“Yes, that’s right. The River Thames.” I paused. “What about your mom? Do you know where she came from?”
He moved the map to the west, zoomed in. “Waterville, Maine. She hated it there.”
“And you? Where were you born?”
He traced his finger down the highway, all the way to Portland. Maine. “Here.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh. The same as Stephen King. He wrote a book about a dog who got rabies. But he lives in Bangor now. Mr. King. Not the dog. He’s not real.”
When he reached for the remote and looked at me, I nodded, and he continued his show, bouncing in his seat and laughing. In contrast, I sat with my entire body glued to the sofa, heart pounding, mind racing, the increasing tightness in my chest making it impossible to breathe.
There was no longer any question, not a single shred of doubt Grace had lied about where she’d had Logan, not only to me, but to him, too.
The next question was why?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My brain was still a mess by the next afternoon as I tried to reason with logic, make excuses for what I’d discovered, attempted to convince myself it was all a giant mass of confusion. Each way I turned, every story I told myself, had the same outcome. Grace lied.
If that wasn’t enough to deal with on its own, Ronnie had given me an epic bollocking about not getting to the wholesaler on time, and once Leila had found out, she’d had a go at me, too. Ronnie and I were now in the middle of a discussion with a client about a basement renovation, him rattling off ideas, me working hard to listen and write everything down. When my mobile rang, I pulled it from my pocket, saw it was Logan’s school. Damn it, every time I got a call I couldn’t help but expect the worst, and I couldn’t imagine a time when that would change.
“I have to take this,” I said to Ronnie, walking to the back of the room, sliding a shaky finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“Mr. Andersen? It’s Mr. Shapran, Logan’s teacher. This isn’t—”
“What’s happened?” I knew I’d struggled to contain the panic in my voice because Ronnie and the client looked at me, talking in hushed whispers.
“He’s fine, don’t worry,” Mr. Shapran said. “This isn’t an emergency, but, well, we need to talk about some issues that have been going on. Is now a good time, or...?”
Anger pushed all of the worry away. I wasn’t panicking anymore, I was seething. “Is it Dylan? Has the bullying started again?”
“Oh.” Mr. Shapran paused. “You’re aware?”
“Yes, I’m aware. Logan told me.”
“Well, I appreciate this has been an incredibly difficult time for him...for both of you...” He sighed, paused for a moment. “The number of incidents have increased dramatically these past few days. I’ve tried to handle it directly with Logan—”
“That’s great, and I appreciate it, I do. But what about Dylan? How will you make that kid stop? Do you want me to come to the school?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Have you spoken to his parents? I met his mother, so—”
“I, uh, think you may have some misinformation.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Shapran’s hesitation made me want to crawl into the phone and yank the answers out of him, and I was about to repeat myself when he said, “Dylan isn’t the one doing the bullying, Mr. Andersen. Logan is.”
“What? That can’t be right. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Logan admitted everything,” Mr. Shapran said. “He’s been calling Dylan names, taking his things, pushed him down. He deliberately tripped him in the playground today. I was there, so he couldn’t talk his way out of it. It wasn’t an accident.”
“But I don’t understand. Logan’s never been aggressive. Never.”
“I know, I know,” Mr. Shapran said. “He’s a great kid and it’s completely out of character. Look, normally I’d have to involve the principal, but given the circumstances...well, can we handle this, together?”
“Yes, yes. Where’s Logan now?”
“Back in class. He seems fine. So is Dylan, and I’m sure it’s a question of them getting under each other’s skin, but we need to put a stop to it now.” He paused again. “Mr. Andersen, I can’t pretend to understand how you and Logan are feeling, what you’re going through...but on the other hand, we can’t have him going around getting into fights.”
I imagined how my parents must have felt when they had similar conversations with my teachers, although there’d been no excuse for my behavior, other than boredom. We talked for another few minutes, figuring out “strategies” as Mr. Shapran called them. By the end we’d agreed I’d speak to Logan to reinforce positive behavior and choices, and Mr. Shapran would update me every week on how things were going, more frequently if necessary.
Ronnie and the client had headed upstairs at some point during the call, so I hung around in the basement for another minute, trying to sort out the jumble of thoughts that made my head feel like it was stuffed full of insulation.
No need for a degree in psychology to work out where Logan’s anger came from. It was exactly how I’d felt when Mom and Dad had died. Alone and abandoned, furious at everyone and everything. I’d lashed out, too, got into fistfights I’d provoked for the hell of it. One of them had been with a guy a head taller than me, twice my width, and not nearly as drunk. The reminder of that particular brawl was permanently etched under my chin, a thin, D-shaped scar from where his hefty monogram ring had split me open.
After that, Lisa suggested grief counseling, and I’d instantly shut her down. I didn’t need it, I was fine. In reality I had zero intention of baring my soul to a stranger, expose any of my ugly truths. It was far easier pretending everything was okay, even if nobody believed me. But I’d been eighteen, not seven, and despite being that much older than Logan was now, I’d derailed. It wasn’t something I could let happen to him.
