Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  Back in the truck I phoned Dr. Minhas’s assistant, but her reply was swift. A few clicks on her keyboard and she informed me they didn’t have a birth certificate copy; it wouldn’t have been necessary for Grace to register Logan as a patient.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there, my arms and legs filled with fast-setting mortar. Even after Ronnie called, demanding to know where I was because the client was going ballistic, I didn’t start the engine. A trickle of sweat sank into the back of my jeans. I was no closer to understanding what was going on. Somehow Grace had managed to make it even harder, despite the fact she was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Where the hell have you been? You’re over forty minutes late,” Ronnie yelled as soon as I got to the job site, and I knew all the placating in the world wouldn’t work when he continued with, “You were the one with the drawings, remember? And a few minutes means five, maybe ten, not forty, Josh. Get your shit together, will you? Christ!”

  We spent the next hour fitting kitchen cabinets in silence, highly unusual for the man who normally regaled me with the hair-raising stories about living with his four daughters. The disgruntled silence did little to stop me from thinking about Grace’s secrets, and everything they implied. Then there was Logan’s bullying, something so out of character even Lisa and Ivan hadn’t had any great gems of wisdom to offer the night before.

  “You know where Logan’s behavior is coming from,” Lisa had said. “He needs to talk to someone. You, me, Ivan, a friend, his teacher, a counselor. It doesn’t matter who.”

  I told her she was right, didn’t say I wished he would to talk to me, felt if he didn’t, he was slipping through my fingers. “I spoke to a grief counselor,” I’d said. “I have to be his legal guardian to sign him up for sessions. Can you believe it?” I’d balled my fists at that point, worked hard not to put one of them through the wall.

  As I screwed another cabinet door in place, I sneezed for what had to be the fifteenth time, wished the home owners had put the cages with their two guinea pigs in a different room, my sore, watery eyes warning me there was at least one cat around, probably a dog, too. Sure enough, when the home owner returned from her errands, a black Labrador trotted up and sat down beside me, a gimme treats expression on its face.

  “You’re allergic to dogs, aren’t you?” Ronnie said, breaking the silence for the first time.

  Grateful for the virtual bone he’d thrown my way I said, “Break out in hives when I touch them. My sister used to have one...” I almost snapped my fingers. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? What had been the one thing Lisa swore got her through our parents’ death? The one “person” she’d shared all her emotions with?

  Rufus, a drooling, sandy-colored retriever she’d got after graduating from university, and who she’d touted as the best dog in the world. “He knows when I’m sad,” she’d said. “He puts his head in my lap and looks up at me with his big eyes. I swear he won’t leave me alone until I’m smiling again. And I mean properly smiling.”

  Damn Rufus must have sensed what a state I was in, too, because he’d followed me around. Every time I touched him I developed a bumpy rash, to the point where I’d considered showering in Benadryl, especially after I’d fallen asleep on Lisa’s couch, forgetting it was Rufus’s favorite spot, and woke up half an hour later looking worse than Jabba the Hutt.

  But I’d dive into a vat of antihistamine if it meant helping Logan, and we didn’t have to get a dog; it could be a smaller pet. Something that could stay in his room all the time, like a guinea pig or a lizard. Vat of antihistamine hopefully not required. I picked up a cabinet door.

  “Everything okay?” Ronnie said.

  “Yeah, I think so.” A smile crossed my face, and at lunchtime I called Mrs. Banks, asking if she’d mind if I ran a little late.

  * * *

  “How was school?” I said to Logan when we walked back from Mrs. Banks’s house. He’d barely uttered a word since I’d picked him up, clearly unimpressed I’d left him there to eat dinner again, and do his homework. I tried to keep my face even, and asked the question again.

  “Fine.”

  “And Dylan?” I pulled out my keys, slowly opened the front door, savoring my anticipation. “Did you apologize?”

  “Yep. We’re friends now.”

