by Неизвестно
I leaned my face into the rising steam. Lack of funds was no excuse. Welfare was alive and well in the seventies. Besides, he was a cop.
Maybe you weren’t his.
I stepped back from the stove. A child of adultery—now there was something to be proud of. And who had my real father been? Her boss? The meter reader?
I looked around for something else to do, but the table was already set. The spaghetti sauce was simmering, the salad was tossed, and the bread was warming in the oven.
A bun in the oven. What a happy surprise.
I exhaled and looked around again. There was nothing else to do. I had made enough food for an army, but that was nothing unusual. I always cooked too much, whether I had one guest or none. My parents’ deep freeze was filled to the brim with plastic containers of pasta and casseroles—most of which ended up going to the food freezer at my church.
I walked up the hall to the front of the inn and glanced idly through the narrow window beside the door. I had no idea when Fletcher might arrive, but it didn’t really matter. If he got here before the pasta was ready, fine. If he didn’t, I would start without him. My offering of food had not been a romantic gesture; it had been a compulsion. Feeding people was what I did.
Or maybe she didn’t cheat on him. Maybe she was raped.
I slapped my hands over my ears, knowing that the effort was useless. The thoughts that tortured me—the what ifs—I had already wrestled with for most of my life. I knew that nothing stopped them, that nothing ever would stop them, except for the truth. I thought I had known the truth once, but now I was back to the guessing. The uncertainty. The fear.
I hated it, and I had to make it stop again. No matter how unpleasant things got in the short term.
I took a deep breath, then turned back toward the kitchen. It had been thirty seconds, hadn’t it? At least I could stir the pasta again.
I was walking past the door to the front bedroom when something low to the ground caught my eye. It was the framed picture that Fletcher had carried over from the white house, then placed on the floor with his other boxes. I hadn’t seen the canvas side then, but now the image upon it drew me in like a magnet.
I walked into the room and turned on the light, then took the heavy frame in my hands. It was an original painting, and an unusual one. A sea of cheerful faces smiled toward the artist—girls and boys of all ages, some standing, some sitting or kneeling, all flanking the mature couple at the portrait’s center. The faces were skillfully detailed, yet each held a distinct, subtle spark of animation that rendered it closer to a caricature than a facsimile. I recognized the principals immediately, and my breath caught.
The man was Mitchell, smiling and affable, his arms open wide to encircle both his wife and his daughter. Rosemary stood close, vibrant and warm, a spitting image of herself as she had looked in the photograph. Tia, however, was younger, an impish looking girl of eleven or twelve who clutched a paint palette with a fake, cheesy smile. Fletcher sat cross-legged at his mother’s feet, an adolescent with hair as red as a fire engine and a happy-go-lucky grin. In his hands, I noted curiously, was a screwdriver.
The background, though abstracted into an interesting pattern of straight lines and swirls, was clearly meant to represent the white house and green hills beyond. What the people represented was far less obvious, since I was fairly certain that Mitchell and Rosemary had had two children and not nineteen.
The sound of the French doors opening met my ears, followed by Fletcher’s voice drifting in from the common room. He sounded uptight, as usual. "Hello? Meara?"
"I’m in here," I answered absently, unable to tear my eyes from the portrait. After a few seconds he appeared behind me.
"Tia painted that," he said with pride, the strain in his tone easing. "One of the few times she ever painted people. I’ve always liked it."
"She’s very talented," I praised, looking again at the palette in her hands. All the children, I noticed now, were holding something or other—from goldfish bowls to Frisbees.
"Yes, she is," he agreed. "But she prefers abstracts. Painting things that actually exist doesn’t interest her nearly as much as creating something that doesn’t."
I turned and looked at him, posing the obvious question. "And this family? Did all these children exist?"
