by Lily Foster
“She is, but—”
“Simon?” Samantha calls out quietly from the upstairs landing. She looks wary of me as she makes her way downstairs with slow, measured steps.
“Where’s the letter?”
“What?”
“The letter, Samantha. What did you do with it?”
“I don’t—”
“Come in and sit down, Simon.” Mrs. Westfield’s tone is meant to soothe me. “I’ll get you something cold to drink…You look terrible.”
“I don’t want to sit.” Samantha’s eyes are wide when she comes to stand beside me. She moves to take my hand but my fists are clenched. I lower my voice and turn to her. “Get me that letter.”
“I don’t have it.”
When I hit my fist into my open palm, she startles, and I have to walk away for a moment to collect myself. She follows me into their living room but keeps a good distance between us. That’s for the best, because if I don’t start getting some answers soon I’m going to start breaking shit.
“I burned it.”
I force myself to use my indoor voice, knowing that screaming and ranting won’t get me the information I need. “You burned the letter?”
She looks ashamed, lowering her head as she nods. “I was looking through your mail one day. I mean, you just always let it pile up on your counter. I’ve been looking through it for years now. Who do you think separates the bills from the junk mail?” She shakes her head when I don’t answer. Flopping down onto the couch, she lowers her head into her hands. “She called here. My mother gave me the messages to relay.” Looking up, she starts but then trails off, “I just—”
I take the seat across from her. I’m tired and I don’t want to plow through this muck of tangled feelings right now. “The letter, Samantha.”
“It was nothing, Simon. Some syrupy ploy to get you back.” When I go to stand, she puts her hands up in surrender. “I know, I know…That was yours to interpret on your own. I had no right to keep it from you. It’s just that from everything you’ve told me about your childhood, this seemed like nothing more than a desperate girl from the boonies trying to dig her claws into the boy who made good. Your star is on the rise, Simon. All she’d need to do is look you up online to see you have a bright future, to see an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?”
Samantha starts to bite at the skin around her thumb. It’s a nasty habit, and one I’ve only seen her resort to in particularly stressful times.
“Just tell me, Samantha.”
“She has a child.”
Now my head drops into my hands. “Holy fuck.”
“Simon, please listen to me. You and I both know this happens all the time. Who’s to say she didn’t get herself knocked up after you left? And now, bingo, years later she sees that a boy from her past has made something of himself. Problem, meet solution.” She adds, “He looks too young to be yours…It doesn’t add up.”
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“I—”
“You saw him? Him? It’s a boy?”
Her eyes are wide with fear. “There was, uh, a picture.” Her voice is pitched high when she adds, “Even Mom thought he looked way younger than what she claimed.”
“Samantha, I’m serious, whatever you’re keeping from me, get it right fucking now or I’m going to tear this house apart myself.”
She’s crying as she stands on legs that visibly tremble. “Wait here.”
She heads back to her room, shaking her head in warning at her mother as they pass on the stairs. Mrs. Westfield stands at the entrance of the dining hall, opposite from where I am, but close enough to swoop in if needed. She knows the score—was in on it even—and now she’s going to have to help her daughter pick up the pieces.
Samantha returns with something pressed against her chest. I open my hand, angry that she’s still holding back from me. She puts the small square into my palm. “I burned the letter but I kept this.”
Ethan James - 2 years, 10 months. It’s written in Charlotte’s hand. I stare at the name but can’t bring myself to turn it over for some reason. When I do will myself to look at the photo, I crouch back down and take a seat on the couch, speechless. He is small, this little guy, but I don’t really know what a two or three-year-old is supposed to look like. His face is what knocks the wind from me, though. It’s that picture of me and my brothers. I was around five or six in that shot, but this boy looks like me, like us. There’s no denying this child is a Wade.
I swallow and look up at her. “So you looked at this picture.” I raise my voice to be heard. “I mean, you and your mother looked at this picture, and you agreed that this child could not possibly be mine?”
“I didn’t—”
“He’s practically my clone! You don’t even know what Charlotte looks like, so even if this boy looked absolutely nothing like me, what excuse could you possibly have for not telling me? And she would never lie to me. She’d never—”
“She’s been lying to you for a long time, Simon. Let’s at least get that straight. If that is your child, then she is a liar.” I have nothing to say, and Samantha senses an opening. She’s nothing if not determined. “And why now? Why after all this time is she reaching out to you?”
I get up to leave. There’s somewhere else I need to be, and I’m itching to rid myself of this arrogant, manipulative daddy’s girl. “Maybe I’d know if I’d had the chance to read that letter.”
Mrs. Westfield comes out and puts her hand on my arm as I’m reaching for the doorknob. “Simon.”
“Please don’t.” I’m still too angry and disappointed to look at her when I add, “Tell your husband I said that I’m sorry and I’ll call him when I can.”
“Hello, Charlotte.”
I practice the words standing in front of my mirror. I came back here to shower, to throw a few things into a duffel bag in the hopes she’ll allow me to stay nearby for a few days, and to look at that picture again.