  “That’s excellent, well done. Want to know something? I made a friend today, too.” When he didn’t answer I added, “A really, really cool one.” The minidrumroll I played on my thighs generated far less of a response than I’d hoped, so I gave in and opened the front door. “She’s in the kitchen,” I said, trying not to laugh at Logan’s frown. “Go and have a look.”

  He took off his jacket and shoes and wandered down the hallway while I held my breath for his reaction. It was a loud squeal that lasted a full five seconds before he ran to the kitchen doorway. “You got a puppy?” he shouted. “A puppy!”

  I legged it to the kitchen, got on my hands and knees in front of the plastic crate. “Do you know what breed she is?” I said as I lifted the animal out. She was a tiny little thing, the runt of the litter, brown and white, with huge eyes, floppy ears and a short, pointy tail.

  “A Beaglier,” Logan said, breathing hard and fast as he held out his arms, and I gently put the wriggling puppy in them. He looked so happy I wondered if he might pass out.

  “That’s right,” I said. “They told me she’s a cross between—”

  “A beagle and Cavalier King Charles spaniel,” Logan said quickly. “They come from Australia, they’re good with kids and they live until they’re about thirteen years old.”

  “My goodness, you’re a walking, talking doglopedia.” I laughed.

  Logan joined in as the dog sniffed his face, let out a small yap. “Stop it, silly, that tickles,” he said, stroking her fur, burrowing his face in it. “What’s her name?”

  “Well,” I said, “you can choose whatever you want. But you’ll never guess what the pet shop called her... Cookie.”

  Logan gasped, his eyes wide, his mouth open. “Cookie? Like Biscuit?”

  “That’s when I knew she was the one,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I love her,” he said, looking up at me. “I love her. Thank you, Dad, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, kiddo. But I’m counting on you to walk her and feed her, brush and wash her, too. And if she poops or pees in the house—”

  “I’ll clean it up. I’ll do all of it,” Logan said, cuddling Cookie. “Every single day.”

  I smiled. The pup and supplies had cost a small fortune, and I’d stocked up on anti-allergy pills, too, but as I listened to Logan giggle every time Cookie nibbled at his fingers, tried to lick his face, I knew it was worth it. I’d figure something out money-wise. Some guy had called about Grace’s car, and he’d sounded serious enough to buy it. My plan had been to save the cash, but to hell with it. This was far better, and there was another solution if I got into a pinch—Grace’s engagement ring. I pushed the idea away. No, I wasn’t ready, not just yet.

  “Cookie pants a lot, doesn’t she?” Logan said.

  “Yes, she does. You know she’ll have to sleep outside—”

  “But she’ll freeze!” Logan said, hugging her tighter still.

  “Outside your bedroom, silly. On the landing. Otherwise you won’t sleep.”

  “Yes, I will,” Logan said. “Cookie can sleep in my room. On my bed, with Biscuit.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea, Logan. She’ll probably pee everywhere for a while.”

  “I don’t care,” Logan whispered. “I don’t.”

  The two of them rushed upstairs, on a mission to decide where the best spot for Cookie’s basket would be. It took a while for both of them to settle down, but when I sneaked inside an hour after they’d finally gone to bed, I noticed an unfinished drawing on his desk.

 
; It was of Logan, me, Biscuit and Cookie, with Grace’s face beaming from the sky. He’d written My Family underneath, and my heart ached, swelled and burst, all at the same time. I’d often found being a parent the most difficult job in the world, muddling through, hoping I’d made the right decisions, third-guessing them with alarming frequency, relying on Grace more than she wanted, or said I needed to.

  For the first time since the accident, I didn’t feel he was pulling away from me, that we’d been thrown together by a common tragedy and were now slowly drifting apart, despite our initial promises to hold on.

