The Betrayed Wife

by Kevin O'Brien

  “My name’s Eden,” the girl said, reaching into her big purse. It took her a few moments to find what she was looking for. “Shit,” she muttered in the middle of her search. She finally pulled out an old, stained legal-size envelope. She handed it to Susan. “My birth certificate’s in there.”

  Her hands still shaking, Sheila took the document out of the worn envelope.

  “‘Baby girl born July first, two-thousand-two at eleven-something in the morning,’” the girl said, liberally quoting from the document. “‘Mother: Antonia Spiro. Father: Dylan O’Rourke.’”

  Sheila gazed at the parents’ names. Antonia again.

  “Is your mother the woman in Portland who killed herself a couple of weeks ago?”

  The girl frowned. “She didn’t kill herself.”

  “You and your—your friend,” Sheila interrupted, waving the birth certificate in front of the girl. “You’re the ones who have been sending me those texts—the article about your mother, the notice from the funeral home.”

  The girl snatched the document out of her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t sent you anything!”

  “Then your friend did. And the two of you have been following me.”

  “Okay, yes, we were following you. I was curious. Can you blame me? But I didn’t send you any texts, and neither did Brodie.”

  “Well, somebody did. I think you and your friend—”

  “You goddamn fucking bitch, would you just call your husband?” the girl screeched. Then she started crying. She carelessly stashed the birth certificate and envelope back inside her purse, scrunching up the paper.

  Sheila noticed the snot dripping from the girl’s pierced nostril.

  The girl took a few deep breaths. “Listen, lady . . . I know this isn’t easy for you,” she said quietly, the words a little broken. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “But do you think it’s easy for me? I’m sixteen years old. My mother’s dead. And I don’t have anyone else to go to . . .”

  Dylan’s daughter locked eyes with Sheila. “I need my father.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Monday—3:17 P.M.

  Now Dylan knew where he’d seen the punk girl’s face before—in old photos of his mother as a teenager. Of course, his mom had never had platinum and pink hair or sported a stud in her nose. But there was certainly a resemblance.

  The girl sat slumped in the chair across from him at the dining room table. Stone-faced, Sheila occupied Dylan’s usual seat at the head of the table. He’d taken Gabe’s seat. It was odd for him not to be in his regular spot. But then, the whole damn situation was surreal.

  The family ate in the dining room only on formal occasions. This old mahogany table, with a Wedgwood soup tureen as a centerpiece and a crystal chandelier sparkling overhead, was where they usually sat down to have “serious discussions” with the kids—sometimes collectively, sometimes individually. At the moment, Dylan kept thinking how this seemed more like an office conference table. Sheila and the girl even had bottled waters—on coasters, no less—in front of them. It seemed like they should have had laptops, too. It felt so impersonal and official.

  No one spoke.

  Instead of a laptop, Dylan had the girl’s birth certificate in front of him. It was slightly soiled and wrinkled, the paper soft with age. But the words on it cut like a razor.

  Sheila had called him at work and told him to come home immediately. The kids were fine, she’d said. No, she wasn’t having another scare. There was no reason to call the police. She needed to see him and didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. No, it couldn’t wait.

  He immediately thought of Brooke. Had Sheila somehow found out about the clandestine dinner on Friday night? Maybe a friend of hers had seen him with Brooke at the restaurant. But the place was so small that he’d certainly have noticed a familiar face among the diners. The only other way Sheila could have found out was if Brooke had told her. But she didn’t seem like the type who would do that. Besides, it was all perfectly innocent. Nothing had happened—and nothing would happen. He and Brooke had ended it before anything got started. The thought of her still made his heart ache. He’d been miserable all weekend. Brooke had said she didn’t want to ruin his marriage or hurt his wife. No, she wouldn’t have told Sheila anything.

  It had to be something else that was bothering Sheila. During his drive home, he felt slightly annoyed with her for not telling him what the problem was. She’d said she wasn’t scared. In fact, she’d sounded a bit hostile.

