I Held His Sleeping Son While He Decided If I Kept My Job...

My phone rang at 6:14.

I was sitting at the small table in my apartment with the card still where I'd left it the night before. I hadn't slept much. I kept seeing the marble edge of that table and Leo's face against my shoulder and the way Ricardo had looked at me like I was a problem he didn't know how to solve.

The screen said Private Number. I let it ring twice before I answered.

"Clara." It was Ricardo. His voice was low and hoarse, like he hadn't slept at all. In the background I could hear Leo crying, that same thin, exhausted cry from the restaurant, but softer now, worn out.

"He didn't sleep," he said, without any preamble. "He woke up at four and he won't stop. He won't let anyone near him. He keeps asking—" He stopped. I heard him breathe. "Can you come. For one hour. I'll pay you for your time. I just need help with the morning routine."

I looked at the card. At the clock on my stove.

"Where are you?" I asked.

He gave me an address on the Upper East Side. Ten blocks from the park. He said the doorman would be expecting me.

I said I'd be there in thirty minutes.

I didn't have time to overthink it. I pulled my hair back, put on jeans and a plain gray sweater, and left my apron hanging on the back of the door. Outside the morning was cold and bright, the sidewalk still damp. I took the subway two stops and then walked.

The building was limestone, quiet, with a dark awning and a doorman who didn't ask questions. He just nodded when I gave my name and buzzed me through. Inside, the lobby was all warm wood and marble, empty at that hour. An elevator took me to the fourth floor. Ricardo was waiting in the open doorway.

He looked different without the suit jacket. He wore a black t-shirt and dark pants, his hair not quite combed, the silver watch still on his wrist. His eyes were tired.

"Thank you," he said quietly. He stepped aside to let me in.

The apartment was large and silent. High ceilings, light gray walls, rugs that swallowed sound. A man in a dark sweater stood near the window in the living room, hands in his pockets. Security, I guessed, but he nodded once and then walked into another room and closed the door. No other staff.

Ricardo led me down a short hallway. "His room is here."

Before we reached it I could hear Leo. That small, hiccuping cry. Ricardo pushed the door open.

Leo's room was beautiful and completely untouched. A low wooden bed made perfectly with navy bedding, a shelf lined with books arranged by height, a row of stuffed animals that looked like they'd never been moved, a small table and chair set with nothing on it. It looked like a room from a catalog, not a room where a three-year-old lived.

Leo stood in the middle of the rug in pajamas with little trucks on them, holding the same clear glass half-filled with milk. His hair was messy, his cheeks pink and wet. When he saw me, he stopped crying for a second.

"Hey, buddy," I said softly, and crouched down.

He came straight to me. He didn't run, he just walked fast with the glass held carefully in both hands, trying not to spill it, and leaned his weight against my knees. I put one hand on his back.

Ricardo stood in the doorway, watching us.

"He's been holding that since four," he said. "He won't drink it. He won't put it down. If I try to take it he screams."

I nodded. I could feel Leo's breathing against me, fast and uneven. The milk was warm now.

"It's okay," I whispered to Leo. "You can hold it as long as you want."

We stayed like that for a minute. His tears eased. He tucked his head against my shoulder the way he had the night before.

While I held him I looked around the room more carefully. On the dresser there was a silver frame turned face down. Above the bookshelf, the wall had a faint rectangular mark where something had hung and been recently removed, a slightly brighter patch of paint. The closet door was open and on the top shelf I could see a folded stack of what looked like women's clothes, pushed back out of sight.

I rubbed Leo's back slowly. "Did you get any sleep at all?" I asked Ricardo, not looking up.

"An hour," he said. "Maybe."

Leo had finally settled enough to sit. I eased down onto the rug with him, my back against the bed. He sat in my lap, still clutching the glass, his eyelids drooping. He wasn't calm, exactly, but he wasn't panicked anymore.

After a while I said, very gently, "Leo, is this mom's glass?"

Ricardo went still.

Leo didn't answer, but his grip tightened on the glass. He pressed his face harder into my sweater.

I looked at Ricardo. "When did she—" I started, then stopped. I didn't need to finish.

He came and sat on the edge of Leo's little bed, his hands clasped between his knees, tattoos stark against his skin. For a long moment he just stared at the rug.

"Seven months ago," he said finally. His voice was flat, like he was reporting a fact he'd said too many times to feel. "Car accident. On the FDR. Leo was in the car seat. He was fine. She wasn't."

Leo didn't move in my lap, but his breathing hitched again.

"He hasn't talked about her since the funeral," Ricardo said. "He stopped saying the word. My mother-in-law told me to take the photos down because it was confusing him. The doctor said to keep the routine consistent. Discipline and structure." He laughed once, without humor. "I tried to do it right."

I tightened my arms around Leo. The glass of milk was still between us, untouched, now just a warm weight in his small hands.