The linoleum felt like liquid beneath her feet. “I . . . I gave him up, Rip.” She raised her voice without meaning to. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Wait . . .” He pushed his chair back. For a moment he didn’t move or breathe or speak. “You gave away . . .” His tone fell to a whisper, “You gave away my . . . son?”
“Rip!” Like a lead blanket, fear draped itself over Wendy and made it almost impossible to breathe. The rage was coming, she was sure of it. Like a barrage of bullets, like an air raid, he was about to unleash his anger, and this time maybe she wouldn’t survive. She stood and took small steps backwards. “I had no choice! You were in prison and I—”
“Stop.” He held up a single hand. This was the moment when he would normally explode, only instead of rage, his eyes held a strange mix of shock and anger and fear. He stared at his plate of half-eaten eggs and toast as if he were trying to put together pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t quite take shape. After a long time, he looked up, his eyes narrow. “Shouldn’t I have signed something?” His words were quick and clipped, like the ticking of a time bomb. “Don’t both parents have to sign when you give a kid away?”
Wendy took another few steps back until she hit the wall. She opened her mouth but no words came. This was the hardest part, the worst of it. She had to tell the truth, or Rip would find out for himself and then . . . then she’d never come out alive. She twisted her fingers together and looked down somewhere near her feet. Why did I ever think I could pull this off? She lifted her eyes to his. “I . . . I signed both our names.”
The statement was like a lit fuse, and all at once Rip was on his feet. “You can’t be serious.” He took quick, menacing steps toward her, his eyes dark and flinty. He was a foot from her now. She could see the greasy toast crumbs on his lip. When he spoke again, his words came through clenched teeth. “You signed my name? So you could give my son to some family . . . in Florida?”
She nodded fast. “Yes, Rip.” With every sentence he sounded angrier, more incredulous. Coffee percolated in the background, but the smell was too strong. It made her sick to her stomach. “I had no choice.”
“That’s it . . .” He raised his fist and she could feel it, feel his knuckles crashing down on her skull, feel herself being knocked to the floor. Except the blow never came. Instead he turned just enough and his fist smashed clean through the wall beside her, inches from her face.
She slid sideways, away from the damage, away from her husband. She was next, absolutely. She squinted, afraid to look. Her hands came up in front of her, shielding herself, creating a layer of defense between the two of them. But again the blow didn’t come. After a few seconds she opened her eyes and looked at him.
He worked his hand free of the crumbling drywall, shook off the dust and debris. Almost in slow motion his shoulders hunched forward and his arms fell slack to his sides. He hung his head and his voice slipped to a monotone. “What am I doing?” The question was geared to himself, not her.
She moved a few more feet away from him.
“Wendy”—he twisted his brow and stared at her, deep at her—“I was never going to do that again. Never.”
“I’m sorry.” A good three feet separated them now. “I . . . you were in prison, Rip.” She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. “I didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t handle raising a baby by myself, and I looked into adoption, and—”
Again he held up one hand. “I get it.” The knuckles on his right hand were bloodied. He pulled his fist close and cradled it against his waist. She heard him exhale. He was trembling, the rage trying to find a peaceable way to leave his body. His face was pale and little drops of sweat dotted his forehead. His eyes found hers. “I’m so sorry. . .” He held up his bloodied hand. “I didn’t mean it.” He hid his face with his good hand and groaned. “I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.”
Wendy felt herself relax. Maybe he wasn’t going to hit her or knock her to the floor. She straightened some. Truth was she’d done wrong by Rip. She should’ve taken the paperwork to the prison and convinced him fair and square to give up the boy. But then . . . “I never should’ve signed your name.”
“Wait . . .” Slowly, hope seemed to grab Rip by the shoulders and his expression changed. “You know what?” This time his eyes flashed with new life, new excitement. “Maybe it’s not too late.”
