by Nicole Baart
Grandma and I agreed on one thing when it came to Parker: I would never offer more than he asked. It wasn’t my responsibility to draw him in, to convince him that Daniel needed to know his biological father. It wasn’t my place to facilitate a loving father-son relationship. That one small concession was like a burden lifted; it gave me a reason to hope.
After our lunchtime conversation, I found myself praying without ceasing. Wasn’t that the sort of devotion I longed to achieve? And yet I knew that my desperate entreaties weren’t exactly the sort of communication God wanted from me. Don’t let Parker ask; don’t let Parker ask . . . hardly constituted meaningful interaction.
It didn’t work anyway.
Parker e-mailed me one more word on Saturday afternoon. Please? I knew precisely what he meant.
I endured a sick, gut-twisting feeling that left me breathless and dry-mouthed while Parker and I worked out the details. He offered to call me, had the gall to actually ask for my phone number, but instead of giving him the satisfaction of such an intimate connection, I insisted on continuing our pithy e-mail exchange.
In response to his monosyllabic plea, I wrote, Next week Saturday, 10:00, Fox Creek Park, Mason, Iowa. I had no idea where Parker lived or if it was even possible for him to make such a set rendezvous. Frankly, I didn’t care. If he wanted to make it, he would. If not, I had my answer.
He wrote back, Where’s Mason?
Google it.
Does Daniel know?
I wasn’t entirely sure what Parker expected Daniel to know, but since my innocent five-year-old was in the dark about both his biological father and our developing plans, I answered, No.
Can we talk about this? May I have your phone number?
No.
Parker was silent then for nearly twenty-four hours, and I started to believe that he would simply call the whole thing off. Claim that he was busy or too far away or not quite ready to take such a huge leap. But when I checked my e-mail at work on Monday morning, his final reply was waiting.
See you then.
The rest of the week was a nightmare of paradoxes. One day flew by so fast, I felt as if I suffered from vertigo—my whole world seemed to spin off-balance. But the next day dragged, each minute heaving itself forward in lurches and stops that made me certain time was an old man indeed. A decrepit old man, walker-dependent and arthritis-ridden.
Even looking at Daniel was an agonizing experience. A single glance at my towheaded son was enough to ensure my heart broke down the same hairline fissure that had carved my soul in two all those years ago. One side argued with the other, assuring me that my son would never forgive me if I kept him from the man who gave him life. But the very same heartbeat produced a toxin of fear and anger, a poisonous cocktail that made my blood run hot at the nerve of this shiftless, irresponsible, good-for-nothing deserter. What right did he have to infringe upon our lives?
It was hard for me to mask my emotions, and Michael noticed the change in my attitude the very first time we spoke after my plans with Parker were finalized. As the weekend loomed nearer and nearer, my boyfriend seemed unable to talk about much beyond my obvious distraction during our daily telephone conversations.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, the wearied question beginning to sound like the refrain of a broken record.
“I told you, I’m fine. Just busy.”
“Do you really think school is the best thing for you right now?”
I rolled my eyes, thankful that we had never figured out the Skype thing and he couldn’t see me. “School is exactly right for me. Child psychology is fascinating so far.”
“You’ve only had one class.”
“And already I feel like a better mom to Daniel and Simon.”
“After one class?”
I mustered up a laugh but it was choked and short-lived. “I have an amazing professor.”
Michael sighed. “If you think you can handle it all . . .”
“I can.”
“Just don’t overdo it, Jules. You don’t have to do everything. You don’t have to be Superwoman.”
“I’m not trying to be Superwoman.”
“Hey.” Michael’s voice was soft, appeasing. “You don’t have to get all defensive. I’m just worried about you.”
“I know.”
“You seem tense. Preoccupied. I’m trying to help.”
“I know you are.” I flopped back on my bed, draping an arm over my forehead to muffle the dull throb that had started in my temples. “I don’t mean to be short with you.”
“It’s okay. We haven’t seen each other for a while.”
“Too long.”
“I wish I was there.”
“Me too.”
“I’d give you a back rub.”