  When he pulled into the driveway, he noticed Sheila’s Toyota parked in the little bay on one side of the garage. No other cars—so no surprise visitors. He still wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Dylan parked in the garage, and let himself in through the kitchen. He heard Sheila call to him from the dining room: “I’m in here!” From the edgy tone of her voice, he almost took it as a warning.

  Dylan didn’t even remove his suit coat. He passed through the kitchen, then past the basement stairs and bathroom. Glancing toward the den, he noticed his desk was in shambles. A mountain of papers was strewn across it and spilling onto the floor. It looked like someone had emptied out all the drawers and dumped everything on top of his desk. He wondered if they’d been burglarized. But Sheila had said on the phone there was no need to call the police.

  He turned toward the dining room and balked. A strange girl was sitting at their table, in Steve’s usual spot. It took Dylan a second to recognize the street girl from Sheila’s photo.

  He looked at Sheila and nodded toward the den. “Hon, what—what happened in there?”

  Sheila kept her hands folded on the table. “That’s not important right now.” She motioned to the teenager on her left and then glared accusingly at him. “Do you know this girl?”

  “Yes.” He frowned at the sullen-looking kid. “Why have you been harassing my wife?”

  “No, I mean, did you know her from before?” Sheila pressed.

  The girl sighed. “Lady, I already told you. He doesn’t know me.”

  “Tell him who you are,” Sheila said.

  The girl’s heavily made-up eyes locked onto him. “My name is Eden O’Rourke. I’m your daughter.”

  Stunned, Dylan just stared at her. The words she uttered rang in his ears for a few moments.

  Sheila had said something after that, but it was lost on him. Hell, he didn’t even remember sitting down in this chair a few moments ago. He had no idea if it had been Sheila or the girl who had slid the birth certificate across the table at him.

  But there it was—and there was the girl who looked so much like his mother, sitting at his dinner table.

  Dylan looked at the parents’ names on the document. “Antonia Spiro,” he murmured.

  “No one called her Antonia except me,” the girl said. “For everyone else, it was always Toni.”

  Dylan just nodded. Toni Spiro. It was a lot different from that other name. He hadn’t made the connection when Sheila had shown him the article about the Portland woman who had fallen to her death.

  “Antonia Newcomb,” Sheila said—as if reading his mind.

  “She got married twice after you knew her,” the girl explained, “back seventeen years ago.”

  Dylan felt sick to his stomach. He turned to Sheila. “Seventeen years ago, that was when—when things weren’t going so well with us. I thought we were . . .” He shrugged. It was a time in their lives that they never talked about. And here he was, talking about it—in front of a stranger, no less, a stranger who claimed to be his daughter. Dylan rubbed his forehead. “If I hadn’t been so lonely and half out of my mind at the time, nothing would have happened. Toni, she was—well, she was just there. I mean, she was a nice person. But believe me, it wasn’t anything serious . . .” He looked at the girl. “I’m sorry. But I’m sure your mother would back me up on that.”

  She curled her lip at him. “My mother can’t do anything. She’s dead
.”

  “I had no idea she got pregnant. She never told me about you.” He turned to Sheila again. “I knew Toni for maybe a month. And when I realized . . .” he sighed. He had to remember to keep breathing. “Honey, when I realized you and I could work things out, I stopped seeing her. I ended it. It was a—a clean breakup, no hard feelings. I never heard from Toni again.”

  “He’s telling the truth, lady,” the girl said, giving Sheila a glib smile. “My mother used to say the likelihood of him knowing about me was right up there with the likelihood of you knowing about the two of them—not likely at all.”

  “But she gave you our last name,” Sheila said.

  The girl nodded. “Yeah, I guess she did.”

  Sheila looked at her watch—and then at him. “Gabe has football practice, and Steve has gymnastics,” she announced in a cool, controlled tone. “They won’t be home until five. Hannah, depending on her social schedule, might not be home until dinnertime—or she could come through the front door in fifteen minutes. Are you going to explain to her who our guest is? Or do you expect me to do it?”

