Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  She was a photographer. Of course she’d be curious about his photographs. Maybe the album contained pictures of old girlfriends, or of exotic places he’d visited. Or his family.

  She lifted the heavy book, sank into the recliner and spread the cover open across her knees. The first several pages were filled with pictures of a dark-haired, blue-eyed man who looked uncannily like Brett.

  His father. Sharon’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest as she studied the pictures. Like her own son, Brett had lost the most important man in his life. All he had left of his father were his memories and these photos.

  In a couple of the pictures, Brett’s father was alone. In a few, including a somewhat stiffly posed wedding picture, he was with Brett’s mother, a pretty woman with a round face and fluffy brown hair, both her and her new husband youthful and hopeful and unnaturally prim in their formal attire. And then, on the next page, a precious collection of photos of Brett with his father—as an infant in his father’s arms, a baby perched uncertainly on his father’s knee, and a few months older, gleefully straddling his father’s shoulders, his hands poked triumphantly into the air. She could see traces of the man she knew in that adorable little boy’s smile, his radiant eyes.

  Brett didn’t appear the least bit troubled in that picture, or in the one where he stood with his tiny feet balanced atop his father’s big ones, his hands safely within his father’s and another powerful smile on his chubby young face. Or in the one where he sat in the bend of his father’s arm, his head higher than his father’s as he reached into the branches of an apple tree.

  She turned the page. Brett was no longer a toddler in the next array of photos. He was already a school-age child, and his smile was gone.

  She studied the pictures more closely. Other, younger children populated them—his half-siblings, no doubt. They occupied the foreground, an infant propped up in front of Brett, or filling his lap and obliterating most of his face. On the next page, more infants and toddlers, hamming it up for the camera while Brett retreated into the background, an anxious expression darkening his face. A picture of an eight-year-old Brett struggling to hold up a two-year-old. A picture of all four siblings standing in a row on a porch, dressed up for some fancy occasion, and Brett lurking behind them, barely visible. A photo of the younger children in party hats while Brett carried plates of birthday cake to a table.

  A well of rage erupted inside Sharon. She wanted to flip back to the first pages, to scream at the pretty face of his mother, the woman who had made a nine-year-old boy serve birthday cake to his siblings. Why were there no photos of him at a table in a party hat? Didn’t he ever get to celebrate?

  She forced her anger down. His mother had suffered a tragic loss—if anyone knew how painful such a situation could be, it was Sharon. But still, why was the album filled with page after page of photos featuring happy youngsters and an older brother being nudged out of the way, upstaged, forced into the shadows? Why weren’t there any pictures of Brett front and center, with his siblings gazing up at him, admiring him, allowing him his moment?

  No wonder he didn’t like children. And no wonder he didn’t like having his photo taken. If these pictures represented the sum of his experience facing a camera...

  “What are you looking at?” his voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Oh, Brett, I—” She had no reason to feel guilty, but she did. Not for peeking at his photo album but for seeing so much in it, for understanding so much. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  He crossed the den and lifted the heavy book off her lap. His expression was noncommittal as he scanned the page she’d had it open to. “That’s my family,” he said.

  “I figured.”

  He gazed at the pictures for a minute longer, then closed the book and slid it onto the shelf. “Dinner’s ready.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. She doubted he would want to hear her instant psychoanalysis of him based on what she’d seen in the pictures, or her critique of the photographs themselves, their composition and subtext. He extended his hand to help her out of chair’s deep cushions, and when she peered into his face she knew he didn’t want her to say anything at all.

  But he was Brett, a man trying so hard to overcome so much—for her.

  She took his hand, let him hoist her to her feet, and then wrapped her arms around him. “I love you,” she whispered into the hollow of his neck.

  He remained silent, unmoving. She’d probably startled him, maybe alarmed him. If there was anything some men feared more than being psychoanalyzed, it was hearing the words “I love you” spoken to them by a woman.

  She hadn’t said them to pressure him, or to extract promises or commitments from him. She’d said them only because her heart ached for the child he’d been and soared at the man he was, the man he was trying to become. She’d said them because they were true.

