Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  When we walked across the lobby, the mere sound of someone calling out my name made my fists clench as if they were on remote control. I knew who it was, and it was too late to turn around and go the other way.

  JD Marino moved toward me like an overgrown spider, arms and legs long and spindly, his trademark grin plastered on his face. A dark-haired girl, dressed in a skimpy blue outfit barely reaching the top of her thighs, hung off his tattoo-covered arm, and she pouted, shaking her long, glossy mane as he grabbed me by the shoulder.

  “Josh. Good to see you, man. Good to see you.” He sniffed and looked down at Logan. “He yours? Weird. Never pegged you as a family man. This is Lorna.”

  Raising a groomed eyebrow she said, “S’up?” and I didn’t bother with an answer.

  “Fuck man, where you been hidin’ at, bro?” JD said. “You just sorta—” he blew on his fingers as if he were performing a magic trick “—disappeared.”

  “Needed a change,” I said. “And watch your mouth in front of my kid.”

  “Sorry, bro.” JD held up his hands. “We should hang sometime. Reminisce over—”

  “Not my scene anymore. Hey, Logan, let’s get that ice cream.”

  JD held on to my arm, moved in close, his mouth by my ear. His grip tightened some more, the smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol wafting up my nose. “Come on, man. Let me buy you a Jack’s or three. We miss you—”

  “No.” My eyes narrowed as I shook him off, stared him down until he backed off.

  “Alright, alright. You know where to find me when you change your mind. You always did, sooner or later.” JD stepped back, his lips twitching into a smile as he took Lorna’s hand. “C’mon, baby, let’s split.”

  Logan, who’d been silent during the entire exchange, looked up at me. “Who was that?”

  “Someone I knew from a long time ago.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Me, neither.”

  I struggled to push the memories of my drinking with JD at a plethora of watering holes with various degrees of rancidness to the back of my mind, forcing myself to remember how hard the fall afterward had always been instead. That was the trouble with booze, the glossy overlay it created, not only distorting your vision and emotions, but also the memories, making them bigger, better, louder and entirely more fun.

  We’d met at a bar one night, JD and I. Two lonely drunks joining forces, banging on about our issues together, quickly committing to spending all of our money on, and most of our free time with, our third party friend, Jack Daniel’s. The fact the two of them shared initials wasn’t lost on us; we took it as a sign and regularly paid adequate tribute.

  JD’s wife was pregnant when we met, but as he spiraled downward, so did his marriage, and by the time I climbed out of the hole I’d drunk myself into—while he insisted on continuing his exploration to the depths and beyond—he hadn’t seen his kid in at least a year.

  Lisa took an instant dislike to JD, blamed him—unreasonably in my opinion—for the fact I couldn’t hold down a job and was still bunking on her couch. “You went out with JD and you’re pissed. Again,” she said, hands on hips, sounding exactly like our mother. “That’s twice this week and it’s only Tuesday. Did you drive? You did, didn’t you? You promised you wouldn’t. You’re going to kill someone, you moron.”

  “It was one drink,” I lied. “What’s your problem?”

  “My problem is that you have a problem, Josh,” she said. “You’re screwing up your job. You’re screwing up your life. Get your shit together, you asshole.”

  It wasn’t her most eloquently put argument, and I wish I could say a stern talking-to (or ten) from my sister had been effective, or that her kicking me out of her flat multiple times over the years had worked. In reality it was getting busted for a DUI that did it. Being handed a suspended prison sentence and hours of community service finally made me understand how badly I continued not only to let Lisa down, but the memory of my parents, too, how ashamed they’d be if they were still alive. Suddenly, the prospect of prolonging my stay in Loserville became so unappealing, I decided to claw, crawl and beg my way out, vowing I’d never return.