That made me smile. In one of Michael’s anatomy courses the professor had given his students an impromptu primer on therapeutic massage. How to loosen pressure points, where a firm, slow hand could release all the tension in tight shoulders. I had wanted to send the thoughtful professor a handwritten thank-you note. With flowers and chocolates.
“That sounds amazing,” I sighed. “I could use a back rub.”
“I’d love to be of service.”
But Michael was hundreds of miles away, and I had to face Parker alone. Without a stress-relieving backrub or even a quick hug of solidarity, of encouragement.
While the week before my meeting with Parker was long and unseasonably hot, Saturday dawned crisp and cool, the very first day that actually felt like autumn. Summer had been hesitant to release its grip, but there was a freshness in the air when I woke on Saturday morning that made me think of pumpkins and bonfires and the sweaters I had packed away in a cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I embraced the drop in temperature, the brittle edge to the morning that left beads of dewy condensation on the inside of my slightly cracked window. I loved the way my skin prickled in the cool air, the way my muscles tightened to resist a shiver. I loved the way it all made me feel invigorated, alive.
I figured I needed that sharpness, that clarity, to face Parker.
The light breeze coming in from my window convinced me to undo the latches on my cedar chest and retrieve a sweater for my meeting with Daniel’s dad. I dug around for exactly the right one, a charcoal cable knit with three-quarter-length sleeves and a small row of buttons from the collar to the left shoulder. It was a designer brand, perfectly formfitting and flirting with the fine border of sexy. I had purchased it on clearance in the off-season, but it made me feel worth every penny of the original price tag. I paired the sweater with vintage-washed jeans, a secondhand store find that had tiny, intentional rips in all the right places. Jeans and a sweater: my version of a power suit.
I put my makeup on in the quiet of a sleeping house, taking extra time to try to mimic the smoky-eye look I had seen perfected on the pages of a magazine. It wasn’t a terrible attempt, but nothing to write home about either, and I decided to go with carefully tousled hair to match my darker-than-usual eyes. The end result was a little surprising. I looked ageless somehow, attractive in a beguiling, almost-mysterious way. It was my intention to shrug off the soccer mom impression that I was sure I emanated like cheap perfume. My efforts were undeniably successful. The woman who emerged from the bathroom was striking. Maybe even alluring.
It occurred to me as I stared at my reflection in the mirror that I wanted Parker to find me attractive. Not because I longed for his attention now, but because I wanted him to regret what he had done. I wanted him to see me and instantly know that I had survived without him—and managed well, thank you very much. Though I had nothing to base my insecurities on, I imagined that he pitied me, the poor, single mom who had to slug it out on her own. But I didn’t want his pity; I wanted his admiration. I wanted his respect.
Turning to survey the fit of my hand-me-down jeans, I decided Parker would have no choice but to appreciate who I was. What I had become. Or at the very least, he’d have to admit that I had
aged well.
When I emerged from the bathroom, my family was gathered in the living room watching Saturday morning cartoons. Simon claimed he was too old for such silliness, but even Grandma liked to watch the kids on The Electric Company spin literacy facts and concepts against a hip-hop, urban backdrop. For weeks after an episode about silent letters and how they work, we all walked around the house singing, “‘Silent E is a ninja . . .’”
Grandma looked up from the opening scene just as a curly-haired character yelled, “Hey, you guys!”
“You going to watch with us?” she asked, a glint in her eye. But as her gaze took in my outfit and each carefully fingered strand of hair, the lines of her brow hardened. She remembered.
“Not today,” I told her. “We have to be at the park by ten.”
“Are you still planning on me coming with you?” Grandma pushed herself up from her chair, assuming the answer before I voiced it.
“I was hoping so.”
“I’ll just take the boys to the pond for a while?”
“That’s the idea.” I led the way into the kitchen and began rummaging through the refrigerator for breakfast fare. We had plenty of time, but for some reason I felt rushed, uptight. “Cereal?”
Grandma shook her head. “Let’s go to Lily’s. The boys will enjoy getting out of the house.” She continued as if our discussion of the morning’s events hadn’t dissolved. “And you want me to stay at the pond for . . . ?”
