by Boo Walker
“Was it a good day?” Whitaker asked.
Oliver looked at him, much brighter this time. “The best. Are you kidding me? Starlin Castro hit one out of the park at the bottom of the eighth, bases loaded. I jumped up and spilled my hot dog all over David, ketchup and relish and everything.”
He handed the picture back to Claire.
She shook her head. “No, it’s yours. You keep it, please.”
Oliver pulled it back with a thanks.
Needing a break from the intensity, Claire asked, “Where do you live? What’s your life like now? We tried to find you at the Oakwood House.” She couldn’t believe she was talking to a boy who might have become her son if David had not been killed. How would she have reacted when they’d come in the door? She wasn’t sure.
“Oh, yeah,” Oliver said. “That was a long time ago. I’m with a family now.”
“You’re adopted?” Claire asked with a shaky voice.
“No, I’m living with a foster family. Very different than a group home. There’s five of us in there right now.”
In a soft, exhausted voice, Claire asked, “Can I ask where your parents are?” Maybe the answer could help Claire understand him.
Oliver looked at Kari, who was dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief, then back at Claire. “Whoever my father is, he doesn’t know I exist. My mom’s somewhere up in Georgia, in and out of jail. She’s an addict.”
Claire’s bottom lip jutted out. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Two years ago. She tried to get me back, but then went bad again. Her rights were terminated when I was twelve.”
Claire found herself nodding at the strength of this young man. “That’s gotta be tough.”
“It happens.”
So many questions, but they couldn’t drill him forever. They talked for twenty more minutes, much lighter conversation exploring his world. Oliver told them that he loved sports, but baseball was his favorite. He also loved food and cooking. And he had really good grades. Claire wanted to clap for him as he talked about the good in his life.
Then Kari said they had to leave.
Whitaker looked across the table. “Do you think we could meet again, Oliver? Claire has asked me to finish David’s book, so we can get it out there. A testament to David, a way to remember him. I have a feeling you could help.” Whitaker looked at Claire. “And I know Claire would like to visit with you more.”
Claire nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Can we take you out for a bite to eat sometime?” Whitaker asked. “The boy in the book loves hamburgers. Do you?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
“Then I’ve got the spot. But first I’d love to—” He corrected himself. “We’d love to meet your foster parents and see your place. See what your life is like. Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“How about this? I’ll reach out to Kari later today and go from there.”
Oliver agreed, and Claire wasn’t sure whether she’d ever see him again.
It wasn’t until they were back in the Rover and pulling back onto Fourth that Claire snapped, completely breaking down. With her elbows pressing down on her thighs, she cried into her hands. So many lies. For months. Had she been connected at all to David in their marriage? And to think she might have been a mother. To think that boy could have been her son. If he’d just told her from the beginning, everything might have been different.
Chapter 35
SALT WATER IN THE WOUND
Claire was supposed to go straight to the restaurant after their meeting with Oliver. That didn’t happen. Barely able to make it inside her front door, she dropped her glasses on the coffee table and trudged through the living room and into the bedroom. Her whole world throbbed, the pain of David’s secret life drowning her, drowning her sudden rediscovery of motherhood. Maybe this was the only lie he’d ever told her, but it was an epic deception, something she certainly couldn’t forgive easily.
What made him think he should keep Orlando a secret for a year and then suddenly spring him on her as a surprise guest? Had he thought she wouldn’t understand unless she actually met the boy? Give me a little credit, David!
She didn’t know what was worse. His decision to lie about Oliver—essentially treating her like an immature child—or her part in his death. Fury and guilt wrestled for her attention. If she hadn’t been so caught up in her own self-pity, he wouldn’t have felt a need to keep Oliver’s existence a secret, and he wouldn’t have been in his car at that exact moment on his way to pick up Oliver. Her selfishness had murdered him!
Dropping onto the bed, she hammered a pillow with her fists until she had nothing left. Then, exhausted, she curled into the fetal position and wept. Willy jumped up, and she pulled him in close. She cried about her own selfishness at first. How could she have been so self-involved, closed off, and unreceptive that she’d taken away David’s dream? What kind of partner was she?
The first lesson you learned in marriage was that you couldn’t put yourself first. You were supposed to both give equally and put aside yourself for the collective. She hadn’t done that. She’d been in so much pain over David’s infertility that she’d been unable to see past it, unable to breathe through it, like the serpent of infertility strangling her. Her selfishness had strangled the mother she could have been. Claire was right back to where she’d been when they had first learned of his weak sperm and low count, back when she was holding her own head underwater, drowning herself.
The first few months of “trying” were not exactly tough, but bearable. “Be patient,” David had said, after their first negative pregnancy test, the one after she was sure she was experiencing morning sickness and had begun daydreaming of cute baby outfits. They tried again and again, one negative test after another. They were timing their sex as perfectly as possible, and after any rather forced session, she would spend thirty minutes with her legs high up in the air.