He paused before answering, and his eyes smiled as he studied me. Then he took the portrait from my hands and set it upon a chest of drawers where we could look at it together. "They all existed," he explained. "But they were never all here at the same time. They were foster children that my parents cared for. These, and many more over the years. These are the ones who were here the longest, the ones Tia remembered best. She stylized the portrait to show all of us together at once—one big happy family."
"Foster children," I repeated in a whisper.
Foster children.
A chill swept up my spine. Images stirred my brain. The newel post, the upstairs bedroom, the white house. Just little tricks from a mind already overburdened with grief and speculation? Or was I remembering something real?
I had been born in Somerset County. The Blacks had served as foster parents in Somerset County.
The leap was not tremendous.
I reached out a hand. My finger pointed to a pretty girl of eight or nine with soft brown eyes and long, straight hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was poised on one knee with her hand on a soccer ball. ‘Who is she?" I asked, my voice still a whisper.
"That’s Katie," he answered, his eyes twinkling as he talked. "She was our soccer star. She’s a photographer now—travels all over the world."
Katie. He remembered her.
My eyes scanned carefully through the rest of the children. It did not take long to conclude that my likeness was not among them. But my fascination was unabated.
"And this boy?" I asked, pointing at a jolly-looking fellow of six or seven, from whose pocket peeked an overlarge calculator. "What was his name?"
"Andy," he answered. "Our math whiz. Sweet kid. Scary smart. He’s an engineer now."
I worked my way across the painting, asking after each child. I realized how odd my absorption must seem, and I feared that at any moment Fletcher might cut me off, resenting the intrusion. But surprisingly, he seemed to be enjoying himself. He remembered all the children well, speaking of each with undisguised fondness. Many of the children’s lives had turned out less than perfect, but his parents seemed to have made some attempt to keep up with every one of them.
I couldn’t help but wonder about me.
"Fletcher," I asked tentatively, as soon as his reminiscence was complete. "How old are you?"
His eyebrows rose slightly at the question, but he did not appear offended. "Thirty-two," he answered. "Why?"
I swallowed. Tia appeared younger than her brother, both in the photograph above the desk and in the portrait. If I had been here before the age of four, neither of them would have been old enough to remember me.
I looked again into the children’s shining faces.
"I always wanted brothers and sisters," I said wistfully. "You and Tia were so lucky. I envy you."
He chuckled. "A few days with us would have cured you of that. The Black household was all bedlam, all the time."
I tore my eyes from the picture and faced him. Both my voice, and my hands, were shaky. "I was a foster child in this county myself. From some age until I was four. I thought that some things around here looked familiar, but I didn’t take the feelings very seriously, because I do that to myself all the time. But now that I know—."
I broke off. My heart raced.
"Do you think it’s possible? Could I have been here, too?"
Fletcher's brow furrowed. The lights that had danced in his eyes as he spoke of his foster siblings petered, replaced with a queer sort of dread. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Thirty," I answered. "You would have only been six when I left."
He looked at me another moment, then pulled h
is eyes away. His expression turned stony. "It’s possible, I suppose," he said without emotion. "But I wouldn’t remember."
He turned his back to me, making a pretense of adjusting some of his packing boxes.
A jab of pain struck through my chest. He seemed to care so much about the children in the picture, I couldn’t help but feel slighted. Of course he wouldn’t remember me; I wasn’t expecting a celebration. But shouldn’t the possibility of our twice-crossed paths strike him as mildly intriguing?
"So," he said tonelessly, continuing to fiddle with the boxes. "What are you cooking? Something sure smells good."
The pasta.
My mind shifted quickly back to the mundane. I flew into the kitchen and rescued the pot from the stove, grateful, suddenly, for the diversion. "I hate mushy spaghetti," I groused out loud, stirring. "Forty-five more seconds, and I’d have had to start all over."
He joined me with a few long strides. He was back to uptight again, my inquiry having dashed the easy, comfortable mood he had slipped into when speaking of his family. But he was at least making an effort to be pleasant.