  Slowly, his arms closed around her. She felt acceptance in his embrace, in the light kiss he planted on her forehead. He might not be able to say he loved her, but at least she hadn’t scared him away. He was still here, holding her.

  * * *

  He dreamed she was slipping away from him. He reached for her and felt only air, and his arms dropped back to the bed, useless. Then he opened his eyes and discovered he hadn’t been dreaming.

  “Shh,” she whispered from across the room. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up later.”

  He glanced at her clock radio, winced at the red digits—6:42—and closed his eyes. Sleeping without Sharon, he’d discovered, was nowhere near as satisfying as sleeping with her—but sleeping with her often meant not getting much sleep at all.

  He rolled over, drew the covers up and shut his eyes. Let her take the first shift with the kid, get him cleaned, dressed and fed. Brett would have to take over soon enough.

  Why had he agreed to this plan? He knew the logical reasons: because he wanted Sharon to finish her proposal so she could submit it to the city’s birthday committee. Because he wanted to be helpful. Because he wanted to get over his old hang-ups about children. Because he’d be attending his third Daddy School class later that morning, and three classes ought to be enough to make him an expert.

  But there was another reason. There had to be. He’d long ago jettisoned the need to prove anything, to himself or Sharon or anyone else. He had a successful business, a nice home, an active social life. He didn’t have to pad his résumé.

  If he weren’t so damned tired, he might be able to figure out the real reason he’d volunteered to take care of Max for the day. To slay his demons? To make peace with his past? To show Sharon... something. Something about how he intended to fit himself into her world.

  Someone patted his shoulder, then gave it a gentle shake. He flinched. She’d told him to go back to sleep. Why was she bothering him now?

  “Brett? It’s eight-thirty. I’ve got to leave.”

  Eight-thirty? He opened his eyes and his vision filled with her. She looked fresh and neat, ready to depart for her studio. Her skin glowed; her hair was pinned back from her face, and she seemed almost girlish, her cheeks and jaw line somehow softened. Freedom made her youthful, he thought. Shedding her maternal responsibilities and knowing she could work undisturbed for an entire day, not just on paid assignments but on a project she was doing on spec, probably stripped ten years off her age. He could only wonder at the burden being a mother placed on her.

  That was it, the reason he’d been groping for earlier: he had offered to take care of Max so Sharon could be carefree. He had agreed to be a substitute daddy for a day so she could take a break from being a mommy. It was his gift to her.

  He sat up and threw off the covers. Her gaze drifted down his naked body, and he responded the way any healthy man would respond when a woman looked at him like that, her eyes smoky and her cheeks growing pink. He found himself contemplating other gifts he could give her, gifts that would bring him as much pleasure as they brought her.

  With a wistfu
l smile, he rose and reached for his jeans. They’d had yesterday evening at his house. And last night, after they’d come to her place and sent the baby-sitter home. And they would have tonight. Whatever thoughts were floating through her head—and he felt safe in assuming they resembled the thoughts floating through his—would just have to wait until that evening, when Max was asleep and they could put down the parent burden for a few precious hours.

  Meanwhile, it was time for him to shoulder that burden for the day.

  He headed into the bathroom, and when he returned to the bedroom she was gone, no doubt making sure Max wasn’t climbing through a window or scribbling with crayons on the walls. That was how Brett was going to have to spend his day, he thought grimly—preventing Max from destroying the house and/or himself. The Daddy School class would eat up most of the morning, and then maybe he’d take the kid to “McDon-o’s” for lunch and frolicking in that sea of plastic balls. And then Max would nap. So it would really be only a couple of hours in the afternoon when Brett would actually have to play a father-son duet with Max.

