Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “Hello?” the voice said, with a sprinkling of annoyance. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to speak to someone about birth certificates.”

  A few clicks later, and I was connected to a man whose voice was so smooth and deep, he could have been Barry White. I explained what I needed, but before I got to the part about not being Logan’s dad, he cut me off.

  “I’m afraid you have to contact Portland city hall for birth certificate copies,” he said.

  “You don’t keep them at the hospital?” I hoped the desperation in my voice would make him offer up the certificate and email it to me, pronto.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Portland city hall and—” His next words were muffled, an exchange going on between him and another person in the background. “My apologies,” he said, his voice clear again. “You have to contact the city hall in the town where the mother was living when she had the child.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t another way? I’m kind of desperate here and—”

  “My apologies, sir. That’s the best I can do.”

  I mumbled a quick thank you and hung up.

  Grace had only ever mentioned living in Portland when she’d had Logan, and we’d never visited. I’d suggested it exactly once, asked if she’d take me there and show me her old haunts, but she’d shaken her head, said she had no interest in going back, ever, there was nothing there but memories of a shitty past. Her tone had been firm, her words so final, I hadn’t made the suggestion again. If she’d lived in a suburb or a town on the outskirts of the city, she’d never mentioned it. Then again, when people asked me where I was from I always said London, England, when it was actually Fulham, which people rarely knew of. But I’d told Grace. I’d told her everything.

  I found the number for Portland city hall and dialed, got passed around a few times before being connected to a soft-spoken clerk who introduced herself as Julia Fesenko.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said when I explained what I needed.

  “Thank you. Uh, so do you think you can help me?”

  “Believe me, I’d send you the certificate right now if I could,” Julia said. “But I’m afraid we’ll need a certified copy of your domestic partnership agreement. And if you’re not exactly sure where your son was born, or where your partner lived at the time... Hmm, this is tricky—”

  “There must be something we can do,” I said, the frustration building. “Please. Can’t you find a way to help?”

  “Well...you could ask the court to request the place of birth...or... No, wait, I know,” Julia said. “You need to call Maine Vital Records. A friend of mine works there, Noreen Zuckerberg. No relation to Mark, much to her dismay. She’s the supervisor there. She’ll definitely know what to do. I’ll give you her direct line.”

  I made a note of the number with one of Logan’s colored pencils, pressed the tip down so hard it snapped. “I’m trying give my boy some security, you know? How complicated can it be?”

  “I understand, and I’m sorry, truly I am,” Julia said. “Best of luck.”

  I hung up, redialed, thankful when Noreen “no relation” Zuckerberg picked up straight away. She listened quietly as I went over my request again, and I crossed my fingers.

  “You’ll have to demonstrate direct and legitimate interest in the child,” Noreen said. “And we’ll need a notarized letter from the courts saying you’re applying for legal guardianship, and that’s why you want a copy of the birth certificate.”

  “How do I—”

  “Your lawyer should be able to help you with both of those,” she said. “You can give them my contact details if they need more information.”

  “And how long will it take to get a copy?”

  “Of the birth certificate? If you bring the request to us in person, about ten minutes. But you said you’re in Albany, New York? That’s a little far...but once we receive the application in the mail you should get a copy in around seven to ten days.”

  “That long?”

  “Tell you what,” Noreen said with an audible smile, “I’ll make a note to expedite it. You could ask your lawyer to courier the request to us, too. That’ll speed things up even more.”

  Progress, at last. I thanked her and hung up. Logan’s bus was due back in fifteen minutes, which meant I had time for one last call, and a few seconds to silently thank Leila for giving me the afternoon off after all.

  “Great research, Josh, well done,” Harlan said after hearing about my phone marathon. “You’re doing my work for me. I’ll let you know what I need, get the details together and we’ll courier everything to Vital Records. Don’t worry, everything’s going to work out just fine.”

  After we hung up, I sat on the bed for another five minutes, staring at the photograph of me, Logan and Grace. My throat became a little tighter as an uncomfortable voice slowly clawed its way from the pit of my stomach and up to my brain, where it softly whispered everything wasn’t going to work out fine. It wasn’t going to work out fine at all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As the next few weeks passed, Logan and I fell into a semiroutine. Mrs. Banks offered to pick him up at the bus stop after school, and he spent an hour or two at her house until I got home. Ronnie and Leila weren’t thrilled when I told them I wanted to start work after seeing Logan off on the school bus for a while, and Logan moaned about spending so much time with “the old lady who smells of foot cheese.” As a result I felt like a punching bag, swinging back and forth, anticipating—and unable to duck away from—the next hit.

  At home I’d ask Logan about his day, but all the nudging and encouragement didn’t garner more of a response than, “It was okay, I guess.” When I asked if he wanted to talk, he said no, and disappeared upstairs to read one of his dog books, or listen to the radio station he and Grace had always played. That left me in the kitchen, blankly staring at the open cupboards, rustling up another meal neither of us wanted.

