Connor set the photograph with the other one in the back of the drawer, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could never feel that way about his own children, not his daughters nor his son. Now that he'd met Max, if things didn't work out and the boy had to be sent back to Hawaii, he would hurt forever from the loss.
Get over it? Connor couldn't begin to imagine how.
He opened his eyes and looked at the third and final photograph. The moment his eyes connected with the image, he felt his heart skip a beat. This was the picture he'd been looking for, the reason he'd come into the office in the first place. It was a photo of his father as a boy, maybe eight or nine years old. What he saw in the frame told him what he had only suspected before.
Max was a mirror image of the man.
Yes, the boy looked like Connor, but the resemblance to his father was breathtaking. Connor stared at the image, at the young boy so fresh and untainted by the views he would later take on.
“If only you'd kept a little of what you were as a boy, Dad.” Connor's words were barely audible, and he narrowed his eyes. “You should see him; his name is Max, and Dad … he looks just like you.”
The longer he stared at the image, the more his heart filled with sorrow. Sorrow and anger and frustration over everything in his life that hadn't worked out. Not just the affair, or the way Michele had changed, or the idea that he'd fathered a child without ever knowing it. But the fact that his dad would never know he had a grandson.
And the pain that caused him as he stood there in his office, looking at pictures of his father, was one more thing Connor was sure he'd never get over. And it was then, standing there in a sea of realizations, that Connor made up his mind. He would call the pastor, after all. Not because he'd done anything wrong in the past eight years, but because he needed help figuring something out. Something that, between his pain and Michele's, he couldn't sort through on his own.
How in the world to move forward.
SEVENTEEN
Max wasn't afraid of the dark, at least not at home.
But this was his first night at his mother's friend's house, and nothing seemed right. Mr. Evans told all the kids to brush their teeth and go to bed, but he was pretty sure the girls were still up because he could hear girl voices down the hall.
Everyone had their own bedroom at the Evans's house. Even him. Mr. Evans showed it to him after he finished playing Legos. The bed was bigger than his whole room at home. If Buddy was here they both could've stretched out in it and still had room for Mommy to cuddle with him. Of course Mommy was gone now. She wasn't ever going to cuddle with him again.
He rolled over in the big bed and blinked. Light from the stars was bright in his window, and he squinted his eyes real small so he could see them. Was heaven out there somewhere? Just past the stars and the moon? It must be, because whenever people talked about heaven they looked up. And up had to be higher than the stars and moon.
But that meant there was another problem, because the stars and moon were very far away. His teacher told him so in class before he left for Florida. And if the stars and moon were very far away, that meant his mommy in heaven was even more far away. The thinking of it made his eyes get wet again. His eyes were always wet, because it wasn't fair, that's why.
He turned over again and thought about the Evans family.
They were nice to him. Susan's Legos were better than Kody's or Carl's or any of the guys in Mrs. Watson's second grade class. It was the best collection in the world probably.
But something wasn't okay with Mrs. Evans. She was more quiet than most mommies, and he wondered if she had a hurt tummy or a head pain. His mommy got head pains sometimes, and when that happened she didn't smile very much. Of course not anymore, though. Because Ramey said in heaven you had no more pains or tears.
He smiled a little at that thought, because he was glad his mommy wouldn't have head pains ever again.
The voices down the hall got louder than before, and Max had an idea. Maybe he could walk sneaky quiet out of the room and listen to what they were saying. He liked to do that sometimes when his mommy was on the phone, or when Christmas was coming and she had a friend over to help her wrap stuff.
But this was different. This was someone else's house and maybe they wouldn't like seeing him in the hall sneaky quiet, listening to what they were saying. But he really wanted to hear. Because maybe they were talking about him, and how he was feeling, and maybe if he heard their words, he could pop his head into the room for a minute and tell them himself.
