Chapter 8: The Lobby

On Monday morning my mother was waiting in the lobby of Holloway Group, in her red coat, with a man holding a camera.

I saw her from the revolving door, and my feet stopped on their own.

She was sitting on the marble bench under the portrait of Nelson's father, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

A small crowd had gathered, the way they do when somebody cries in public.

The man with the camera crouched for a better angle.

"I just want to meet my grandson," my mother said, in her wobbly, wounded voice. "Is that so much to ask?"

"Ma'am, you'll need an appointment," said the guard at the desk.

"I'm family. I'm the boy's grandmother. They've kept him from me for five years."

Someone near the coffee cart murmured, "God, that's awful."

I felt the whole room lean toward her.

For one second I was a child again, standing in a kitchen, watching her cry until the neighbors took her side.

Then the elevator opened behind me, and I heard Nelson's steps cross the floor.

He stopped half a pace behind my shoulder.

He did not touch me, and he did not speak.

Brooke stood a few yards away, her tablet against her chest, wearing a face of grave concern.

I understood that I was meant to rush over and beg.

Instead I walked to the bench, and I stood in front of my mother and waited until she looked up.

"Hello, Mom."

"Frannie!" She stood, tissue in hand, her arms out. "My baby. Thank God."

"Don't," I said.

I said it quietly, and she froze with her hands in the air.

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