  I went downstairs to the den, not even slightly wishing for something other than a drink of pop, buoyed by the knowledge I’d done something good that day. At the same time it felt fragile, delicate as newly formed ice, ready to crack, break and plunge me into the icy waters below if I didn’t tread carefully.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  An hour later I sat in the den, staring at the ceiling. I knew Harlan was waiting for my instructions, but I didn’t know what to do, where to begin. I flicked through the TV channels, barely registered the reality cooking show with the screaming chef, the blood-soaked, warmongering knights or the diametrically opposed strangers shoved together on an island.

  Eyes closed, I willed Grace to burst in through the front door, rush to Logan’s room and kiss him good-night before snuggling with me on the sofa. She’d put her head on my chest, stick one foot out from underneath the tartan blanket and explain everything.

  I missed her so much. At any given time, in the space of a heartbeat, I’d go from empty and numb to feeling the pain ripping me in half. Whenever I thought I’d taken a step to accepting our new reality, a commercial that had made Grace laugh, a tune she’d always hummed or the smell of her shampoo threw me right back to the beginning. Despite it only being two months since she’d gone, I had trouble imagining her voice, and her face blurred when I conjured it into my mind, a camera lens going out of focus.

  I had to do something about the guardianship, surely that would help make me feel better, and someone out there had to have answers. There was no doubt Grace’s parents, Marcia and Albert Wilson, were a logical place to start—if only I could find them. Sure, they hadn’t seen their only daughter in a long time, but maybe they could give me details about some of her old friends, people she may have stayed in touch with. But how would I find them?

  Grace had no siblings, no social media accounts I could look through for old friends or clues. She’d insisted she had no time or interest in an online presence, and made sure I didn’t post pictures of her, or Logan. I pushed away the nagging feeling about it being another oddity. She wasn’t the only fiercely private person on the planet. Just because the rest of the world had jumped on the over-sharing bandwagon didn’t mean she had to. But still...she’d gone to great lengths to hide Logan from his father, or—I swallowed—hiding who Logan’s father was from me and everybody else.

  When the commercials came on, I picked up the remote to continue my channel-hopping exercise, but stopped at the opening beats of a familiar advert. Instead of ignoring it, I turned up the volume, grabbed the tablet and binder with Grace’s birth certificate and typed the genealogy website address into the browser. It seemed straightforward enough: enter some details, choose a plan, provide my credit card number and hope at least one of Grace’s not too distant relatives had been interested in tracking the family’s history.

  A few swipes and double taps and there it was—Grace’s extended yet still tiny family. I raced through the list, found myself nodding at the details I remembered her mentioning. Mother and father, a maternal aunt, a paternal uncle, two cousins...

  The details had mainly been input by Elizabeth Gander, Grace’s aunt who apparently lived in Salida, Colorado. Grace had talked about her Aunt Betty a few times, said how they’d always got along when she was a kid, but they’d lost touch. I opened up another tab, searched for Elizabeth’s name and phone number, didn’t get anywhere until I ran a search using Betty. One result came up. I looked at my watch. Still early enough to call out west.

  “Hello?” a woman said, her voice thick and raspy, and I couldn’t speak, my tongue somehow no longer fit my mouth. “Hello?”

  “Is that Betty Gander?”

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Elizabeth Gander? Grace Wilson’s aunt?”

  “You mean Marcia and Bert’s daughter? Yes. Who’s this?”

  I paused to take a breath. “I’m Josh Andersen, Grace’s partner.”

  “Is she alright? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  I hesitated, briefly wondered if I should hang up, let Betty live on in blissful ignorance. But it wasn’t right. “I’m so sorry to tell you she passed away in March.”

  “What? How?” Betty gasped, and when I told her, she dissolved in tears. “Oh, poor Gracie. My poor, poor sweet girl. I’d always hoped I’d hear from her again, but not like this. Never like this...” She took a few breaths. “And you said you’re her husband?”

  “Her partner, yes. We’d been together for five years.”

  Betty stifled a sob, so I encouraged her to take a moment, then gently explained how I’d found her, and wanted to locate Grace’s parents to give them the news, too.

  Betty sighed. “I can’t help you—”

  “Please. I really should talk to them.”