I hold the one of Ethan, my son, up next to it. The sandy blond hair is the same as mine, same as Mike’s. The dimple in his left cheek matches the one in my own. The only difference is the eyes. He doesn’t have blue eyes like us Wade boys. No, his are a warm hazel brown like his mother’s. In this picture, he’s knee deep in snow, a black and white pup by his side who looks like a trustworthy friend. Ethan is smiling, making the dimple crease in a way that makes me long to reach out and touch his cheek.
He is mine.
There is no doubt in my mind.
As my truck grinds its way up and out of Illinois, up past Green Bay with another three hours still left to go, I busy myself imagining how it’s going to be. Anything is possible. I haven’t seen Charlotte in nearly four years. And I don’t know what was in that letter. Was it an angry letter, or was Samantha telling the truth, that Charlotte is seeking me out? Don’t know, because when it comes to Samantha, I can no longer believe so much as a word she says.
Maybe she won’t be the serious, sweet girl I once knew. Maybe the years have hardened her. Maybe she’s with that guy, Lawrence, or worse, married, and they’re happy together. Maybe he’s been playing the role of father to my son for the past few years. Worry turns to anger when I think of some faceless stranger teaching my son to catch a ball, some random guy reading to Ethan before his bedtime, soothing him when he cries.
She’s been lying to you for a long time.
I’m angry, but then I think back to the day I left, the scene playing out like a movie in my mind. Her face as I shoved that paper bag into her hand. The desperate way she reached for me as I backed away from her. Her voice when she told me she loved me.
Don’t do this to me. I remember saying those words. What an ass, like somehow I was the aggrieved party. What did I leave in my wake when I ran off?
What have I done to Charlotte?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charlotte
A couple of months ago I would have been prepared, but as the weeks passed,
expectation turned to uncertainty, disappointment, resentment, and then finally, resignation.
A hurricane is raging inside of me, and though I feel unsteady, I’m acutely aware that I’m rooted in place. Neither one of us speaks. He goes to open his mouth but then closes it just as quickly. I know I should greet him, invite him in, do something besides stand here like a statue, but I can’t seem to take action.
Lawrence slows as he gets closer to the porch, clearing his throat. “Charlotte, you going to introduce us?”
I do not move or speak or breathe.
Simon turns to Lawrence and offers his hand. “I’m Simon Wade.”
“I know who you are, son.” Looking down at the cooler he’s holding, he says, “I’d shake your hand if I could, but the trout were practically jumping into my boat today.” He looks between me and Simon, then says, “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” as he passes through and walks into the house.
Simon takes one step closer. “Hi.”
I breathe the word back to him. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I didn’t have your number and I…”
When he trails off, I find my voice. “No, it’s fine. I’m glad you came. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you. I’m just…”
“I know, I should have…”
I cover my mouth to stifle the nervous cry-laugh that’s rising up. “It seems neither one of us can form a coherent sentence.” I wave him in with one hand. “Come in.”
He takes a few steps inside and looks around before he turns back to me. “So, I went to see you in Ann Arbor yesterday.”
“I left last week right after classes ended.”
“You go to Michigan?”
“I do. And you’re in law school now? Still at Northwestern?” He smiles at me and nods. Damn, his eyes are gentle, familiar. “So you finished your undergrad early, stuck to your plan…”
“Yeah, I took classes during the summer and every winter break. Kind of a lunatic move thinking back on it now. Pretty sure I was the only one-L who didn’t think the workload was that heavy this year.” He spells it out when he sees that he’s lost me. “One-L, that’s what they call first year law students.”
“Oh, makes sense.”
The air is heavy, choking my words and rendering me so self-conscious that I can’t even walk in a natural way. And it’s crazy making small talk like this when there is so much between us.
Simon’s gaze follows mine when instinct draws my eyes towards the stairs. I wonder when the elephant in the room is going to stampede his way into this awkward conversation. I’d wager we have no more than ten minutes before he’s up from his nap, fifteen if I’m lucky. Better to just bite the bullet.
“So, you got the letter.”
He jams his hands in his pocket, shifts his weight on his feet. “Actually no, I didn’t. I, um, came across an envelope with your return address. So I went there yesterday. Met your neighbor?”
“Arlene Gold?” My heart is beating double-time imagining what she said to Simon. “What exactly did she say?”
He cocks his head to the side, eyes playful. “Something about Lawrence busting my helmet if I wasn’t nice to you?”
“Sounds like her.” What is this? He’s not mad or demanding answers. I’m so confused. “Uh, wait. What did you mean when you said you saw an envelope? Why didn’t you get the letter?”
He shakes his head once. “Can that be a story for another day, Charlotte?” He swallows like he’s shoring himself up. “Point is, I don’t know what you said in that letter, but I did see Ethan’s picture.”
I take a seat on the couch, mind racing, breaths shallow. “I wish I made a copy of that letter. I spelled everything out, explained it all. Now you’re here and I feel tongue-tied.”
He sits down next to me but leaves a few feet of space. “Just start at the beginning.”
I can feel my heart rate picking up. I thought I was so ready to do this. “I can’t,” I say on a gasp as the first tears start to fall.
He reaches over and takes my hand, rubs his thumb over the top of mine. “Yeah, you can, Charlotte…You kind of have to.”
