Father to Be

by Marilyn Pappano

  Bud had been thrilled with his only grandchild. He’d doted on Trey, and it had almost broken his heart when J.D. had moved the family to Chicago after medical school. They’d remained close, though, until two years ago. When Trey had cut J.D. out of his life, he’d also turned his back on his grandfather.

  “I was ambitious. I liked psychiatry. I was good at it, and I intended to be the best. But you don’t get to be the best at anything without long hours and hard work. I devoted myself to that while Carol Ann took care of everything else. She ran the house, managed our social lives, played both mother and father to our son. As far as Trey was concerned, I was this person who passed through the house from time to time, who never made it to his soccer games, who didn’t show up at his school programs. Sometimes I don’t think he even saw me as part of the family. I was just someone who paid the bills and took his mother’s attention away from him.”

  He risked a look at Kelsey. She was sitting very still, barely breathing. Her gaze was directed down, as if the boards that made up the tabletop greatly interested her. He wished she would look at him so he could try to judge the emotion in her eyes. At the same time, he was glad she was avoiding him. If he was going to lose her, he’d rather not see the proof just yet.

  “I saw patients, read, studied, researched, wrote papers. I built a reputation, made a name for myself. I took the toughest cases—the kids who had been abandoned, abused, neglected—and I achieved remarkable success. And it depressed the hell out of me.”

  Picking up the nearest bottle of beer, he unscrewed the cap and thought about how easy it would be to drink it. In the months after Carol Ann’s death, he would have sold his soul for just one drink. Hell, he would have sold her soul. There were times when he would have rather been dead than alive and not drinking, times when nothing—not so-briety, not self-respect, not even his son—had been worth the hell he was going through. He’d had no pride, no dignity, nothing but the raw, jagged, bone-deep need for alcohol and the peace it could give him.

  His mouth watered at the thought of taking a drink. His stomach roiled. He started to tip the bottle over, to let the beer run over the planks and spill through the cracks to drip on the floor below. Instead, he screwed the cap back on, then clasped both hands around the bottle neck and returned to his story.

  “I began having problems separating myself from my job. I spent my life listening to firsthand accounts of the most terrible atrocities one human being could do to another—to innocent, helpless children—and I was expected to just leave it in the office when I walked out the door. I couldn’t do it. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get away from it. There was so much sickness out there, so much depravity and pure evil, and I felt contaminated by it. Finally I discovered that a drink helped me relax. If one drink helped, then two would help more, and four would make life bearable, and after eight or ten or twelve, I could actually find a little peace.”

  Of their own will, his fingers began twisting the bottle cap again. He forced them to stop.

  “My family and friends never suspected a thing. They knew I drank a lot, but they never saw me drunk. I never staggered, slurred my speech, or appeared hung over, so they assumed I had it under control. The truth was, I drank so heavily that what would normally make a man of my size appear profoundly intoxicated barely touched me.”

  Feeling anxious and edgy, as if he couldn’t possibly sit still any longer, he set the bottle aside and stood up. He paced to one end of the deck, then the other. Finally he settled at the railing, staring out into the woods, his hands tightly gripping the curved rail cap. “One evening Carol Ann and I had dinner plans with friends. I had a few drinks before we left the house, and I had quite a few more through the meal. She wanted to drive home from the restaurant. She said I’d had too much to drink, and I blew up at her. It was the first time she’d ever commented on my drinking, and it scared me. I was this hotshot psychiatrist, the best damn head doctor in the city, one of the top shrinks in the country. My ego—my arrogance—couldn’t let anyone know that I couldn’t handle it, that I needed a crutch to survive the day, that without the booze I would be as dysfunctional as my patients.”

  Before long the sun would set. He wished he could hurry it up, could bring on the shadows and hide in them forever. He wished this hellish day would end so he would never have to relive it again.

  Behind him a floorboard creaked, and he sensed Kelsey’s approach. She hesitated near him, then moved to stand a few feet away. He saw her from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t look at her, didn’t reach for her though his fingers ached to.

  “I got in the car and told Carol Ann that she could come with me or find her own way home. I didn’t care. She chose to come with me. Four blocks later I stopped at a red light, and when it turned green, I pulled into the intersection in front of a speeding truck. The impact knocked our car halfway down the block. I remember the sirens of the police cars, a fire engine, the ambulances, someone screaming.… It was me. The other driver was dying, and Carol Ann was dead, and I … I walked away. I lived to go home and tell our twelve-year-old son that his mother was dead, and he didn’t even need to smell the liquor to know.… ”

  He made a sound that might have been a dry laugh or the start of a strangled sob. “I worked every day with doctors, nurses, social workers, substance-abuse counselors, and none of them suspected a thing. But my twelve-year-old son had known for months that his father was a drunk. Not surprisingly he blamed me for Carol Ann’s death. He said that if I had been sober, I would have been more careful. I would have looked to make sure the cars on the other street were stopping. I would have waited a few lousy seconds … and she would still be alive. And he was right.”