Then the doctors’ visits and the tests, the mother inside of her losing faith.
Claire remembered stumbling out of their fertility doctor’s office in silence. Unless she left David, which wasn’t an option, she was not going be a mom. What a bitter pill to swallow.
Only when David had broken down in the car, telling her between bouts of crying that he was sorry he couldn’t give her the life she’d always dreamed of, did she feel his pain. She was able to pull her head out of her own sadness for long enough to understand. He’d felt like a failure. She’d been able to see it in the way his shoulders had shaken while he’d cried into his hands. She’d been able to see his manliness crumbling.
She’d pulled him in and hugged him and told him it was okay, that she wasn’t angry; maybe it was meant to be. She’d meant it. She couldn’t stand seeing David in so much pain, and he didn’t deserve it, and she was determined not to let herself blame him.
She’d whispered into his wet neck and shaking shoulders that they would work with the doctors and do whatever it took. Turned out, doing whatever it took didn’t guarantee a baby.
Claire cried harder, feeling that emptiness, that missing part of her.
Perhaps subconsciously, she had blamed him. But she’d never told him anything other than “It will be okay. What’s meant to be will happen.” Even as she had said the words, though, she had wondered if they were true.
As those lonely months had passed by, as their desperate attempts failed, one after another, Claire remembered losing touch with who she was. That sadness had turned to anger and defeat. When they’d signed the first papers moving forward with adoption, she hadn’t been excited like many potential parents might be. She’d already pushed herself back under the water for the last time, sealing her fate.
Claire had missed the most important part. He’d had dreams too. Of being a father. Of raising a child. Of being a young one’s hero. Of giving a little one the tools with which to take on the world. Little did she know she’d been holding him under the wate
r too.
After they’d hit the first snag with their adoption process, she’d told him to let it go. She couldn’t keep trying. Another fail would have ended her.
Ended them.
She’d barely considered what he’d been going through. How could she hate him for keeping Oliver from her when it was her own selfishness that had led them to a childless life? They could have adopted! As she now understood, there were so many children who needed them.
Curled up on the bed with Willy in her bungalow on the beach, Claire cried and cried, and could feel her lungs filling with water, almost as if her body were gasping for its last breaths.
And only after her body and soul were dried up did she fall into a sad sleep. She woke hours later to a thunderstorm, fed Willy dinner, drank a glass of water, and returned to bed. While she settled back into her brokenhearted coma, her phone rang in her purse in the living room. She didn’t bother. The phone kept ringing and dinging with calls and texts as lightning flashed through the windows.
At daybreak, Claire felt the sun splash through the window onto her bare back. The sun had no right to shine today. She closed the blinds, shutting out the world, and crawled back into the bed, wallowing in despair.
Then a knock on the door. And several more. She heard Whitaker calling her name.
All cried out by now, she stared at the white of the ceiling and waited for him to stop knocking. To leave her alone. To let her find her own way back.
Sometime later, she climbed out of bed and went toward the porch. She needed to see the sun, to breathe the salt breeze.
Whitaker was sitting in a rocking chair reading The Good Earth. The ground was wet and lush from the rain the night before.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, pressing open the screen door to the porch, wiping her eyes, wishing away the darkness covering her face.
One-Eyed Willy slipped past her and jumped onto Whitaker’s lap.
Whitaker put down the book and gave the cat some attention. “Checking on you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“All morning. Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
Whitaker set Willy and the book on the table and stood and hugged her. “I know this is tough, but please don’t shut me out,” he whispered.
Silence. He had no idea how tough this was.
“What can I do for you?” He took her hand and met her eyes.
Claire turned her head toward the street. An old VW van with a paddleboard on top crept by. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I tried to call you last night. I talked to Oliver’s foster mom. She said he was free this afternoon at three. I texted you the address.”
Claire nodded, biting down on a bitter rising cry. “I can’t. Not right now.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Claire, we found him. Don’t you want to talk to him?”
“Yes, of course. But not today.” She started inside, holding the door for him, indicating for him to follow.
“I’m not going to see him without you.”
Claire pivoted and faced him in the center of the living room. Whitaker was being gentle, but she felt a red rage on the verge of eruption, the kind of anger that didn’t care where it was pointed. She crossed her arms. “Why do you need to go see him? So you can finish the book? So you can go and get famous again—off David’s story this time?”
He side-eyed her. “How could you say that? Forget the damn story. I’m invested in Oliver. And apparently I’m the only one.”
“How dare you!” she snapped. How dare he assume anything about her. He had no idea what it was like to experience your partner die. To open the door to a policeman with red eyes and the saddest news in the world. The only struggle he’d ever known was his privileged little fight to be a writer, to chase his calling.
Whitaker moved to her and opened his arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Well aware of her irrationality, she turned away. When he tried to touch her, she shook him off. “You will never understand. Honestly, you need to leave. It will only get worse from here.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Just go, Whitaker.”