Not too late? Was he crazy? The child would be four now. Five in the fall. He’d been with the nice couple from Florida since he was a few days old. She and Rip couldn’t just call up and say, “Hey, we changed our minds. We’re back together and we want our boy.”
She thought hard. Could they?
No, they couldn’t. Of course not. She had to tell her husband before he got his hopes up. “Rip, they don’t just give ’em back. The boy thinks they’re his family now.”
Rip pierced the air in front of himself with one finger. The rage was gone, but the intensity of his tone, his words, was still enough to take her breath away. “I never signed the paper.” He walked to the phone and picked up the receiver. “You went through child welfare, right?” He looked at the keypad. “If I call information, who do I ask for?”
“Rip!” Suddenly it dawned on her what he was doing. “You can’t call and tell them I forged your name. They’ll have police down here in ten minutes, and then it’ll be my turn in the slammer!”
He didn’t say it would serve her right, but his eyes spoke loud and clear. He put the receiver back on the base and stroked his chin. “There has to be a way.” He took a few steps toward her and then turned and walked to the phone again. “We need a plan . . . a story. Something they’ll believe.”
In all her years knowing Rip, Wendy had seen only two sides of the man: loving kindness and blazing rage. But now he was almost frenzied with determination, looking for a way to bring home his son. Like a person driven, the way a drowning man is driven to get his next breath. She moved a little closer. “You’re serious about this.” She gripped the counter.
Just for an instant, the rage flashed again. Then it was gone, his tone almost matter-of-fact. “Yes. I’m serious.” He brought his face closer to hers. “My only son is somewhere out there.” He pointed sharply at the kitchen window. “You gave him away without asking me, so yes . . . I’m serious about this.”
He eased back and pulled out a tired smile. “I’m willing to forgive you.” He strained his neck forward some, as if the task of forgiving was as easy as swallowing a turkey leg. He pointed at the telephone. “But I’m making the call, and yes, I want him back.” He slumped against the kitchen counter, their elbows touching. “The sooner the better.”
Rip raked his fingers through his hair, something he did when he was frustrated. What he’d never done, though, is back down from a fight—the way he’d just done with her. He looked at her, half grinned, and patted her arm. “I’m going for a walk.” He winked. “Anger management.”
Wendy watched him go. Her knees stopped knocking even before he shut the door. Tigger the cat brushed up against her ankles, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were still on the door, her mouth still open, unsure of what to do or say. Was he serious? Had he really just gotten what must’ve been the worst news of his life, smiled at her, and made the decision to take a walk?
A walk, of all things?
Rip Porter had made promises to her since she was a seventeen-year-old high school junior. Never once had he made good on his word, never stayed away from the easy girls, never quit the bottle for more than a few months, and never—never once—had he been able to keep his hands off her when he was mad.
Until now.
Sure, he’d punched the wall. But a lifetime of rage was bound to take some time to fix. Theirs wasn’t a house with patched-up walls. She’d taken every one of the blows in the past. She blinked and her eyes found the hole, the one he’d just made. Yes, there it was. So, maybe Rip was right, maybe the prison classes had worked and now he could handle getting angry wi
thout hurting her.
His words played again—I want him back . . . the sooner the better.
For the first time, Wendy considered the possibility. Rip had a point. Since his name was forged, the paperwork was a lie. Fraudulent, right? Wasn’t that the word? She gripped the countertop behind her. Could they really do it? Could they think up a story, a reason why Rip’s name was forged, and keep her from getting handcuffed in the process?
She thought of the baby, the way he’d looked and felt and smelled in her arms all those years ago. And suddenly, in a rush of loss and regret and a love deeper than the ocean, it all came back. Every moment, every memory. She was no longer standing in the kitchen of their small two-bedroom ranch, smelling the mix of cooked sausage and thick coffee. She was in the hospital, doing the one thing the social worker had advised her not to do.
She was holding her newborn son.