  The silence that settled when he stopped talking was deafening. He could hear his own heart thudding painfully in his chest, could hear the uneven tenor of his breathing, but there was nothing else. No sympathy from Kelsey. No comfort. No assurances that he wasn’t responsible, that he didn’t contribute to the death of the woman who’d loved him more than anyone deserved to be loved. Just that terrible, damning silence.

  His breath caught in his chest as he forced himself to finish. “Trey went to her funeral with me. He stood beside me, said the prayers with me, but when it was over, he refused to go home with me. He very calmly told me that he wished I had died instead of his mother, that he would never forgive me for what I’d done, and that he was moving in with her parents. I let him go. I thought he was upset. He was grieving, in shock. I was going away for treatment, and he needed someplace to stay anyway. I thought that when I came back would be the time to resolve things with him.

  “So I went to a rehab facility. I started therapy, got sober, learned how to handle my problems, went home to pick up the pieces, and my in-laws slapped me with notice that they were suing for custody of Trey. He hated me. They hated me. Hell, I hated myself. So I saved them the trouble of going to court. I relinquished my parental rights, and I came here to start over again.” His scorn was painful. “Relinquished my parental rights. It sounds so much better that way, so much less contemptible. The plain and simple truth is, I gave away my son. Like a piece of property I no longer needed, no longer wanted, I gave away my own child, and I haven’t had any contact with him since. I’ve written him, sent him gifts, tried calling him, but he wants nothing to do with me. I no longer exist for him.”

  Again the silence settled. This time he had nothing further to say. If she didn’t, then they truly were finished.

  Kelsey held on to the rail for support. It wasn’t often that she found herself at a loss for words, but she had no idea what to say or how to say it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to say anything at all.

  And so she didn’t. She moved away from the rail, walked right up to J.D., said a quick prayer that he wouldn’t reject her, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. For one moment he held himself stiff, then in a flash the tension fled his body and he sagged against her. He held on to her, buried his face in her
hair, shuddered against her.

  She didn’t know how long they stood that way. Long enough for his shudders to pass. Long enough for her to find her voice, even though it was husky with unshed tears. “You didn’t kill your wife, J.D. A speeding driver did. You didn’t make your son hate you. Grief did that. And you didn’t give him away. You put him in the custody of people who wanted to give him a loving home.”

  Slowly he lifted his head from her shoulder, but he didn’t step away. He didn’t loosen his grip on her. “And what can I blame for my drinking? Because the fact remains that if I hadn’t been drinking that night—”

  “If you hadn’t been drinking, and the accident still happened, if the other driver still chose to speed, still chose to run that red light, and Carol Ann still died, then what? On what grounds would you blame yourself?” She shook her head. “J.D., there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of ifs. If you hadn’t turned onto that street, if you hadn’t gone to that restaurant, if you hadn’t become friends with those people, if you hadn’t moved to Chicago, if you hadn’t married Carol Ann, if you hadn’t ever been born … If you look hard enough, you can find a way to accept responsibility for everything that ever went wrong. But accepting it doesn’t make you responsible. Bad things happen. Sometimes we know why. Sometimes we don’t.”

  He raised one hand to gently touch her face. “It should have been so easy. She was beautiful, and I was smart. She had a capacity for loving, and I had a talent for healing. She was great at home. I was great at work. She loved me, and I loved her. Oh, God, how I loved her. Our lives should have been perfect.”

  Kelsey felt a twinge of pain at hearing him talk about such love for another woman. It made her feel like second best in a contest where only first place counted. Carol Ann was the great love of his life, and she was the consolation prize who could take the other woman’s place but could never replace her.

  Then guilt swept away the pain. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. J.D. was the one facing legal charges, a court hearing, damage to his reputation, and loss of the kids, to say nothing of the temptation awaiting him on the table.

  She wished she could slip out of his arms and across the deck, gather the beer, and empty it in the dirt. But that couldn’t be her choice. She couldn’t say no for him. If she tried, how difficult would it be for him to go back to the store and simply buy more? He had to want it for himself, had to want to hold on to the sobriety he’d fought so hard for for himself and no one else.

  He smoothed back her hair, then cradled her face gently. “I love you, Kelsey.”

  For the first time in two days her smile felt real. It wasn’t Oh, God, how I love you, but it was a start. Maybe after ten or twelve years he would feel that sort of passion for her. And if he didn’t, if Carol Ann always remained first in his heart … well, she could live with being last.

  After a moment he eased his hold on her, then put a little distance between them. He still held her hand, though, his fingers twined with hers. “Why did you come out here? You were the last person I expected to see today.”

  “Oh, my God, Caleb!” Stricken, she squeezed her eyes shut. How could she have forgotten? All this time, all this talk, and she’d forgotten the one thing she should have said first.

  Apprehension swept over him, as visible as the shudders that had earlier rocked through him. “What about Caleb?” he asked quietly, cautiously.

  “The Thomases called Mitch this afternoon to say that Caleb had disappeared. Apparently he’s run away.”

