. Ultimately, Spencer Frost was relieved Lula hadn’t defected to Parsons. The girl was going to be famous and PAFA was going to claim her.)

India had changed her mind about introducing Lula to Billy and Heidi only that morning when she awoke, realized the day, and thought about Chess. Life was too short, she thought. She would take Lula with her, come what may.

India and Lula walked up the brick path that led to Billy and Heidi’s impressive stone house in Radnor. Lula was holding the gift she’d brought-a pair of small denim overalls, a striped shirt, a tiny pair of sneakers. And because she couldn’t help herself, she had bought the baby some brightly colored clay. He wouldn’t use it for two or three years, but who cared?

India had called Billy and Heidi that morning to say she was coming and bringing a new friend.

“Oh,” Heidi said, sounding intrigued under her exhaustion. “Someone special?”

“Someone special,” India confirmed.

India knocked, and together she and Lula stood at the door, waiting.

Billy opened the door, saw India, saw Lula, smiled, and said, “You can just walk right in, Mom. I thought you were Avon.”

She said, “Billy, this is my friend, Lula Simpson. Lula, the first born, Billy Bishop.”

Billy extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Lula.”

Lula said, “I’ve heard so much about you. Congratulations on your new addition.”

Billy grinned. “Thanks. We’re thrilled. Tired, but thrilled.”

Heidi was sitting in the library with Tripp in her arms, asleep.

“Don’t get up,” India said.

“Okay, I won’t,” Heidi said, and they all laughed. Heidi looked at Lula, but there was no change in her expression, no widening of the eyes or pursing of the lips, no hesitation in her smile. Perhaps they had expected that when India brought “a special friend” to meet them, it would naturally be a young, beautiful Indian Iranian woman. Ha! India nearly laughed. She said, “Heidi, I’d like you to meet a very special friend of mine, Lula Simpson.”

“Hello, Lula,” Heidi said.

Lula touched Heidi’s shoulder in a way that was just right, but her attention was captured by the baby.

“My God,” she said. “He’s beautiful. ”

“Would you like to hold him?” Heidi said.

“Could I?” Lula said.

As Heidi placed William Burroughs Bishop III in Lula’s arms, India was sure she could hear Bill laughing.