  With Lisa’s help, I channeled my addiction in a different direction, went on a health kick and joined AA. It wasn’t easy. Deciding—believing—I was worth saving was the hardest choice I’d ever made. I stumbled and fell at first, but picked myself back up again, had a sponsor for the longest time until he moved away, by which time I felt confident enough to fly solo. I hadn’t touched a drink in over two thousand days. Two thousand and seventy-one, to be exact. But now, standing in the middle of the popcorn-scented lobby, for the first time in years the allure of a glass of Jack’s slid its arms around me, a sultry temptress, whispering in silky purrs all the things she’d do to me if only I gave her another chance.

  Thankfully, Logan babbled all the way home, telling me about his art project, a collage of a dog—“Duh, Dad, what else?”—and I tried to focus on every word, a necessary distraction from the encounter with JD, and all the good memories, because there had been plenty of those, too, that still played on my mind.

  “Did you know some huskies can live outside, even if it’s minus seventy-five?” Logan said. “Mr. Shapran told me. He knows lots of stuff about dogs.”

  “You really like your teacher, don’t you?” I said, watching Logan in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah. He’s nice.”

  I waited, as casually as I could, said, “What’s the scoop with Dylan?” Logan put his head down and when I asked again, he refused to look at me. “Has he hurt you? Because if he—”

  “No. He hasn’t.”

  “You sure? It’s not right for him to pick on you. Nobody has that right. Look, we’ve spoken to his mom, so tell me if he bugs you again. Promise? As soon as it happens. Straightaway when you get back from school.”

  Logan murmured something under his breath.

  “What was that?” I put the indicator on to turn into our street. “Kiddo, I didn’t hear.”

  “I said you’re never there after school.”

  “Logan, we decided Mrs. Banks—”

  “No.” He shook his head, crossed his arms. “You did. Because Josh decides everything.”

  I frowned. “That’s not true, and why did you call me Josh?”

  Logan shrugged, and when I thought it was a simple case of him being grumpy and overly tired, and he wasn’t going to answer, he very quietly said, “You’re not my real dad.”

  The air left my lungs as if he’d thrown a punch harder than a grown man. Somehow I managed to wait until I’d pulled into our driveway and cut the engine before turning around. “If by real dad you mean biological dad, then no, I’m not, but I am your dad. You know that.”

  “People say you’re only looking after me because you have to,” Logan said.

  “Who said that?” When Logan didn’t answer, I pressed him some more. “Was it Dylan? Did he tell you that?” A moment’s hesitation, a slight nod. “The little... You can’t listen to him. You’re my boy, you always have been, ever since I met your mom. You’re my son, okay? Don’t let anyone tell you anything different. Because they’re wrong and I love you.”

  Logan looked up, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and when he put his hand down I could see the quiver in his lips. “Pinkie promise? Even...even when I said I hate Mom, and you? And I said that bad word outside... I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

  It seemed to take forever to unbuckle my seat belt and clamber into the back, but when I got there I put my arms around him, and he buried his head in my shoulder.

  “I pinkie promise,” I whispered.

  “I d-don’t h-hate her,” Logan sobbed, his chest heaving. “And I d-don’t hate you.”

  “I know you don’t, I know,” I said, my poorly glued together heart cracking again. “
I promise I’m not looking after you because I have to, but because I want to. We’re family.”

  “But what if—”

  “No buts. Ignore Dylan, because he’s being a jerk. Listen, I went to see a lawyer. Do you know what that is?”

  Logan sniffed. “Ivan said they keep people out of jail and make lots of money.”

  I laughed softly. “Yeah, Ivan would say that, wouldn’t he? But the lawyer I saw helps families figure out what to do. We talked about me becoming your dad. You know, officially. With a piece of paper that says so.”

  Logan pulled away, eyes wide. “You can do that?”

  “Yes, we can.” I squeezed his arm. “How about this? You go to school, have fun, work on your husky project and let me worry about the grown-up stuff, alright?”

  “Will you pick me up from the bus?”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry. I have to work. But Mrs. Banks—”

  “I don’t want Mrs. Banks,” Logan whispered, the words coming out muffled as he pushed them past his trembling lips, “I want you.”