I took a few minutes, surfed the web and found a number for free grief counseling services for children, and dialed. “And you have custody of your son?” the woman said once I’d explained the reason for my call.
“No, but I’m in the process of becoming his legal guardian.”
“Ah...well, can his current guardian call us? I’m afraid it’s necessary to arrange—”
I hung up, clenching my phone so tight I thought I’d shattered the screen, and headed upstairs to the kitchen where Ronnie and the customer were finishing their discussion.
Ronnie looked up. “Can you help with the supplies from the truck?” Once outside, he closed the front door and turned to me. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. School stuff with Logan. It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, it’ll have to be.”
“You were on the call forever and, well, I can’t afford for you to take off again. I need you here. On the job.”
“Honestly, Ronnie, it’s fine.”
He looked at me. “You should know Leila’s grumbling. She thinks you’re—”
“When doesn’t she grumble? Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit what Leila thinks right now.” When his eyes narrowed, I knew I’d gone too far.
“Sure she can be a pain in the ass,” he said, “but you’re talking about my sister, and your boss. First of all, get your act together, and, in the future, keep those comments to yourself, yeah?”
“Crap, you’re right, that was out of order. Sorry, Ronnie.”
He looked at me. “Don’t let me down on this job, Josh, okay? Don’t.”
I worked in a frenzy to get everything done, including the extra bits and pieces the client added to the list after Ronnie had left. I phoned Mrs. Banks, asked if I could be an hour late, which meant by the time I got Logan home and washed, it would almost be his bedtime.
Lisa texted me late afternoon, too, said she’d stop in around eight for a “chat,” which Captain Sub-Text translated as “I’m checking up on you.” I’d have been happy to see her, except I needed to talk to Logan, and the house looked like multiple bombs had gone off in each room. The kitchen sink was still full of dirty dishes, and a stack of unopened mail and flyers on the table leaned more precariously than the Tower of Pisa. Logan’s toys and homework had rendered the floor of the den invisible, and the hallway had become clogged with abandoned jackets, boots and shoes. Even the stairs were covered in laundry—washed and folded, at least—but one look around and Lisa would know I was losing it.
When we got home, I tackled the kitchen first, working as efficiently as I could, and took out the trash while Logan picked up his toys and haphazardly pushed the vacuum around. As I was throwing away the junk mail, and waiting for Logan to come out of the shower so we could talk about Dylan, Ronnie called.
“You cut the drywall in the wrong place for the dimmer switches,” he said, and by his hushed voice and the noise in the background, I assumed he was still at the office with Leila. “The client’s pissed. Can you go fix it early tomorrow? Seven thirty?”
Christ alive, the day was going from shit to deep shit, and all I wanted was for it to end. “Got it,” I said, then remembered Mrs. Banks telling me she was leaving early in the morning, and I couldn’t spring looking after Logan on Lisa or Ivan at such short notice. “No, wait. I don’t think I can get there before Logan’s made the bus.”
“Crap. I forgot,” Ronnie said. “Okay, I’ll handle it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll figure something out. Don’t tell Leila, okay?”
When we hung up, I looked at my watch, decided I had enough time to talk to Logan about the bullying. But when he walked into the kitchen, hair still damp from his shower, dressed in his puppy-print pajamas and cuddling Biscuit, my resolve disappeared.
Tomorrow, I told myself. I’d tackle it all tomorrow.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When the doorbell rang a while later, I expected to see Lisa outside, but instead it was Ivan. I braced myself for his bear hug by planting my feet on the floor. It really did feel as if I was being pulled into a tree. A very well-dressed tree, with his charcoal suit and long black Armani coat.
He’d called most days, asked how I was doing, if I had news about the birth certificate, or if Harlan had heard from Vital Records. I gathered Harlan was waiting for me to share the details—or lack thereof—but I hadn’t found the courage to mention it to Ivan or Lisa, nor had I said anything about the photographs, the note I’d thrown away or the tax returns. Although I told myself my discretion was because I wanted to figure out what was going on, the real truth was that I didn’t want them to start judging Grace, doubting her, seeing her any differently in death than they had in life, and so I kept my mouth shut.
“Good to see you,” I said to Ivan as he stepped inside. “How are you?”
“Ugh. Got off a four-hour conference call and I feel like my brain’s been whizzing around a blender,” he said. “I’m beat. Making sense, words are not.”
“Alright then, Yoda. Still living the dream then?”
Ivan laughed, a sound almost too big for the narrow hallway and threatened to make the first floor come crashing through the ceiling. “If you call firefighting shit storms all day and finding creative ways to tell CEOs they’re full of horse crap then yes, I guess I am.”
I hoped I hid the pang of envy I felt whenever he talked about his career. He didn’t deserve any of my jealousy, was easy to get along with, fun to be around, and I had a lot to thank him for. He was the one who’d struck up a conversation the first time I set foot in the boxing club, a place I’d walked past a dozen times and finally gone into with the hope it might make me feel better. I’d already dropped most of my drinking stints with JD, much to his annoyance, and with Lisa’s help I’d found a part-time job as a general laborer on a building site. She’d told me if I stayed off the booze for more than two months and continued going to AA, she’d talk to her contacts about regular work.