Chapter Five
With Rip gone for a walk, the memories swirled in Wendy’s head, drawing her back with a power she couldn’t fight. In as many seconds, four and a half years disappeared and she was lying in a hospital bed, the day she delivered her baby.
He had the palest peach-fuzz hair and a perfectly round face. But it was his eyes she remembered most, the eyes she would never forget. They were light blue, almost transparent. And as she held him, as she snuggled his warm little body against her chest and stared at him, his eyes seemed to see straight into her heart.
If he could talk he would’ve said, Mommy, don’t give me away. I don’t care if it’s just me and you.
She held her finger out to her son and he grabbed it, held tight as if he would do everything in his power to stay with her. But she had to give him up, didn’t she? What sort of life could she offer a little boy? She was working two jobs to make ends meet. She’d almost never see him. And Rip? He was rotting away in prison.
Still . . .
A wild and reckless love began to take root in her heart, working its way deep, to the outer layers of her very soul. It was a love so strong it took her breath away and brought tears to her eyes. Maybe love would be enough. If he could stir up these sorts of feelings in just one day, then there was no limit to how much she might love him. She could love him more in the few hours a day she might have with him than other mothers could love in twenty-four straight, right?
For three crazy hours, her feelings waged war within her. Several times a nurse came in to see if she wanted a break, but each time she only held up her hand and shook her head. She was with her son. No one would disturb them until she was ready.
Finally, just as the third hour came to a close, she remembered what had driven her to the social services office in the first place. Rip Porter’s fists. She could still feel his knuckles crashing down on her, breaking her collarbone one time and fracturing her eye socket another. Rip hadn’t even served time for those beatings. “Bad spells,” Rip called them.
So what if he got out of prison and had a bad spell with the precious baby in her arms? Newspapers were full of stories about guys like Rip and babies like this one. They were the sorts of stories that took up just a few inches in a news column on the fifth page: Baby Dies after Beating. Nausea welled up in Wendy, and her tears came harder. If she kept Rip’s baby, one day Rip would come home and she would take him back, because she always did. She didn’t know how to not love Rip Porter. And then the baby would be just one more person to rage at. One more person at the wrong end of Rip’s bad spells.
She clutched the baby more tightly and rocked him close. His eyes told her how he felt. He was hers; he wanted her to take him home and love him forever. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t. Not with Rip in her life. Her tears became sobs, deep and silent. “My little son, I’m sorry. I have to . . . have to let you go.”
Then, before she could change her mind, she rang for the nurse. When the uniformed woman approached her, she gave her son one last kiss and held him out. “Take him. Please. The social worker is waiting down the hall.”
The nurse hesitated, but Wendy waved her off. “Please. I have to do this.”
Later that afternoon the social worker stepped into her hospital room with the paperwork. Allyson Bower was her name, a woman with deep eyes and a story she hinted at but never shared with Wendy. Like every other detail of that time in her life, the social worker’s name was never more than a heartbeat away.
That day, after Wendy had said good-bye to her baby, Allyson took the chair next to her. She looked at her for a long moment. Then she sighed and spoke her question at the same time. “Your husband’s still in prison, is that right?”
“Yes.” Wendy felt dead, drained. Her arms ached to hold her baby again. Something told her they would always ache that way. “Outside Cleveland.”
She pointed to a few marked places on the paperwork. “I’ll need his signature in order to sever your rights as parents.”
“Okay.” Wendy squeezed her eyes shut. She crooked her finger and pressed it to her lip to keep from crying. “Thank you.”
“Wendy . . .” The social worker hesitated. “Are you sure about this decision?”
“Yes.” She looked straight at the woman and gritted her teeth. Should she tell her the truth, the real reason why she couldn’t keep the beautiful baby in the other room? Then, before she could think it through, she pulled the top of her hospital gown down just enough to expose the bump on her collarbone, the place where she hadn’t healed exactly right. “See this?”