  “Okay, shh, shh. Only tomorrow, okay? Just this once.”

  How could I say no? Ronnie had asked me to get materials from the wholesaler after work, but Logan was more important. An hour wouldn’t make any difference. I’d go when Logan came home, take him with me and use the opportunity to talk, get him to open up more.

  “We’ll get through this,” I said, kissing the top of his head, as he cried softly into my jacket again. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’ll always be here for you.”

  God, how I wanted to take his pain, bundle it into a ball and push it down my throat so he never had to feel it again. One of my few talents was repairing stuff. Dented cars, broken walls, damaged toys... But what good was any of that when I couldn’t fix what needed it the most?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Last card and out!” Logan threw the ace of spades down with panache, his grin triumphant. We sat at the kitchen table playing cards after getting back from an unsuccessful trip to the wholesaler because I’d forgotten Ronnie had said they’d close early.

  We’d eaten a dinner of fish sticks, instant mash and peas and, in Logan’s case, a bowl of rocky-road ice cream. Hardly haute cuisine, but I hadn’t put up a fight on his choice of dessert, decided not to remind him of Grace’s rule that ice cream was a weekend treat only. With the way his pants sat below his hip bone, I was glad to see him eat anything. I’d even emailed his teacher, asked if he could make sure Logan didn’t throw any of his lunch in the trash. Mr. Shapran had replied almost right away, promised he’d look out for him, told me not to worry, but I couldn’t help it. At least Logan had said everything had gone okay with Dylan all day, so I hoped my talking with his mom had made the kid back off.

  “You win, again?” I smiled at Logan. “That’s three in a row. I’m rubbish.”

  “Yup,” Logan said. “And next game it’ll be four.”

  “Fighting words, eh? Bring. It. On.” I reached for the scattered cards, but my hand stopped midair when the doorbell rang. “Get ready to lose,” I called over my shoulder as I walked to the front door and pulled it open, my smile immediately transforming into a confused frown when I saw Harlan on the doorstep.

  “Good evening, Josh,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping in. I was in the neighborhood and I thought it best to see you in person.”

  “Do you have good news?” I said, ushering him in as Logan wandered into the hallway. “Logan, this is Mr. Gingold. He’s the lawyer I told you about, the one who’s going to help us.”

  “Hello,” Logan said.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Harlan shook his hand. “Your father and my nephew Ivan have told me so much about you, it feels like I know you already. I hear you love dogs.”

  “They’re my favorite.”

  “Mine, too,” Harlan said. “Alas, my wife prefers cats, so we have two of them.”

  “I want a dog,” Logan said. “But Dad won’t let me.”

  Harlan laughed. “I’m sure he has excellent reasons as to why that’s so.”

  “Tell you what, Logan,” I said before he launched himself into an hour-long justification about the acquisition of a four-legged friend, “why don’t you watch TV in the den and I’ll come in when we’re done.”

  He disappeared down the hallway, and I took Harlan’s coat, motioned for him to follow me to the kitchen. “Excuse the mess,” I said, feeling more than a little self-conscious about the dirty dishes on the counters and the pile of laundry on the floor I hadn’t got around to stuffing into the machine. “I’m still finding my feet. Can I get you anything?”

  “A glass of water, please, and there’s nothing to excuse.” Harlan sat down at the kitchen table as I filled a glass for him, and I watched him open his leather briefcase and pull out a folded piece of paper. He drummed his fingers on top of it. “Josh, I’m here because—”

  “Da-ad. The TV’s not working properly,” Logan called out. “Can you come?”

  “Excuse me,” I said to Harlan before slipping out of the door, sorting out the remote and reminding Logan about the rules for privacy. “Sorry about that,” I said, as soon as I was back in the kitchen. “So, what did you need to see me about?”

  Harlan looked at me. “We have a problem.”