The more he thought about the idea, the better it seemed. Finally, he slipped his feet out of the giant bed and lifted them one at a time, as sneaky quiet as he could go. He opened the door with careful hands and pushed his head into the hallway. It was dark except for a light at the end.
Max was pretty sure that was Elizabeth's room down there.
He took more quiet steps until he was only a very little bit from Elizabeth's door. Then he stopped and leaned against the wall. His breathing was loud and so was his heartbeep. He waited for both of them to quiet down, then he started listening.
“I still don't understand.”
Max did a big nod from his spot out in the hallway. Yep, that was Elizabeth. She had an older voice than Susan, plus also she was more serious. Serious meant you had a little trouble laughing about things.
Mrs. Evans made a sort of hurt sound. “Elizabeth, I've explained it the best way I know how. Daddy was friends with Max's mother. She was killed in a plane crash two weeks ago, and in her will she asked that Max be given a chance to spend a few weeks with us.”
“In her will? Doesn't that seem a little strange to you, Mother?”
Max's heart started beeping louder. Were they fighting? About him? He looked down at his chest. Okay, listen, heart … be quiet down there. He said the words in his head, and he breathed out hard, the way he'd seen Ramey do when she was upset. It worked, too, because his heartbeep got a little more quiet.
“Yes, Elizabeth, it seems strange to me. But it's the truth. Max's mother wrote a letter and asked her attorney to find Daddy. She wanted Max to spend two weeks here before he goes on with his life in Hawaii.”
Silent sounds came for a minute. “Did Daddy like Max's mother?”
“Of course he liked her, honey. They were friends.”
“Not that kind of like, Mommy. You know … did he like her? Like a girlfriend?”
Outside in the hallway, Max held his breath. He had wondered the same thing. His mommy never seemed to have a boyfriend, but maybe Mr. Evans had been that for her. He made his breathing as quiet as he could.
“Look, Elizabeth, it's late. You need to go to bed.”
“Okay, but I don't like it. What if Daddy did love Max's mother? What if he wishes he was with her?”
“The woman's dead, Elizabeth. There's no need to worry about Daddy wanting to be with her now.”
“Not now, but before.”
“Elizabeth, stop. Go to bed before I lose my patience.”
The tears were back, and Max felt them hot against his cheek. He didn't want either Elizabeth or Mrs. Evans to see him crying, so he made fast, quiet steps down the hall and back to the big bed. Elizabeth and Mrs. Evans had been fighting about him. He knew it.
What he didn't understand was why? Why did they sound like they were mad at his mommy? If she and Mr. Evans were friends, then that should mean they would like her better, not worse.
The light from outside was still bright, so he reached under his pillow and pulled out his Bible. Ramey had tucked four things between the pages. A letter for Mrs. Evans, a letter for him, a picture of Buddy, and a picture of his mom. He set down the letter for Mrs. Evans on the edge of the pillow. Then he took the other letter and opened it. Ramey wrote it in big words so he could read it all by himself.
Dear Max,
Read this when you are sad and then you will feel glad. I love you and your mom loves you and Jesus loves you. Your mom used to tell you a l
ittle song. You can sing it now if you like. You are not alone, Max.
Love, Ramey
Max dried his tears on his pajama sleeve and gave a little nod at the letter. Ramey was right. He should sing his special song from his mommy. With quiet words, he did a small throat clear and began to sing.
“I love you, Max, the most, I love to make you toast …”
He wanted to finish, but a ball was in his singing throat. Because he missed Mommy so much, that's why. Not just his heart and his hands and his feet missed her, but his eyes missed her, too. Because every time he wanted to see her, she was never there. He missed her so much he could almost feel her there beside him. That's when he remembered the last part of the song.
When oceans we're apart, I'm right here in your heart.
That's right! He sniffed some and dried his tears again. She used to tell him that all the time. And heaven was at least oceans apart. He did four fast breaths and folded Ramey's letter back into the envelope. As long as his mommy was in his heart, he could look at the next special thing.