  Once he was dressed, he descended the stairs. Sharon waited near the door, her patience a thin veneer. “I wish I could stay while you had your breakfast,” she said, the words rushing out as she checked her watch, “but I’ve got to run. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. You know where the diapers are, and all Max’s toys. I got his car seat out of my car—” she pointed to it, resting on the floor near the front door “—so you can put it in your car. Make sure you strap it firmly to the seat. And I wrote down the phone number at the studio and left it on the kitchen table. And Max’s favorite milk cup—”

  “Go,” Brett said, sounding more confident than he felt. “Max and I will be fine. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Downstairs. I already said good-bye to him. He was too busy playing to care. I guess he won’t miss me.” She smiled and reached for the doorknob.

  “I’ll miss you,” Brett assured her, meaning it more than just romantically. He’d miss her whenever it was time to change Max’s diaper, whenever Max demanded food, whenever he started to whine.

  “If I have a free minute, I’ll give you a call to see how things are going,” she promised. “If you’re really desperate, bring him to the studio. I’ll be there.”

  “Go,” Brett ordered her again, covering her hand with his and twisting the knob. The door swung open, and he kissed her. He’d shaved yesterday evening, but he could feel the roughness of his own cheek against her smooth one.

  She didn’t seem to mind. She kissed him back, then sighed, stepped out onto the porch and said, “Have fun!”

  He smiled, waved, closed the door and cursed. Have fun. Yeah, right.

  Okay. He’d agreed to do this for her, and he was going to do it. Fun wasn’t the point of the exercise.

  He strode toward the kitchen, then paused at the top of the stairs. “How’re you doing down there?” he called.

  “Busy,” Max called back.

  Good. He might be busy applying a snub-nosed scissor to the carpet or gluing scraps of construction paper to the TV screen, but he wasn’t asking for Brett’s supervision, so Brett chose not to provide it. He continued into the kitchen, filled a bowl with corn flakes and milk and smiled when he spotted the fresh pot of coffee and the mug Sharon had left for him. He filled the mug, then turned around and leaned against the counter, propping the bowl in his hand and scooping a spoonful of corn flakes into his mouth.

  Max suddenly appeared in the doorway, clad in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with “Look out, world!” printed across the front. He dragged his stuffed teddy bear behind him. “Where’s Mommy?”

  “She went to work,” Brett told him, then shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He had the feeling Max wasn’t going to allow him to enjoy a leisurely breakfast.

  “I want Mommy,” Max said, his lower lip quivering.

  “She’s not here right now.”

  “I want her!” Max’s voice grew louder and more tremulous. “I want Mommy.”

  Ten minutes into the day, and already the shit was hitting the fan. “She’s working today,” Brett said, setting the bowl in the sink and taking a bracing sip of coffee. He needed caffeine more than he needed corn flakes. “She’s working,” he repeated to the little boy who stared up at him dubiously. “You and I are going to hang out together ’til she gets home. Didn’t she explain this to you?”

  “I want my Mommy,” Max said, his eyes welling with tears but his volume decreasing. “I want her.”

  “Why don’t we go downstairs and you can show me what you’ve been up to?”

  Max considered his options for a long moment, then turned and stomped down the stairs. A small victory for Brett.

  The playroom at the bottom of the stairway was a scene of bedlam. Toys covered the floor—brightly colored plastic blocks, brightly colored plastic animals, brightly colored plastic cars, a toy telephone and a space shuttle. Although the finished basement room had no windows, Brett wished he had his sunglasses to shield his eyes from the glare of gaudy plastic.

  Max plopped himself onto the floor amid all that color and wept.

  Oh, hell.

  Brett placed his mug on a shelf and lowered himself to the floor next to Max, careful not to sit on any toys. He felt a sudden surge of the panic similar to what he used to feel when his brothers and sister cried and he was the only one around to comfort them. He’d been so miserable himself, how could he possibly cheer them up? Who was going to cheer him up?

  He wasn’t a pathetic child anymore, though. He was an adult with his own life. He could handle Max’s sadness without feeling put upon. No one had put anything upon him, anyway. He’d chosen this.

  Awkwardly, he arched his arm around Max. The child bawled, first resisting him and then crumpling against him. “Mommy! Mommy!” he lamented, as if grieving over a death.