When I look over, I see he’s facing forward and his free hand is wiping at his eyes. Yes, I do owe him this. My voice shakes when I start in. “Ethan was born on April tenth.” I look away when I add, “He just had his third birthday.”
He attempts a smile but it’s heavy with emotion. “Did he have a party?”
“Well yes, and it was a-rockin’, if you consider cake with me, Mrs. Gold and Lawrence a party.”
“Anything with Mrs. Gold in attendance would be…interesting at least.”
“I know she comes off a little kooky, but Arlene is great. Super smart too...She’s a retired physics professor. She babysits for Ethan while I’m in class. She’s been a great help since Janelle…”
“Janelle is your aunt. And she passed away this past winter.” He answers my unspoken question. “Found some info online. And I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It’s been really hard. I mean, Janelle swooped in back then and pretty much saved me.”
He squeezes my hand. “I feel lost, Charlotte. There’s so much I don’t know.”
“Mommy.” Ethan’s voice is loud and clear, stretching the word mommy out in a playful way. “Mommy, I awake,” he says a moment later and then adds, “Mommy, get my Moe!”
Simon’s eyes light up at the sound of Ethan’s voice. He wipes his palms on his jeans, looking both excited and fearful. “Is that how he wakes up?”
“Sometimes.” I go to stand. “He’s sweet though, he doesn’t always bark orders.”
I pause then, thinking this through. I can’t just bounce back into the room with Ethan and proceed with introductions. I’m scared. I need more time.
Simon seems to understand. Either that or he’s running scared too. Looking to the front door, he asks, “Do you want me to go?”
“I want you to stay.” The words are out before I can pull them back. “But I…I want to give Ethan a head’s up on all this. He’s precocious, catches on quick. Like, watch what words you use around him because he thinks he’s a grown man. I mean, he spends pretty much all his time with adults, so that’s how it goes and—”
“Take a breath, Charlotte. It’s all right.”
“I don’t want to introduce you to him as Simon, like you’re just some random person.”
Ethan calls out in a sing-song voice, “I wait-ting.”
I go on, clear-headed and steady this time. “And I think we need to talk about a few things first, don’t you?”
“Sure.” He looks upstairs with what looks like longing—or maybe that’s just what I’m hoping for. “I’ll get lost until his bedtime and then we can talk?”
Lawrence peeks his head into the living room. “You go up and check on him, Charlotte, and then I’ll take over. Take the man into town, get something to eat and you two hash it all out. I’m on duty.”
I check with Simon, who nods and gestures that he’ll be waiting outside. “Thanks, Lawrence, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Here I come,” I call out, taking the stairs two at a time.
My sweet boy greets me with a smile when I open the door. Everything is going to be all right. And I absolutely know this because I’m on solid ground now, I’m not the person I was a few years ago. I can do this, with or without anyone’s help. So no matter how it all goes down with Simon, I’m going to be all right and so is Ethan.
“Hey, my love, how was your nap?”
He stretches his little body out like a cat. “Where is Paw-paw?”
“Paw-paw is downstairs waiting for you, and he wants to know something.”
“What?”
“He wants to know if you’ll have a boys’ night with him…Help him with Moe, make sloppy Joe’s, watch Lion King—”
“I say yes!”
“Ok, we’ll go downstairs and tell him. And while you have boys’ night, I’m going to go
out and do some stuff.”
He rolls over and snuggles his body into mine. “You can come, Mommy.”
“You’d let me come to boys’ night?”
“Yes,” he says, and that simple word makes my heart ache with love for my son. I pray that Simon sees him the way I do. I pray that letting him into Ethan’s life is the right thing to do. I pray, like I do every day, that Ethan will stay healthy and that everything will turn out all right.
I must be squeezing Ethan a smidge too tight because he begins to squirm. “I love you, baby. I’ll be back in time for the second part of boys’ night. I’ve got something I need to do.”
Understatement of the year.
Simon
I want to bound up those stairs right alongside Charlotte. My need to get a look at Ethan with my own eyes is overwhelming, but I know she’s right, that a sudden, unplanned ambush isn’t the right way to do this. Waiting on her outside, I feel like I have to, I don’t know, drop down and bang out a hundred push-ups or something—anything to make use of the excess adrenaline pumping through my system.
It’s a full ten minutes before she comes out. I’m glad for the time now, feel more centered when she opens the door and looks to me. She’s every bit the girl I remember from that picture, but I can’t say she looks exactly the same. There’s something about her eyes that’s different, more knowing. She’s thinned out a bit, but it just makes the spots where she’s curvy more noticeable. I can see that she’s taken a minute to fix herself up. She’s changed clothes and put her hair up, but she still doesn’t fuss much over her appearance. Girls like her just don’t need to, and I’m thinking she’s finally come to realize that.
She stops halfway down the porch steps. “You still have the truck?”
“This trip might be her swan song,” I say as I trot around to open the door for her. “It sounded like she was protesting the entire way up here.”
“It’s about as far away as you can get,” she says a moment later as she snaps her seatbelt into place. “I felt like I was being exiled to Siberia when I first got here.”