He pulled out the picture of Buddy. The dog's eyes seemed to say, “Hi, Max, I miss you.”
“Hey, Buddy … I miss you, too. Hope you're being good for Ramey.”
He counted in his mind for a minute. “Thirteen more days and I'll see you again, Buddy. I'll be there as soon as I can.” He gave the picture a little pat and returned it to the right page in his Bible.
Finally, he took out the picture of his mother.
She was the most beautiful mommy in the whole world. She had hugging hands, and a happy face, and eyes that laughed when he did something silly. She had strong arms for throwing a ball with him, and good legs for running on the beach.
No one would ever be prettier than his mommy.
He studied the picture for a long time, then he remembered the last part of his song one more time. When oceans we're apart, I'm right here in your heart.
A little yawn slipped from his mouth, and he snuggled back down into the covers. He put the Bible with his other special things back up on the shelf, and accidentally knocked the letter for Mrs. Evans onto the floor. But that was okay. He could get it in the morning.
The only thing he kept out was the picture of his mother. Before he fell asleep, he kissed his mommy on the face, and smiled at her. “I love you. I hope God tells you I said hi.”
Then he held the picture against his heart and tried to imagine her there, right inside him, telling him everything was going to be okay. Be brave and strong, Max, he could hear her saying. Brave and strong. Everything's going to be okay.
Max closed his eyes with the picture still up against him and his mother's face and words in his head. His mother's special song in his heart. By the time he fell asleep, he had almost forgotten about Mrs. Evans and her daughter, Elizabeth, and the fact that maybe they didn't like him or his mom. Instead he slept with just one thought in his head.
Mommy wasn't far away at all. Because the thing she'd always told him was true. Whenever he wanted her to be with him, she was. Right there in his heart where she would always be.
EIGHTEEN
The trying conversation with Elizabeth over, Michele tucked her into bed. But the moment her daughter lay down, the questions came again.
“So you think they were just good friends? Max's mother and Daddy?”
Michele dropped to the side of her bed. “It was a long time ago, honey. All I know is she and Daddy were friends.”
The lie grated against her tongue and brought up a host of questions in Michele's own mind. What would the girls think if they ever found out? Would understanding how their father fell be more difficult knowing that they were lied to? That the boy sleeping in the room down the hall wasn't only the son of their daddy's friend, but their daddy's son, too?
And how was she supposed to go camping on Monday morning? An entire week at the lake, pretending her life wasn't falling apart? Michele couldn't think of a single reason why she should go. She reached out and massaged Elizabeth's shoulders. The girl felt stiff and tense, further proof of everything she'd guessed to be true about the boy's arrival. The girls were confused, of course. Elizabeth the most because she was older, old enough to wonder why, if the boy's mother and her father were such good friends, hadn't she been to the house once?
“Lie down with me, Mommy. Please.” Elizabeth caught Michele's hand and cuddled it close to her face. “I can't sleep.”
Of the many changing patterns that had come about since she'd had knowledge of the boy, this was one of them. Sleeping next to Elizabeth or Susan in their double beds, instead of spending a night awake and restless lying next to Connor.
“Okay.” Michele squeezed her daughter's hand. “Move over.”
Elizabeth slid to the other side of the bed, and Michele lay on the comforter beside her. When she was settled, she rubbed Elizabeth's back until the muscles along her spine began to relax. Michele turned off the bedside light and let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
“How come no one ever told us about her?” Elizabeth lifted her head off the pillow high enough to make eye contact.
Michele's heart felt limp and drained, too weary to respond. She sucked in a quiet breath and tried to stall. “About who?”
“The woman.” Impatience stirred in Elizabeth's voice. “Daddy's friend, the one who died. How come no one ever told us about her before?”
“Because.” Michele gazed at the darkened ceiling. “They were friends when you were just a baby.”
“But friends stay that way forever, right? How come they were friends back then and not now?”