  His fingers tightened until hers throbbed, then abruptly he dropped her hand and paced away. When he turned back, his gaze was filled with regret and sharp-edged despair. “My God, Kelsey, what have we done?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday morning’s church service was a somber one. Corinna had tried to pay attention to the sermon, but the reverend’s words were difficult to concentrate on when little Jacob, Noah, and Gracie Brown sat in the pew in front of her, looking so lost without their older brother. They were worried sick—and who wasn’t? Regardless of how mature he seemed, Caleb was really just a young boy, and he was in no shape to be on his own. Of course he was more or less safe in Bethlehem, but once he left the valley, why, anything could happen. He must be frightened, hungry and sick at heart.

  She was heartsick.

  Once the sermon ended, no one stood around chatting the way they normally did. Some went home to get a quick dinner on the table before joining the search parties. Others went to prepare meals for those who’d worked all morning and all through the previous night. Unable to sleep, she and Agatha had begun cooking before dawn. They’d dropped off baskets of food at the police department on their way to church and would go home to prepare more.

  And, as they’d done in church that morning, they would pray.

  “Miss Corinna?”

  The timid voice came from behind the nearest tree. She stepped off the sidewalk and peered around to see Garth Nichols all but hugging the bark off. “Yes, Garth, what do you need?”

  “Can I … talk to you?”

  “Yes, you may.” She folded her hands over the edge of her Bible and waited, but all he seemed interested in doing was digging at the ground with the toe of his good Sunday shoe. “Yes?” she prompted. “What is it?”

  “My mom said I can walk home,” he blurted out. “Can I walk with you?”

  “I live in the opposite direction, Garth. You know that.” After studying him a moment, she said, “Wait here. I’ll be back.” She crossed the street to the car, where Agatha waited, distractedly tapping one finger on the steering wheel. “Go ahead without me,” she said. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  “But where are you—what are you—” Agatha saw Garth, half hidden behind the tree again, and said, “Oh.”

  Corinna smiled. Garth Nichols was an oh sort of boy. After handing her Bible and handbag through the open window, she returned to the boy. “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah.” Then he quickly corrected himself. “Yes, ma’am.”

  They walked the first block in silence. At the end of the block, she looked at Garth. “If it’s just my company you’re wanting, I’m flattered. But if it’s talking you want, then you’re going to have to open your mouth.”

  He flushed and tugged at the open collar of his dress shirt. “It’s—it’s about—” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed vigorously, then he fell silent again.

  He’d been in her Sunday school class for two years, and while he was one of the rowdier of her students, he wasn’t a bad boy. He simply didn’t get the guidance he needed at home. Nora Nichols had her hands full with work, the house, and one sickly child. Garth’s father wasn’t of much help. His job driving a truck took him away from home for weeks at a time. While the money he earned was needed, Corinna thought quite frankly that the entire family could use less of his money and more of his company.

  “Garth,” she prodded again.

  He gulped a deep breath, then blurted out, “It’s about Caleb. Dr. J.D. didn’t give him those bruises. We did, Kenny and me and Tim and Rob and Matt. We saw him that afternoon, that Thursday. He was by himself, off at the end of Hawthorne, past the Mickelsons’ house, and we—we decided to pay ’im back for gettin’ Kenny and me in trouble at the church and for givin’ Kenny that black eye and bloody nose, and so—and so we did.”

  Calling upon forty years of teaching school to hide her anger, Corinna quietly, calmly, asked, “You did what?”

  “Paid ’im back.”

  “How?”

  “We—we jumped ’im.”

  “Five of you. Against one. And when you’d heard that Caleb had blamed Dr. J.D., you chose to keep your silence.”

  The boy squirmed. “We hadn’t meant to hurt him, not really, and—and when we heard about Dr. J.D., we thought, well, we thought—”

  “Why come forward when someone else was already getting the blame.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his nose with one hand. “But it ain’t
right. It ain’t—”

  “It isn’t.”

  He accepted her correction without a blink. “It isn’t right that someone else gets in trouble for what we done—what we did. I don’t know why Caleb lied about it, but … I have to tell someone.”

  “You just did, Garth, and I’m proud of you for coming forward.” She stopped at the next intersection. Her house was a few blocks to the left, the police station a few blocks to the right. She patted the boy’s shoulder before steering him to the right. “Now you have to tell someone else.”

  “You mean—” His eyes widened. “But couldn’t you tell ’em for me? Couldn’t you just say you heard it from someone?”

  “I could, but it would hardly have the same impact as you telling them. After all, you were there.”

  “But … my mom’s expectin’ me home soon. She’ll be real worried if I don’t show up pretty quick.”

  “I’ll call her from the police station.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won’t be so difficult, Garth. I’ll be with you. And believe me, you’ll feel better when it’s over.”

  It wasn’t a complete untruth, she assured herself. Once he’d taken his punishment, dealt with the friends he’d told on, and faced up to the people he’d harmed with his silence, he truly would feel better.

  Eventually.

  After listening to the Nichols boy’s confession, J.D. left the courthouse for the square, where he took a seat on the bandstand steps, closed his eyes, and, for what felt like the first time in a very long time, took a deep breath. On any normal summer Sunday the square would be host to any number of families enjoying the weather. But this was no normal day, because Caleb Brown—whom most people hadn’t even heard of four weeks before—had run away.

  Please, God, don’t let it be anything more sinister than that.