A Mother's Love by Mary Morris

“how’s your work going?”
    â€œOh.” Matthew cocked his head the way he did when he couldn’t admit to being disappointed.“I’m getting a lot of foreign assignments for magazines.”
    â€œAnd your own work?”
    Now he cocked his head the other way. “It doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”
    I nodded and we grew silent, neither of us wanting to mention the bills. Money was on my mind; I needed some if I was going to hire a baby sitter and return to work full time. Normally I would have asked him outright, but we were being tentative with each other, like distant relatives brought together over some delicate legal matter, which in a sense we were. I draped a napkin over Bobby’s head and tried, as I ate with my chopsticks, not to drop steamed rice on him. When Bobby woke and I had to nurse him, Matthew fed me with a fork.
    He ran his hand through his silvery curls. He looked older than I remembered, though it hadn’t been that long since I’d seen him. “Ivy.” He put the fork down. Like my mother, Matthew always said my name before he said anything else to me. And he pronounced it “IV,” the way she did, as if I were a form of life support. “My mother phoned the other day” he began. “Her voice was shaky. Her speech was slurred. ‘Matthew,’ she said, ‘whatever happened to that nice girl, Ivy. I always liked her.’ I could hear airplanes flying in the background. She lives right near this airport and planes are always taking off and landing. Anyway,she said, ‘Ivy was good for you. She was the best of the lot, because you were nicer to me when you were with her. You remembered my birthday, holidays …’ ”
    â€œI just kept a calendar by the phone,” I said.
    â€œWell, my mother thinks I made a big mistake.”
    â€œDoes she know about Bobby?”
    He looked grim. “She knows. But she has trouble remembering. That’s what booze does for you.” He took a deep breath, then reached across the table for my hand. “When I was a little boy,” he said as if I’d never heard of it before, “my parents stayed in bed all day long on the weekends. They drank and screwed and stayed in bed. No one played with me. I learned to cook, take care of my things, play alone. My room just had a bed and a desk. Like a monk’s cell. No pictures on the walls. No toys. A few books. I had a fish tank with no fish in it. I was the only sober person around. I took care of myself. I had to learn to do that at an early age. I’m not very good at taking care of others.”
    I nodded. “I hear it’s an acquired skill.”
    â€œMaybe, but I’m not sure I’ve acquired it.”
    â€œMatthew.” I squeezed his hand, then pulled mine away. “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know. Do you want me to feel sorry for you?”
    â€œI just wanted you to know that I think mymother was right. I think I did make a big mistake.” And he leaned over and kissed me.
    Then we went home. When it was time for me to tuck Bobby in, Matthew stayed. “I should get going,” he said, but he didn’t leave. He stayed as I cuddled Bobby, nursing him and singing as I put him to sleep. Matthew went with me into the room where Bobby slept and watched as I put him down. Together we stared at the sleeping child. When Bobby slept, he breathed heavily, his chest heaving as if he were already a man. Little beads of sweat broke out along the rim of his dark hair, and Matthew and I stood watching our son.
    â€œIs he all right?” Matthew asked, listening to his breathing and touching his son’s sweat.
    â€œHe’s like you,” I told him, thinking how much they did resemble one another. “You sleep just like this.”
    I pulled the covers up to Bobby’s chin, though Bobby—a warm-blooded creature like his father—would