  If he was after my attention, he got all of it. It felt as if I’d been pulled upright by a puppeteer, the invisible strings so taut, they threatened to snap. My body held perfectly still, waiting for my commander to determine my next move. I opened and closed my mouth, said, “What kind of problem?”

  Harlan tapped the folded piece of paper still under his fingers. “Are you sure you gave me the correct details regarding Logan’s birth?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Let’s go over them again to be certain.”

  He grabbed his notes, and as he read them back to me, I found myself nodding, saying “Yes, yes, that’s right, yes” until he’d finished.

  Harlan leaned in. “You’re sure Grace had Logan in the state of Maine?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment as I recalled not only the conversations I’d had with Grace, but also what she’d told Logan. He’d gone through a phase of asking her almost every day for a baby story, giggling when she told him about the times he’d peed in the bath, or redecorated the wall with blueberry purée, listening closely when she described the day he was born in a hospital in Portland. Maine. Doubt tried to wriggle through the cracks of my mind, but I pushed it away.

  “Positive,” I said. “I mean, not the exact hospital, but you said it didn’t matter. Why?”

  Harlan danced around the question, a short pas de deux. “Could you be mistaken? Confused it with somewhere else, another state, perhaps?”

  I shook my head. “No. Maine’s the only place she’s lived other than here. Can you please tell me what this is about?”

  “I heard from Vital Records.” Harlan slid the paper across the table.

  I picked up the letter and unfolded it, the note trembling between my fingers as I read it a few times before saying the words out loud. “No record found.”

  The sentence entered my ears, but my brain seemed incapable of processing it. Instead it bounced off my skull and fell to the floor in a nonsensical heap at my feet. “No record found at the hospital? Or in Portland?” I said.

  Harlan paused for two beats, blinked. “No record found in the entire state of Maine.”

  My left eye twitched and I pressed my palm over it to make it stop. “But...wait...what? You’re saying there’s no record of Grace having Logan anywhere in the state of Maine...at all?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It’s not possible. They must’ve got it wrong. Lost the file or the record or something. Happens all the time, right?”

  Harlan smoothed down his tie. “No doubt it
’s some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe Grace meant a different Portland? Oregon, perhaps? Or elsewhere? I ran a quick check, and there are towns and cities called Portland in multiple states, and abroad. There’s one in New Zealand, Ireland, even Canada and Australia. I had no idea.”

  This was all news to me, but I knew Grace had said Maine, not Oregon. Not Texas, Alaska or wherever the hell those other Portland places were in America, and she’d definitely never mentioned another country. Was this another mistake? How could I possibly stuff this into the same category as the misplaced photographs and the error on the tax returns, both unusual, but—until now—somehow justifiable?

  “Take a while to think things over,” Harlan said. “Maybe one of Grace’s old friends can fill you in? But, Josh...you have to understand, without knowing where Grace had Logan and without a birth certificate, well, the guardianship application is going to be—”

  “Difficult?” My hollow laugh echoed around the kitchen.

  “I’d have to caution you difficult is a generous assessment.” He pushed back his chair and got up, a fatherly look of concern on his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring better news. Why don’t you call me when you’ve made progress on your end? And in the meantime, I’ll see if I can figure out a way to help on mine.”

  After he left I leaned against the front door, breathing deeply, barely managing to stop myself from bashing my head on the glass repeatedly. Once my hands stopped trembling, I headed for the den. I sat next to Logan, who was on the sofa with Biscuit under his arm, watching cartoons, and I wished I could be seven, too, cuddle my stuffed animal, oblivious to the grown-up problems around me.

  “Logan, did I ever show you where I was born?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  When his gaze didn’t move from the television, I switched it off, passed the tablet to him and pressed the home button. “Want to show me?”

  He opened a map, deftly moving his fingers across the screen. I was no technophobe, but if I hadn’t known any better I’d have sworn he’d arrived with a device in his hands. “London, England,” he said proudly. “You said I should look for the squiggly snake river.”