  In those moments I pretended Grace was on a girls-only vacation, imagined her somewhere hot and exotic, her long, perfect legs stretched out on a beach filled with fine, white sand, where there was no internet access or phone reception. I told myself she’d be back soon. Grace would walk in, face glowing, bursting with stories she couldn’t wait to share. Never mind that the only people aside from Lisa, Ivan and me she’d socialized with were her bookshop colleagues at the occasional after-work event, and even then she’d come home, kick off her shoes and say, “I shouldn’t have bothered. I missed you.”

  Sometimes the vacation illusion turned out to be a trap, for example when Logan had come to me in search of clean underwear. Taking care of the mundane chores continued to feel wrong, and I could hardly swallow down the big ball of anger about the world still turning regardless whether Grace was in it or not.

  As I took note of Logan’s mild disgust when I told him he’d have to recycle a pair of dirty underwear for the day, I grabbed our clothes from the hampers, the towels from the bathroom, and threw them into the washing machine, color sorting be damned.

  It was only when I got home later that I’d grasped what I’d done. I yanked the damp items out of the machine, searching for Grace’s shirts and blouses, pushing them up against my nose, but all I could smell was budget brand detergent. I’d cried, sat on the floor in a heap, clutching cold clothes to my chest, sobbing silently so Logan wouldn’t hear.

  Later, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d kicked the covers off and flicked on the light, only to find Grace’s sleep-shirt in a crumpled bundle at the very bottom of the bed. It was her soft, yellow one with a faded cartoon bee and the words Just Bee Awesome underneath, the one she’d pull on before bed if she was tired, and leave off when she wasn’t, an unspoken invitation.

  I’d grabbed the shirt and slept with it on my pillow ever since, but it didn’t smell of her anymore, taking on the fragrance of my shampoo instead. Peopl
e always said how much they missed their loved one’s voice or laugh or touch, and while it was all true, why hadn’t anyone mentioned the scent of their skin? Consequently, I couldn’t bear to dispose of any of her things, including her puppy slippers, which I’d cleaned and returned to their rightful place; under the chair in the bedroom, ready for her to come home, take off her shoes and sigh as she slipped her feet into the fluffy warmth.

  My brain played tricks on me, too. Whenever I saw an old, green Ford, for a fraction of a second I thought it was Grace, and the same feeling invaded my heart every time the phone rang, making me think it could be her, that she hadn’t ended up on the steps, the morgue, the funeral home, the crematorium.

  I shuddered, grabbed a pack of spaghetti from the cupboard and filled a pot with water. Grace and I had never properly discussed what was to happen to us if we died. From what I knew it wasn’t the kind of thing most people our age talked about, with the exception of Lisa; my ever-organized sister had everything planned, right down to her shoes. In contrast, Grace had only once mentioned being cremated, not buried.

  “I don’t want to become worm food,” she’d said with a grimace. “I want you to scatter my ashes in the ocean somewhere. Bali, preferably, so I can travel the world for all eternity.”

  I’d laughed, said she’d be fish food instead, and in retaliation she gave my arm a gentle punch and told me she’d make sure I ended up mixed into a vat of asphalt if I didn’t shut up.

  After the accident, and with Lisa’s help, Logan and I had picked a light blue urn with silver butterfly etchings, and eventually there’d be a headstone at the local cemetery where we could visit. But I wanted to follow Grace’s wishes, so I’d kept part of her ashes in a small wooden box that I’d placed at the bottom of her cupboard. Going to Bali wasn’t an option, so at first I’d thought of taking them to Portland, until Lisa said I couldn’t because Grace hated it there, and suggested waiting until Logan and I went on a trip somewhere.

  “You’ll both need a break at some point,” Lisa had reasoned, and she was right, although how I’d fund any kind of vacation was another question. Money had already become tight without Grace’s salary, which was why I’d accepted Mrs. Banks’s offer to look after Logan for free again, despite his protests.

  “I don’t want to,” he’d said.

  “How come? She used to look after you when you were little.”

  “I want to be with you,” he’d wailed, clutching Biscuit. “Why can’t you be home?”

  I’d had to explain it wasn’t a luxury we could afford; I needed the work, we needed the cash. I’d asked him not to tell Lisa. This was a private affair, something between us, and I’d meant every word. While I loved my sister, there was no way I’d end up her charity case again, the little brother in need of another handout. No, I had to handle this financial crisis on my own.

  I added salt to the boiling water, fished around the cupboard for a jar of tomato sauce before realizing I’d forgotten to buy some. Even though I couldn’t be bothered eating, Logan needed to, although I knew he’d find the prospect of limp, buttered spaghetti for the second night in a row completely unappetizing. I made a note to be more organized about meals in future, and was just about to stuff the pasta into the saucepan when the phone rang.

  “Hey, you,” Lisa said. “How are things?”

  “If I say they’re okay, will you believe me?”

  “No.”

  “Then best you don’t ask. Are you still at work?”

  “Yeah. No rest for the wicked, right? Crap, hold on a sec.”

  As I pressed my ear to the phone, I heard Lisa opening a door and a familiar voice in the background greeting her. “Is that Ivan? What’s he doing at your office?”

  “Oh, one of his clients wants his house renovated so he’s introducing us.”

  “He never mentioned it.”