Michele leaned up on one elbow. “Elizabeth.” She couldn't answer another question if it involved the spelling of her own name. “I found out about your dad's friend the day before you did.” She made an effort to keep her voice gentle. “Now, let's get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Elizabeth allowed her head to fall back to the pillow. She yawned and her voice was tired. “Sweet dreams.”
“You, too, honey.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you, Elizabeth.”
With so many aspects of life suddenly foreign and uncomfortable, the familiar back-and-forth exchange with her oldest daughter was the only part of the night that felt right.
Connor was home, but last she'd seen him he was on the back porch. The place where he sat for hours lately, staring across their backyard, ignoring the way she was dying as she roamed around their house alone. Michele's heart skipped into an irregular beat, as though even her body couldn't remember how to act, in light of what had happened.
What was he thinking, sitting out there all that time? Was he asking himself if it had been worth it, passing the time in a stranger's bed when he had a family back home? Was he wondering how she was handling the news, whether their relationship would ever be the same again?
Maybe he was thinking about the boy, how strong the resemblance was between him and his father and himself. Or was it worse? Was he relishing the idea of finally having a son, masterminding a way to keep him longer than two weeks?
She could hardly be upset with Elizabeth. A dozen questions flashed in her own mind at least every few minutes. And the fact was, she and Connor weren't speaking enough for her to know the answers to any of them. A few times he'd pulled her aside and tried to talk to her. “Quit it, will you, Michele?” He took her hand and led her into the laundry room earlier that day, his face tight, etched with a kind of concern he'd never shown in all the years they'd been married. “You're treating me like a stranger.”
She worked her hand free from his. “You are, Connor. Until a week ago, the man I've known and loved had been nothing but faithful and honest and true.” She lowered her voice and gestured in his direction. “So give me time, okay? This … this man you really are is someone I don't know, not even a little.”
“I haven't changed.” His words held a quiet desperation. “It was one mistake, Michele. One mistake.”
<
br /> “Well, excuse me for not jumping right into my new reality and knowing how to swim in it.” Her tone was callous and filled with hate. “I'm drowning, Connor. Give me a little space so I can figure out how to get to shore.”
She'd walked out then, unable, unwilling, to look at him another moment. The rest of the day they'd avoided each other, and now that it was so late, she doubted they'd speak until tomorrow. And then what? Were they supposed to get up early and get ready for church, as though this Sunday wasn't entirely different from any other they'd faced as a family? Was she supposed to help the girls pick out nice clothes, and curl Elizabeth's hair? Get herself into something that didn't make her look too heavy, and then head off to the ten o'clock service pretending that the boy with them was nothing more than a cute little visitor, a family friend?
The idea made her tired, but not quite tired enough to fall asleep. She directed her attention to Elizabeth, and heard the tender rhythmic breathing sound the child had always made whenever she slept. Careful not to disturb her, Michele slid her feet onto the floor and tiptoed from the room.
Being tired was one thing; finding the sort of sleep she'd known before the news was another. She closed Elizabeth's door behind her and peeked in through an adjacent one at Susan. Her youngest girl was sprawled out across her bed, legs and arms widespread in varying directions. Susan had always been a restless sleeper, and having the boy in their home had done nothing to alter her normal routine.
The fact allowed a single ray of peace to shine a dim light across Michele's soul.
She took a few more steps and stopped at the door of the guest room. Without really wanting to, she went partway in, far enough to see the boy curled up and sleeping. He looked lost on the oversized bed, and for the first time since he'd arrived, Michele felt a twinge of pity for him. The thing she'd been telling herself since finding out about him was true, after all.
The mess they were in wasn't his fault.
She took a step closer. He was holding something to his chest, something Michele couldn't make out in the shadows. Probably a favorite toy, or stuffed bear. A special blanket even. Something to remind him of home. She let her eyes adjust to the light in the room and imagined how the boy must feel.