  “Well, that’s the problem. Bert’s got Alzheimer’s. He’s in a facility now. Doesn’t know anyone anymore, thinks he’s the president most of the time, or Luke Skywalker, depending on what’s on TV. And my sister... I’m afraid Marcia died two years ago.” A literal dead end.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, thinking how strange that Logan would never get to know his grandparents, how sad I felt oddly detached from the fact Grace’s mother had passed.

  “Thank you. Poor thing had a stroke and never recovered,” Betty said. “She went far too young. I’m sure Gracie told you I didn’t always agree with Marcia, but she was my sister, you know? And I’d have contacted Grace, only nobody knew where to find her. My poor Gracie.”

  “She told me they weren’t close.”

  “Exactly, and, goodness dang it, I wished they’d made their peace. My sister wanted to, I promise. Even on her deathbed she hoped Grace would come home or call. But she never did.”

  “When did you see Grace last?”

  “Hmm...would’ve been about seven-and-a-half years ago,” Betty said. “A few months before I moved out here with my fella. Grace turned up out of the blue, looking lovely as ever. Said she’d been living in Portland but had a new job, in Albany, I think. She was about to move there, wanted to come see me before I left, too.”

  “And, uh, was she...alone?”

  “You mean was she with a boyfriend? No. She didn’t bring anyone,” Betty said, and I frowned. Seven-and-a-half years ago Grace would have either had Logan, or she’d have been heavily pregnant.

  “I offered to take her to see her parents, but she refused,” Betty continued. “Thought she was ready, but decided she couldn’t face them. Such a shame. They should’ve talked about what happened back then. Marcia regretted how she handled everything. Really, she did.” I heard the click of a lighter, the sucking in and exhaling of smoke. “I’m telling you, Teddy Barnes, the ugly, fat piece of crap, if you’ll excuse my French, has a lot to answer for. Gracie tell you about him?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, remembering how the blood had rushed through my ears the day she’d mentioned his name. We’d gone out for a walk in the park, had settled down on a bench with Logan fast asleep in his stroller. I’d put my arm around Grace, taken a deep breath and asked her if she ever thought about having another child. We hadn’t been together for long, but aside from Grace marrying me, it was the one thing I wanted, for us to have a son or daughter, a sibling for Logan.

  “And I was wondering if maybe you’d introduce me to y
our parents,” I said. “I could help you bury the hatchet. I know you didn’t get along in the past, but maybe we can figure it out? My parents are dead. I’d do anything to have them here again. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t regret not giving them another chance.”

  Grace had looked up at me with a sadness I’d never seen before. She cried, tried to get the words out, but couldn’t, so we sat on the park bench until her sobs subsided enough for her to tell me what the disagreement with her parents had really been about. Teddy Barnes.

  She was seventeen when she’d taken a summer job at his store, stacking shelves, helping at the checkout. “I enjoyed it at first,” she said. “It gave me a bit of money to spend and got me away from my God-fearing parents.”

  But Teddy’s hands had started to wander, discreetly at first, a pat on the back here, a brush against her leg there, until the day he’d pinned her down in the storage room, and she’d lost her virginity to a man more than twice her age.

  “He told me I’d asked for it,” she said, fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. “My skirts and spaghetti-strap tops meant I was willing, and I hadn’t put up much of a fight, which meant I liked it rough. He insisted my parents would agree if I told them. Then they’d know exactly how much of a dirty little slut I was.”

  Grace asked if I wanted her to stop because there was more, and I gently told her to go on, but only if she wanted to. “I got sick, had pains in my stomach, ran a fever,” she said. “I ignored it, thought everything would go away, but it didn’t...it got worse. By the time I went to the doctor, he said it was the worst case of pelvic inflammatory disease he’d ever seen.”

  Her parents demanded to know who she’d been whoring around with, and when she said Teddy raped her, they believed his word over hers, exactly as he said they would. Her mother called her every name she could think of, and her father didn’t speak to her in over three months.