When the social worker must’ve realized what she was seeing, her eyes hardened. “Your husband did that to you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” She pulled her gown back into place. “The other scars have healed.” Fresh tears clouded her eyes. “The ones you can see, anyway.”
“Wendy . . .” Allyson took her hand, and for a moment she hung her head. When she looked up, new understanding filled her face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Wendy lifted her hands as the tears splashed onto her cheeks. “He’s in prison for domestic violence. What’d you think?”
“You said he pushed you in the Kroger parking lot.” Allyson looked defeated. “Have you reported him?”
Wendy’s voice cracked. “I can’t.” She bit her lip and shook her head. “I never could. I love him.” In a distant room she could hear a baby crying and she wondered if it was hers. “But I can’t . . . have my baby around that.”
Concern added to the emotions on the social worker’s face. “What about your husband?” She picked up her briefcase. “What if he won’t sign?”
“He’ll sign.” Wendy’s heart beat harder than before. Rip would kill me if he knew what I was doing, she thought. He wouldn’t sign the papers for a million dollars. He’s always wanted a son, as long as I’ve known him. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “He hates kids. I’ll have the papers to you in a week.”
Allyson filled her cheeks with air and released it slowly. She stood, righteous anger written in the lines on her forehead. “It’s wrong, what he’s done to you. I can get you counseling, someone to meet with every day. Whatever it takes to get him out of your life.”
The ticks from the clock on the wall seemed to get louder. The right answer was obvious. Wendy would agree, of course. She would get help and she would put Rip Porter out of her mind forever. But as long as she’d known Rip, he’d always found his way back into her life.
“Well . . . ?” Allyson touched her shoulder. “Can I make the call?”
Wendy looked down at her hands, at the way they had clenched into fists. She shook her head without looking up. “It’s no use. I’ll never be rid of him.”
The social worker tried for a while longer, but Wendy wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t expose her baby to Rip, and she couldn’t get counseling for a problem she would keep going back to. Finally there was nothing else Allyson could say. “I’m sorry, Wendy.” She gathered her briefcase and gave a nod to the paperwork. “Get it signed and back to me as soon as possible. The couple will be here a
t the end of the week. We’ll keep the baby in short-term foster care until the papers are in order.”
The couple. Her son’s new parents.
Wendy had picked them from a nationwide data bank. Their bios were the only ones that grabbed her heart.
She still had them now, on the top shelf in the linen closet. She crossed the kitchen to the front door and looked out the living-room window. Rip wasn’t in sight. Still, she needed to find the file. Now, so she’d have it ready when he got home. The folder held everything—pictures, the information on the couple, details about her baby’s birth.
Even a copy of the forged paperwork.
She went to the linen closet and opened the door. Every September 22—her son’s birthday—she’d pull the file from the top shelf and remind herself that she’d made the right choice. Once in a while she’d take a look on a random day in March or June or just before Christmas. When she missed Rip or when she wondered whether her little boy was walking or running or reciting his alphabet.
Now she reached up and carefully pulled down the file. It smelled like cigarette smoke, proof that she usually couldn’t get through the papers inside without chain smoking over every page. The top of the folder read, “Porter Adoption File.” Wendy read the words three times. Her mouth was dry, and her heart stuttered into an uncomfortable beat. She dropped to the floor cross-legged and opened the file.
And there they were. The faces of all three of them.
Clipped to the inside of the folder was a photo of her son, the only photo she had. Gently she slipped the picture from beneath the paper clip and held it closer. She could still hear his baby sounds, still feel the way he held tight to her finger. “What did they name you, little boy?” Softly, with great care, she brought the photo to her lips and kissed it. “Have they told you about me?”
At times like this, the ache was so great she could hardly stand it. She eased the picture back beneath the clip and forced herself to look at the first pages in the file, the couple’s bios. Back then he was thirty and she was twenty-eight. The woman was a dark-haired version of Kate Hudson, with laughing eyes and a carefree face. The man looked a little like Rip. Same rounded shoulders and dark blond hair.
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