“I don’t know. A half hour or so? Just keep them occupied until I’m ready for Daniel. I want to talk to Parker before he meets our son.” I coughed a little, almost choking on the unexpected pairing of the words our and son. It was such a small thing, two insignificant syllables that seemed meaningless apart but hinged together had the potential to transform our lives. I wanted to take a screwdriver to the axis, the place where the words fit into one. But the link was fixed.
“I’ll watch for you,” Grandma said, reassuring me with a nod. “I’ll know when you’re ready for him.”
“What about Simon?”
“We’ll have a little alone time.” A soft smile lit Grandma’s face at the thought.
“Are you going to tell him?”
“About Patrick?” Grandma insisted on calling Parker by his given name. “Maybe. It depends on whether or not Simon asks.”
“He’ll ask.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. He’s not one to pry.”
I gave her a quizzical look.
“Perhaps pry isn’t the right word. But I think you know what I mean. Simon sees things that other people miss, and yet he’s not pushy or aggressive. He holds his cards close.”
Grandma was right, but it still concerned me that the sudden advent of Daniel’s biological father might prove difficult for Simon. My brother, the boy whose mother left him and whose father he barely knew. The young man who couldn’t help feeling like an outsider in our family, no matter how hard we tried to convince him he belonged.
“Simon is strong,” Grandma assured me. “If we need to, we’ll work through it together.”
I tried to be optimistic, but as we ate thick slices of sweet bread in the warm comfort of Lily’s tiny dining room, I couldn’t deflect the insidious thoughts that crept through my mind. Daniel won’t understand was the first phantom whisper to make my heart pound with nauseating irregularity. Then, This will ruin Simon. Parker will be the end of us.
By the time I glanced at my watch and realized it was too late for me to change my mind and back out, I was so queasy with dread, I was ready to go home and leave Parker empty-handed. Wasn’t that exactly what he deserved?
But Grandma was my backbone when my own resolve failed me. “Everything is going to be just fine. Things will work out for the best,” she declared as if claiming it could make it so.
“What’s going to be fine?” Simon piped up.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything—to lie if I had to—but Grandma cut in before I could do any damage.
“Julia is meeting an old friend this morning. They’re going to spend a little time together at the park, and I’m taking you boys to play by the pond.”
“Did you put my nets in the trunk?” Daniel chirped, ecstatic at the thought of digging around in the stagnant, shallow pond that bordered the northwest edge of Fox Creek Park. I thought it was overgrown and disgusting, but the dirty pool harbored all manner of insect, amphibian, and boy-beloved creatures.
“I’ve got the nets,” Grandma said. “And some canning jars and your magnifying glass, too.”
“Yippee, plankton,” Simon muttered.
“I know!” Daniel howled. “Maybe we’ll find a water bear this time!”
“More likely we’ll pick up a couple dozen flatworms.”
“You think so?”
I watched as Simon turned his sour expression on Daniel. But my little boy’s face radiated nothing but hope, and in the end, Simon gave his nephew’s shoulder a shove and grinned. “I’ll help you find a tardigrade.”
“What’s a tardy-gray?” Daniel asked.
“A water bear. If you’re going to be a scientist, Danny, you’ve got to know the terminology.”
“Terminology?”
“Whatever.”
We drove the few short blocks to the park in a flurry of excitement. Daniel couldn’t stop plotting his water excavation, and Simon offered his brand of sage, brotherly advice. My own heart was a riot of emotions, and I was grateful that the boys were so enraptured with their adventure that they didn’t have time to notice my distress.
As we pulled into the circular driveway of the park, I scanned the blacktopped parking spaces for signs of an unfamiliar car. My breath left me in a hiss when I realized Parker was already there. His vehicle wasn’t the rusted-out pickup truck I remembered, but the new-looking sports coupe reeked of Parker. Who else would drive an immaculate silver Audi with out-of-state plates?
I pulled to the side of the one-way road and leaned over the backseat. “This is your stop, boys,” I croaked, praying my voice didn’t betray me.
“You can’t park here,” Daniel chastised me.