  Was he afraid he was going to lose his mother? He’d never even known his father, but maybe he understood the idea of loss. Maybe in his subconscious he recognized the permanence of death. Brett could relate to that.

  “She’ll be back later,” he promised. “Your mother will be home later.”

  “Want her now!”

  The side of Brett’s shirt was damp from Max’s tears. The kid was small but sturdy, with broad shoulders and a head as hard as a bowling ball. He’d make a hell of a football player someday, Brett thought. Possibly a tennis player. He hoped to God the boy didn’t decide to take up skiing, the sport that had killed his father.

  “How about if I read you a book?” he suggested.

  “No.”

  “Do you want to build something with your blocks?”

  “No.”

  “How about pushing the cars around for a while?” Brett asked, nudging a vibrant orange vehicle across the carpet. He knew better than to present Max with an open-ended question: What do you want to do? When he used to ask his siblings that question, they’d always provide dreadful, if honest, answers: “I want to fly!” “I want to have ice-cream!” “I want to hit my sister!” He’d learned his lesson; he wasn’t going to ask Max.

  Max showed no interest in toy cars, so Brett gathered up an assortment of books, some from a shelf and others from the floor. He grabbed his now-tepid coffee and resumed his seat next to Max on the carpet. He read Curious George, The Cat in the Hat, a yawner about a butterfly that couldn’t decide which flower to land on, Curious George again, a bowdlerized version of Alice In Wonderland and, at Max’s insistence, Curious George yet again. As he read, he thought longingly of how hot and fragrant the coffee had been when he’d entered the kitchen. He thought of that morning’s edition of the Arlington Gazette sitting on the table. If not for Max, he could have relaxed with his breakfast, read the paper and savored every sip of his coffee.

  Instead, there he was, his butt sore from sitting on the floor and Max beside him, jabbing a pudgy finger at the Curious George book and saying, “Read it again.”

&
nbsp; Finally, the hour rescued him. “No more Curious George,” he said. “We’ve got to leave.”

  “Where?” Max demanded. “Where we going?”

  “To your preschool. You’ll get to play there.”

  “My school?”

  “Right.”

  “I have to go potty.”

  They did the potty thing. Brett discovered that Sharon had bought Max disposable training pants. He suggested that Max try wearing one of those, but Max balked and insisted on not just any diaper but a diaper with rockets printed across the waistband. The kid seemed so fragile, like a bubble about to burst. Brett wasn’t going to push him on something as trivial as underwear.

  It took him a while to get Max’s car seat set up in his car. While he worked the straps, Max raced around the lawn that spread in front of the row of townhouses. “Livie is here!” he shouted, pointing to the townhouse next door to his own. “I play with her!” His spirits seemed to improve in the warm morning sun. Maybe he’d just needed some fresh air and a little running room.

  At last Brett had the seat secured. Max decided to flee from Brett, but he didn’t get far; Brett snagged him, hauled him back to the car and buckled him into his seat. Then he deposited the tote bag Sharon had packed with diapers, juice, crackers and assorted toys on the floor behind the driver’s seat and settled in behind the wheel.

  He arrived at the preschool a few minutes late. He hadn’t realized how much extra time it took to get places when one was transporting a toddler. But the class had barely begun, and after Max spent a minute shrieking Molly’s name, he joined the other children upstairs, leaving Max to soak up wisdom with the fathers downstairs.

  For a woman with two children of her own, Molly Saunders-Russo struck Brett as unnervingly serene. “When my stepson was two, he was terribly moody,” she told the fathers, who, like last week, were grouped within a partitioned area of the first-floor room, some seated on the floor and others, like Brett, perched on tables and counters. “He had valid reasons for his moodiness,” she continued. “Children can’t always articulate the things that set them off, but just because they can’t tell us what’s bothering them doesn’t mean nothing’s bothering them. We might ask, ‘Are you upset about not having a birthday party this year?’ and they’ll say no, or they’ll start talking about something else, and we’ll assume they’re okay. But their mood will emerge in some other way. Let’s talk today about how we can help our children cope with their moods, even when they don’t know or can’t tell us what’s bugging them.”