“Claire,” he said, stepping away from her, “it’s not about you.” He talked to her back. “I’m sorry to be a jerk, but it’s not. Not anymore. I am so sorry you lost your husband. I can’t imagine. But don’t you see there’s something larger at play here than your loss? David was doing something special. He gave hope to a boy that didn’t have any. He showed him what it was like to be loved. I can say this to you because I’m just as guilty most of the time: stop thinking about yourself and think about Oliver. Think about all the good your husband did for this boy. Stop thinking about how your husband lied to you. He was trying to find his own happiness while protecting you at the same time. He was trying to do good. He didn’t tell you because you might not have been able to handle it. He didn’t tell you because he loved you.”
Claire didn’t like being spoken to this way. Her dried-up tear ducts ground like an engine without oil. Anger, fear, sadness, regret. Guilt.
She finally spun toward him. “Don’t you think I know all that? And don’t talk to me like you knew David. Just because you read his book doesn’t give you the right.”
“I’ve done more than read his book.” Venom filled his eyes. “And I think I’ve been closer to him than you have the past six months.”
How dare he.
“Get out!” she screamed.
Whitaker raised his hands, repeatedly pressing his palms down. “Calm down, Claire. I’m sorry. I know you need some time.”
She pointed to the door and, through clenched teeth, demanded, “I want you out of my house.”
Whitaker lowered his hands slowly, his eyes on her the entire time. He nodded three times and turned. He stopped with his hand on the knob.
“If you only knew how much I cared about you. And I’ve tried to show you—even while you’ve done your best to push me away. I am all about you and me. There’s nothing I want more. Not even another book deal, if that’s what you’re thinking. Now, I’m not saying I’m perfect. So far from it. But if you want us to happen, I need you to put in some effort.” His voice dropped off. “The person I know you really are.”
Then he left through the porch, the door once again snapping shut after him. Claire dropped to the rug in tears as she heard him telling Willy goodbye.
Chapter 36
THE PARENTS WITH WINGS
There was no way she could let him visit Oliver without her. Dodging geysers of guilt and sadness springing up all around her, she walked to the beach, hoping to find a calm patch in the madness. She sat cross-legged at the tide line and let the water wash around her, a search for healing in the waters that had once given her hope.
Though there were no miraculous miracles, Claire was reminded of that foreign feeling once again, the mother that she could have been, the mother she wished her own mother had been, a fearless woman who always pushed aside her own problems for the benefit of her son, be it Oliver or a child she carried in her own womb.
Tapping into this strength, Claire returned home with love swelling in her heart. She made it to Leo’s South in time for the breakfast rush and dug in deep all the way through lunch.
Jevaun had even noticed her change. As he ran a knife through a grapefruit, he said, “You doin’ all right today, yeah?”
Claire gave him a smile rich with confidence, and he nodded back—as if he knew exactly what she’d been through and where she was now.
Using the address Whitaker had texted her, Claire pulled into the driveway behind his Land Rover. The large Italian-style house was in an affluent neighborhood in the Southside called the Pink Streets, so named for the streets colored with pink dye—a way to distinguish the area, first done back in the twenties. The house had a fancy red-tile roof and was surrounded by a line of manicured hedges. An ADT Security sign poked out of the fresh mulch near the front steps
.
Whitaker stood on the steps, watching her in surprise. She hadn’t given him a heads-up, perhaps the last of her hardheadedness asserting itself.
Claire opened up and stepped out, and he met her halfway.
“I’m really sorry,” she confessed.
He bit his lip.
“No, really. I had no right. And I didn’t mean any of it. I’m just a basket case right now. We’re about to walk in and see where he lives. I feel like I’m just stepping deeper and deeper into David’s secret life, and I’m just terrified. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you.”
He pulled her into a hug. “I forgive you. And I understand. It’s heavy stuff.”
She squeezed and whispered another sorry.
Letting go, Whitaker said, “I’m glad you came.”
“I guess I have no right to be mad at you for going without me.”
He touched her chin. “I think I’ve been beat up enough for the day.”
After knocking on the door, Claire heard some commotion before a brunette in a USF MOM apron revealed herself. Probably in her early fifties. She greeted them with a smile that could melt ice. So this was what a woman with a true heart of gold looked like, Claire thought.
“Jacky?”
“That’s me.” She had a soothing voice and a calming demeanor that illustrated a certain poise under pressure.
They followed her inside and heard boys laughing somewhere deep within. “You must forgive me,” she said to Whitaker. “I have had my hands full, so I haven’t had the time to read your book. But I did see the movie. It was a gorgeous story.”
“Thank you very much. Even from the little bit I’ve heard, what you do sounds so much more amazing.”
Claire looked at the shiny floor’s hardwoods, the neat row of children’s shoes lined against the wall. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Gosh, most of my life. Almost thirty years. We just passed the two hundred mark.”
“Two hundred kids?”