“I’m not going to park here; I’m just letting you out. It’s closer to the pond—you won’t have to walk so far.”
“Grab your stuff, boys,” Grandma called, opening her door and stepping out.
Simon and Daniel slammed their own doors and raced for the trunk. I popped it and heard their mad scramble for supplies.
“It’s going to be just fine,” Grandma whispered, leaning down through her open door. “I’ll be covering you in prayer the whole time.”
“I’ll need it.” My voice was barely audible, less than a whisper.
Grandma didn’t argue.
The short drive to Parker’s car was an infinity of speculation. My mind skittered through a dozen different scenarios, a hundred, and I even entertained the hope that I was wrong and it wasn’t Parker’s Audi. But as I pulled up a few spaces from the shiny, metallic bumper, I could see a man sitting behind the driver’s seat. Watching me.
It was him.
I switched off the ignition, took a long, steadying breath, and forced myself to step from the car.
He was already out of his seat, closing the space between us. “Julia,” he said.
It was a blow to see him. A mind-numbing, skin-tingling jolt to my soul. Parker hadn’t changed much in the years since I had known him. He was still tall, still angular, still arresting with eyes the color of an iceberg beneath the water. But his hair was shorter, shaded with caramel instead of sand. His step was as sure as I remembered, but he seemed burdened somehow, like he carried extra weight beneath the straight line of his fine suede jacket. Maybe he was wearing a bulletproof vest, a line of defense between the frailty of his humanity and the depth of my anger.
And I was angry. Angry-scared. A bewildering mix of panic and regret and worry. I wondered if he could see it in my face.
“Julia,” he said again, stopping a pace away. It looked
for a moment like he was going to reach for me, offer a handshake or maybe even a hug, but instead he lifted his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. It was a gesture of surrender, a shrug that encompassed all that had happened yet accounted for none of it. Parker looked at his palms, the guilt I imagined etched there, and then tucked his fists self-consciously in his pockets. It seemed there was nothing more to say.
I stared at him, shocked at his inability to speak. Wasn’t this what he had wanted? a meeting? a chance to talk about what had happened? to meet his son? I wasn’t going to give up anything until he asked for it. Begged for it.
The silence stretched taut between us, a thin line of unease that made my bones ache from the strain of waiting. I almost turned around and got back into my car. Almost. But something in Parker’s face—the downturn of his mouth, the way his eyes couldn’t quite hold mine, the smile lines that had begun to soften the hard planes of his chiseled features, to gently age him—held me back. Whatever he couldn’t bring himself to say, I wanted to hear it. And though my hand itched with the desire to slap his perfectly formed cheek, from somewhere hidden deep inside rose a fleeting wish to cup it. To lay my fingers against the warmth of his skin.
I trembled at the thought. Crossed my arms over my chest.
Finally, Parker sucked in a mouthful of air and gulped it down with the relish of someone who hadn’t breathed in many long moments. It must’ve emboldened him because he pulled his hands out of his pockets and leaned toward me. He didn’t approach me, didn’t seem quite brave enough to diminish the gap between us, but he did attempt a smile.
“After all this time . . . ,” he whispered. “It’s good to see you.”
Origins
My legs were beginning to tremble, a subtle shiver of motion that matched the breeze lifting the soft fringe of leaves above us. It seemed like the whole world was dancing a waltz, a gentle, rising sway that made me feel off-balance, dizzy.
“Would you like to sit?” Parker asked, inching yet a little closer.
I didn’t say anything but turned and carefully led the way to a bench tucked in a copse of paper birches. The small stand of trees looked old and tired, the white sheets of their bark yellowed and curled like the pages of a discarded manuscript. A sad story, irrelevant and useless, not worth the breath it would take to repeat it. But hadn’t I believed that our tale—Parker’s and mine—had reached an end? Yet here we were unearthing a worn narrative, dusting it off, starting anew. The thought made me want to touch the thin scrolls of bark, to press the long fragments back against the trunk where they belonged. Or to take an axe to each narrow base, leaving nothing but stumps. Some stories were best left untold.