That had further instigated my health kick, because whenever I walked up more than a flight of stairs I sounded like I was about to pass out, throw up or both. So, one night after work, I went to the boxing club, a somewhat dingy affair that smelled of years of encrusted sweat and blood, but they offered a free trial, which was about the most I could afford.
The owner, a short guy with ginger hair and an S-shaped nose, showed me around. When the club’s phone rang, and he disappeared, a huge blond guy the size of a polar bear strolled over and introduced himself as Ivan.
“Thinking about joining?” he said. “It’s a great place. You fought before?”
“Not legally.”
Ivan grinned, quietly said, “Yeah, same.”
An hour later we’d gone for a drink—cranberry juice in my case. Within a week he’d introduced me to Ronnie and Leila, and I got my first steady job in years, and then—I smiled at the memory—and then I’d met Grace.
“You alright, pal?” Ivan put a hand on my shoulder, making the memories scurry away.
“Yeah, yeah. Lisa’s coming over, too,” I said. “She should be here in a bit.”
“Uh-huh, she texted.” Ivan took off his coat and chucked it on the rack behind him.
“You guys are talking without me as your peacekeeper? Is World War Three coming?”
“Oh, ha-ha. Where’s the squirt?” He lowered his voice. “How’s he doing?”
“Not fantastic, to be honest. I had a call from—”
Before I could finish my sentence, Logan ran into the hallway and catapulted himself toward Ivan’s arms. Ivan lifted him high, the top of Logan’s head almost touching the ceiling.
“Squirt!”
“Viking!”
Ivan made a grunting noise and shoulder pressed Logan up and down until my son’s face turned an off-white color, and he stopped giggling.
“You’re not going to barf on me, are you?” Ivan said. “Squirts barf. Vikings don’t.”
Logan grinned and wriggled to be put down, ruffling Ivan’s hair and tapping his shoulders. As soon as his feet hit the floor he disappeared into the den, where I heard the click of the TV followed by the unmistakable voice of Patrick Star.
Ivan followed me to the kitchen and settled down at the table, avoiding eye contact. I handed him a bottle of pop, and watched as he peeled the paper label away. He never usually had a problem speaking his mind. It’s what annoyed Lisa the most about him.
“He’s so bloody opinionated,” she’d said once, after they’d spent an hour debating British politics. When I asked her if she’d looked in the mirror lately, she’d thumped me.
“You alright?” I said as Ivan tore the pop label into tiny pieces, arranging them in a pile.
He looked up. “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Work stuff. You know how it is.”
Before I could ask anything else, the front door opened, and Lisa stepped inside. “Bloody hell, it’s cold out there,” she yelled. “Is Ivan here yet?”
“Kitchen,” he called back, and within seconds Lisa hugged us both, her cheeks icy cold from the chilly breeze.
“Did you conspire to come over together or something?” I said. “Because you’ve been rumbled. I know you’re checking up on me, and you don’t need to.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Is Logan asleep?”
“In the den,” Ivan said. “Watching TV.”
“I hoped he’d be up. I brought this for his collection.” She held out a little gray-and-white Old English sheepdog plush, waggled it around midair. “Woof, woof. Cute, huh?”
“Since when do you think stuffed animals are cute? You chucked yours out when you were eight. Remember? Mom had a fit.”
Lisa shrugged so what and left to look for Lo
gan while I went to the washroom. “Want anything?” I said when the three of us were back in the kitchen.
“No, thanks.” Lisa’s eyes met Ivan’s for a beat. She was about to say something else, but quickly got up and made a beeline for the hall without saying another word.
“What was that about?” I said, peering out the doorway. “She didn’t look very well.”
“She’s worried about you,” Ivan said. “We both are.”
I rubbed my hands over my face. “Are you hungry? I’ve got leftovers.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Had takeout at the office. Besides, I’m here for moral support.”
“Thanks, Goose,” I said. “Maverick appreciates it.”
“First of all, I’m Maverick.” Ivan grinned. “And the support isn’t for you, it’s for—”
“Me.” Lisa stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and, I now noticed, her face blotchy.
I laughed. “You? When did you last need any kind of support?”
“Right now.” She didn’t move, didn’t blink. “I’m pregnant.”
“Very funny,” I said.
“About ten weeks.”
I looked at her, then at Ivan, and back at Lisa again. Finally, not only the penny, but an entire row of piggy banks dropped as the images flooded my thoughts all at once. Ivan and her standing so close to each other in the kitchen after the funeral. Lisa only drinking juice and water that day—come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her have a drink for weeks—and now Ivan’s “moral support”? Grace would’ve clobbered me around the earhole for being so dense.
“The baby’s yours?” I looked at the radiant smile spreading across Ivan’s face. “But...but you barely tolerate each other. Ever since you—” I pointed at Lisa “—found out he slept with one of your friends and never called her again. You said he was...let me see, what was it again, hmm...ah, yes, a total bloody wanker who has his head stuck so far up his ass he could French kiss his own tonsils.”
Her Secret Son Page 9