  Dylan was in agony. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

  Sheila stared at him. Then suddenly, she hauled back and slapped him hard across the face.

  It hurt like hell and left him dazed. So much rage had gone into that slap. The side of his face throbbed and burned.

  Dylan blinked a few times. He watched Sheila spring up from the chair and march toward the kitchen. She snatched her purse from the breakfast table. Then he lost sight of her as she headed toward the front hallway. Touching his mouth, Dylan felt blood. He listened to her footsteps. He heard the front door open, then slam shut.

  He glanced over at the girl who claimed to be his daughter. He didn’t want to believe it, despite all the evidence in her favor—including the family resemblance. He didn’t want to believe it, because, right now, he hated her.

  The little bitch smirked at him. She leaned back in the chair again. “Y’know, I didn’t exactly expect a warm and fuzzy father-daughter reunion, but I didn’t anticipate a shit-storm of this magnitude, either.”

  Dylan listened to the car pulling out of the driveway. Touching his mouth again, he frowned at the girl. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”

  She gave an offhand shrug.

  “Maybe you and your friend thought it would be a lot more fun this way. Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” she muttered, glancing at the tabletop.

  “Well, why didn’t you pick on me?” Dylan said. “Why did you pick on my wife? Why put her through the wringer? What were you doing, following her around and sending her that text—”

  “Hey, listen. I already explained to her, I didn’t send her any text,” the girl said, a bit peevishly.

  “Then your lowlife friend must have. Maybe he tinkered with my wife’s car, too—”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Neither one of us touched your wife’s car. And where do you get off calling my boyfriend a lowlife? You haven’t even met him.”

  “I’ve seen the guy’s picture. And I heard enough about him from my wife. The two of you were stalking her, harassing her. I notice you haven’t denied that yet.”

  “I wanted to see what my stepmother was like,” the girl said. “I was curious. Is there anything wrong with that? We were watching you, too.”

  Dylan tried to keep a poker face. But he couldn’t help wondering if they’d seen him with Brooke outside the gym or at the restaurant. “Did this—surveillance include lurking outside our house at two in the morning on Thursday?”

  She squinted at him. “Why the hell would we do that? There’d be nothing to see. You’d have been asleep. We followed you guys to work or to the store a few times. Big fucking deal.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head at him. “Y’know, this third degree from my long-lost father, it’s really sweet as hell. I come here and tell you that I’m your daughter, and this is how you treat me.” She let out a little laugh. “Between the two of us, no one would ever guess that I’m the bastard here.”

  Dylan reached for Sheila’s water and took a swig. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, touching his mouth again. “This whole thing took me by surprise.”

  “No shit.”

  He glanced toward the den. “What happened in there?”

  “Beats me. It was that way when we came in.”

  He looked at the birth certificate again. “You mentioned your mom got married a couple of times. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Did you get along okay with your stepfathers?”

  “Nope. Neither marriage lasted long, and neither one of the assholes stayed in touch—which is just as well, because asshole husband number two seemed to take a more than fatherly interest in me, if you get my drift. I was twelve at the time.”

  Dylan sat up in the chair. “He didn’t—”

  “He came close, but nothing ever happened.”

  “Don’t you have any grandparents?” he asked.

  “Well, if your folks are alive, I do.”

  Dylan shook his head.

  “Antonia’s parents are dead, too. So I’m grandparent-less. Are you trying to figure out who you’re going to pawn me off on? Because there’s nobody. I mean, for a while there, on and off, a friend of my mother’s looked after me and helped raise me. But it was a long time ago, and that bridge is burned. She’s totally out of the picture now. I don’t have any aunts or uncles on my mother’s side, either. In fact, I had to arrange my mom’s memorial service. Some of her work friends chipped in for the funeral home. But mostly, it was up to me to put the whole thing together. I got a little help from this social worker at the hospital where they took my mother’s body—or what was left of it. I got a crash course in what you’re supposed to do with a corpse. It was really interesting.”