"Don’t fuss on my account," he said with a smile. "I’m hungry enough to eat it raw." He leaned down and booted up Mitchell’s computer, which occupied the counter space nearest the common room, then watched me with a curious expression. "Do you like to cook?"
"I love it," I answered distractedly, attempting to pour the water off the spaghetti. Unfortunately, I was a little too distracted. Unable to find either a colander or a spaghetti strainer, I had resorted to holding the pot over the sink with the lid askew. But true to my clumsy nature, I let some of the boiling water slosh onto my hand, and my resulting jerk sent a third of the spaghetti down the drain and a quarter of the water splashing across the counter and onto my shoes.
I dropped the pot into the sink and cursed.
"Are you all right?" he asked, at my side in a flash. "Did you burn yourself?"
"No," I said quickly, embarrassed. I ran cold water over my hand and shifted my feet. "My wrist is just a little singed. That, and I feel like I’m standing in a hot tub."
He took my hands and looked at them, then glanced down over the rest of me. "You go get those shoes off," he suggested. "I’ll put the food on the table. No reason you should be doing everything anyway."
I wanted to explain that setting out the meal was one of the most rewarding parts of the process, and that in my book, hijacking it did not constitute a favor. But since I was pretty sure I really had scalded my feet, I bit my lip and limped to my bedroom instead.
When I returned several minutes later, comfortably shod in a thick pair of socks, Fletcher had cleaned up the mess and moved on to slice the bread. I hovered nearby and watched, wishing he would stop and give the knife back.
"I hope you don’t mind," he said, tossing his head in the direction of the computer, "but my lawyer is supposed to be emailing me a file. I thought I would print it out here, and you could sign it." He cleared his throat. "If you’re still willing, that is."
"Of course I am," I answered, staring at the blinking cursor in the search box. "This place belongs to your family, not mine."
Not that I have a family.
He made a response, but I didn’t hear it. My thoughts were still centered on the children in the painting—the huge, hectic family he’d been fortunate enough to grow up with. He hadn’t been a foster—he had been a bona fide, legitimate member of the Black family. He had always felt loved, and wanted. He had no questions about his origins—no lost years to be accounted for. How could he possibly understand how much I craved that kind of rootedness? How deeply I longed to be part of a family again?
I leaned over the keyboard, and my fingers started typing. Jacob Kozen. Pennsylvania.
"Meara?" Fletcher inquired, "Did you hear what I said?"
"No, sorry," I answered, hitting the enter key.
He continued to talk, but I didn’t catch the words. The only words I caught were the ones that flashed onto the screen, right next to an icon of a telephone. Jacob Kozen. (814)-555-1221. 245 Taylor Street, Connellsville, Pennsylvania.
"Meara?" Fletcher’s voice called again, this time more insistent. "What’s wrong?"
It can’t be, I thought to myself, my pulse pounding in my ears. Connellsville was less than a half hour away. It couldn't possibly be that easy.
"What is it?" he pressed, moving to look over my shoulder. "Who is he?"
I swallowed, and my hands began to shake. "My birth father," I answered in a whisper. "I think I’ve found him."
Chapter 13
Fletcher put his hands on my upper arms, gently rotating me to face him. "You found your birth father? Already?"
His voice was quiet and deep, rife with concern. The contrast to the standoffish man who couldn’t bear to look at me, much less touch me, was striking. It was also more than a little frustrating. But my mind was too flustered to dwell on his motivations, and my trembling limbs were not selective in their appreciation of a sympathetic touch.
"I think so," I whispered.
"But how? Yesterday you didn’t even know his name."
I explained about my trip to the courthouse—how knowing the county of my birth had helped me locate Sheila’s marriage record. "I don’t know for sure that her husband was also my birth father," I admitted. "But if he isn’t, he must know who is."
Fletcher said nothing for a moment. Then he released me, fetched the bread, and set it down on the table where the plates of spaghetti already waited. "Sit down and eat," he ordered, sitting himself. "You’ll need to think about this on a full stomach."