  Lisa laughed. “Do you live in each other’s pockets now? He doesn’t have to tell you everything. Anyway, that’s not why I called. Have you found Logan’s birth certificate?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Okay, here’s a thought. What if you called the Social Security Office with his number? They might be able to give you some details.”

  “You think so? I’m not his legal guardian—”

  “Yet, and maybe. It can’t hurt to try. Look, I’ve got to go, but think about it.”

  I pulled the boiling pan of water from the stove. Lisa had a point, and maybe it would avoid the entire Vital Records thing. Decision made, I headed for the cupboard under the stairs where I’d seen a purple file marked “Taxes” Grace had stuck in a box with some old clothes, probably because we’d run out of room in the den. She’d always insisted on doing both of our returns, which suited me fine. Although a wunderkind at math, I’d long decided tax returns were akin to mythical creatures—best left to the experts for fear I’d mishandle them. I opened the file, my confidence soaring, certain this would yield the information. When I flipped to the return’s corresponding page, my mouth dropped.

  Grace’s hadn’t listed Logan as a dependent.

  That wasn’t right. Couldn’t be right. Maybe it was a one-off, and she’d forgotten to add him for the previous year, although the possibility of her making that kind of a mistake was exactly zero. I riffled through the papers for the year before. And back another. And again. The result was the same. Neither Logan’s name nor his social security number was there. Why?

  I clambered out of the cupboard before the walls closed in. Just like the photos I’d found, there had to be a logical explanation, but my brain fogged up, making whatever it was impossible to grasp. I needed time to think, time to breathe. And to hell with money being tight. I needed to get out. I couldn’t deal with this. Not now.

  “Logan.” I stumbled across the hallway, calling up the stairs. “Want to see a movie?”

  Moments later his head popped over the banister. “On a school night?”

  I forced a smile, made my voice sound lighter than Cool Whip. “You’ll be in bed by eight thirty. Come on, Granddad, we can have a burger.”

  “And ice cream?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Yes!” Logan pumped his fist. “Thanks, Dad, I love you.”

  That single sentence was enough to slow my pulse, make everything fade away for a second as a tiny fragment of my shattered heart slotted back into place. Only nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go. And yes, I was counting.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Picking a movie turned out to be easy. Logan had raved about the new superhero film weeks before he’d caught a glimpse of the trailer, and I had to admit it took my mind off things for a couple of hours. Still, I kept glancing at him, watched him wiggle his feet, listened to him plunge his hand deep into the bucket of popcorn and whisper, “Get him, Spider-Man, get him!”

  The good mood continued right up until the lights came on, and we filed out into the lobby, where Logan’s grin evaporated as he put his head down and mumbled something.

  “What’s up?” I bent over, trying to hear over the hubbub of the crowd.

  “Dylan.” He made big eyes at me, hid a hand in front of his chest and pointed to the right.

  “Is he from school?” I asked, and Logan gave a nod. “You two don’t get along?”

  “No,” Logan whispered. “But it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Can we go?”

  “Kiddo, what’s wrong?” When Logan hesitated I said, “Has he been bothering you?”

  He grabbed my arm. “Don’t say anything, Dad. He hates me. You’ll make it worse.”

  Well, that did it. I stomped over and tapped a petite brunette, Dylan’s mother, I assumed, on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” I said, the fake smile on my face tighter than the size-six shoes my mom insisted I wear one summer despite me being a seven-and-a-half. “Can I have a word?”


  When the woman turned around, her smooth skin, button nose and baby blue eyes caught me off guard. She didn’t look much older than the kids. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Dad, please.” Logan tugged at my jacket. “Don’t.”

  I ignored him and put a hand to my chest. “I’m Josh, Logan’s dad.”

  Her eyes flitted to my son, and she seemed to grow at least an inch taller. “I see. I’m Cecelia, Dylan’s mother.” She sounded wary now, her hand moving slowly to take her boy’s, guiding him behind her.

  “Look, can I ask you to make sure Dylan leaves Logan alone?”

  She cocked her head to one side, raised her eyebrows. “Leave Logan alone?”

  I looked at Dylan with his messy hair, not one cowlick, but three and teeth too big for his face. The little shit was probably a master at getting his naive-looking mom to believe anything. She was in for a fun ride when he hit puberty if he was lying his ass off at the tender age of seven. Takes one to know one and all that.

  “Could you get Dylan to back off, please? Logan’s been through a lot at home already. He doesn’t need any more at school.”

  “But—”

  “I really appreciate it, thanks.” I turned to leave, but not before I clocked her wide eyes moving from me, to Dylan, to Logan and back again, or the crocodile tears miraculously rolling down her son’s chubby cheeks.

  “Dad,” Logan whispered urgently when we’d moved a few steps away. “I said not to.”

  I looked at him, ruffled his hair. “You tell me if he bothers you again, alright?”

  “Alright,” he said, and chewed his bottom lip.

  “Want to watch another movie tomorrow?” I said. “We can stream one at home. What about the one with the singing penguins? Or was it dogs?”

  “Pigs!” Logan beamed, his encounter with the school bully already forgotten. “But can we get an ice cream now?”

  “After all that popcorn?” I grinned. “You’ve got hollow legs. Come on then.”