  “Your mother’s work friends—”

  “I’m not staying with any of them, and none of them want me.”

  “That’s not what I was going to ask,” Dylan said. “I was wondering if they knew about me.”

  “I guess,” she said, her mouth twisting almost into a frown. “But it’s not like anyone really gave a shit about you—except me. I mean, after all, it was seventeen years ago. It’s not like my mom was still talking about you to her work friends.”

  Dylan nodded. He was thinking that perhaps one of Toni’s work friends had texted Sheila the article about Toni’s death. But what the girl said made sense. “So—you knew about me?”

  “My mom never hid it. I grew up very aware that my father was married with this other family, and that he didn’t know I was alive.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dylan whispered. “That must have been really tough. Didn’t you ever want to contact me?”

  The girl gave him a sad smile. “Only about five hundred times,” she murmured. “My mom had a couple of photos of you. And I have to admit, I googled you a lot and kept track of you over the years. A couple of weeks ago, after the funeral and all, I persuaded Brodie to take me up here from Portland, so I could check out you and your family. We’re staying with some friends of his. I thought they were kind of cool at first, but I have to admit, they’re pretty skanky. I can’t stay with them much longer.”

  “Do they know about me?” Dylan asked. He was still thinking about the text—and whoever was lurking outside their house in the wee hours of Thursday morning.

  She shrugged. “Maybe Brodie told them, I don’t know. The point is, I have nowhere to go. I want to stay with you—at least until I figure out what I’m gonna do.”

  Dylan squirmed in the chair. It was the last thing he wanted. He couldn’t even fathom how he’d tell the kids about her. He remembered what Sheila had said about Hannah possibly coming home at any minute. He started to shake his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s an option right now.”

  She frowned at him. “Listen to yourself. It’s not an option, like thi
s is some sort of business deal or something. My mom never asked you for any help. She didn’t ask you for a dime. But I’m asking you, my father, for a place to live for a little while after my mom just died. Is that too much?”

  He didn’t know how to answer her. “I—I want to help you, Eden. But you need to look at this from my perspective. We’re strangers. Your mother never told me about you. I had no idea. For the past few days, you and your friend—and maybe his friends—have been bothering my wife. Now, you show me a birth certificate, and you think, suddenly, that makes us connected and everything’s all right.” He shook his head. “But it doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry. Before I can let you stay in this house, before I can start being responsible for you, I need to verify that I’m really your father. We’ll have to take a paternity test. I hope you understand.”

  She just stared at him.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Eden,” he tried to explain. “But how do you know for sure your mom wasn’t mistaken about who your father was? I mean, my name might be on the birth certificate. But how can you be absolutely sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “And I really wish I didn’t have to beg you to take me in, Dad. Because more than anything right now, I want to spit in your face.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Monday—5:27 P.M.

  It was starting to get dark and chilly. Sheila realized she should have brought along a sweater or a jacket. Sitting on a swing, she clutched the cold chains on either side of the seat and gazed out at the gray water of Lake Washington. She was in a small playfield a few blocks down from Madison Park Beach. There was just the swing set, a few benches, and a neatly mowed strip of grass, where two boys had been tossing around a football. They’d left a few minutes ago. Sheila had come there to be alone and cry, but so far, she hadn’t shed a tear.

  She was wondering what her life would be like if she divorced Dylan.

  She probably should have left him the first time she’d discovered he’d been unfaithful, but then she wouldn’t have had Hannah, Steve, or Gabe. Still, that first time had nearly killed her. What a kick in the stomach to realize, during that horrible period—that rough patch seventeen years ago—while she’d been close to having a nervous breakdown, Dylan was screwing Toni, the party girl. And it wasn’t a onetime thing, either. He’d admitted that he’d seen her for a whole month, the son of a bitch.