I picked at my food for the next ten minutes while he ate his with gusto. We didn’t talk; I wasn’t sure I could. My head was in the clouds again.
My eyes flickered periodically to the telephone. Just a phone call away. It could be him.
Fletcher polished off two plates of spaghetti, his salad, and half the loaf of bread before propping his elbows on the table and staring at me from behind folded hands. "Well?" he asked. "What are you planning to do?"
I swung my gaze slowly from the telephone back to him. "I’m going to call, of course," I answered. "The truth can’t be worse than not knowing."
His eyes narrowed slightly, telling me he disagreed. He seemed to be debating whether or not to give advice, and as I watched the struggle it occurred to me that since he had grown up playing big brother to scores of foster siblings, the role was probably ingrained.
"What about risk versus reward?" he suggested finally. "There is a possible reward: you and your birth father could be reunited and live happily ever after. But you have to know how slim the odds of that are. The odds of your finding out something that’s going to hurt you, on the other hand, are sky high."
I shook my head. "You don’t understand. This isn’t just about reuniting with my birth father. It’s about knowing who I am. Why I was given up. What happened to me before I was adopted. Living with the question marks just isn’t acceptable."
I took a breath. "You also underestimate the reward. Knowing the truth could offer me more than just a birth father—I could have other biological relatives out there, too. Siblings, grandparents—alive and well, maybe even wanting a relationship with me. If I gain even one, it would be worth it."
He dipped his chin, but didn’t speak.
"When the reward is that great," I continued, "the risks don’t matter. I know I might get hurt—in fact, I’m almost certain of it. But I’m willing to pay that price."
He studied me, his expression somber. I thought he would say more, but he appeared to think better of it. He scooted back his chair and rose from the table.
"What?" I prompted.
He didn’t answer.
"What were you about to say?" I repeated.
He shook his head. "It’s none of my business."
I frowned at the flatness of his tone. These glimpses of the real Fletcher—the warm, compassionate one—were tantalizing in the extreme. N
o sooner did I think I had reached him than the curtain came crashing down again.
He gathered up his plate and utensils and carried them to the dishwasher, and I collected my own half-full dishes and followed. "I noticed somebody got the mud off the floor," I teased, attempting to lighten the mood. "I suppose poor Estelle gave in and cleaned up after you after all."
I tried to watch his expression, but he kept his face turned away from me. "I swept up. Estelle has a wicked right hook."
I grinned at him, but he didn’t notice. He finished loading his dishes, moved straight to the computer, and began to click the keys. The printer hummed, and in a few seconds a copy of my search results emerged in the tray. Shortly after, another document joined it. Two and a half pages of legalese.
He removed the paper, laid my results sheet on the counter, then took the other pages and returned to the table. As he read over them with concentration I made a pretense of tidying up the rest of the kitchen, but my eyes kept straying to the same spot on the counter. Jacob Kozen. (814)-555-1221.
Just a phone call away.
After a few minutes Fletcher rose, walked to the desk for a pen, then turned and looked at me. "The papers seem to be in order," he announced. "But if you’d rather wait and have a lawyer look at them first, I understand."
I looked into his eyes, which were a steely gray in the indoor light, and wished that he would put forth an iota of effort into making me trust him. My instincts insisted that I could, yet he seemed almost to be discouraging it. If he would only look me in the eye and tell me the document was fair, I would believe him. I wanted to trust him. I wanted him to trust me.
But he was acting distant again.
I took the pen from his hands with a sigh and sat down to study the papers. The language was dense, as expected, but I could find nothing questionable in it. At least not until I reached the next-to-last paragraph.
"Burial expenses?" I said with a frown. "This says that Mitchell’s estate will pay for Sheila’s funeral, but I’ve already paid for it." I proffered an accusatory glance, wondering if he were trying to take advantage of some tax deduction I wasn’t aware of. His eyes avoided mine.
