Without a word, he raced to the kitchen and pulled the pan off the heat, Joule still squirming on his hip. Finally he released him, then wiped out the pungent, smoking butter with a paper towel and set the pan on the stove again. Trembling, he dropped the remaining half stick in the pot and watched it swirl and foam.
“Where should I put the cake, honey?” he heard Mom call.
“Anywhere,” he gestured vaguely to the dining room, his voice unnaturally loud. He tore open the bag of yellow onions and began dicing them into the stockpot. He heard his parents attempting to make conversation. Casper didn’t look up, forcing himself to ignore it, and continued cutting, breaking down the onions with frenzied efficiency, scraping the translucent cubes into the pan and finding brief solace in the hiss of steam and the pungent fragrance as they began to cook. He tore open the bag of carrots and began peeling them into the sink. He was shaking. He could see his hands moving and the orange ribbons falling as he worked, but he felt nothing, as if he were merely a spectator to his own body. He pinched some salt on to the glistening onions and gave the pot a stir, and started hastily chopping the carrots.
“Casper?”
He drew in a shallow breath. Tears sprang to his eyes and he smeared them away with the back of his hand, hating himself for it. He tipped the carrots into the pot, and as he turned to the cutting board again, she was holding the celery toward him. He took it without looking at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine,” he muttered, his face burning. “My mom invited you, so. It’s fine.” He tore the plastic wrap off the celery.
“She didn’t actually—I’m sorry. I just wanted to—,”
“It’s fine,” he said briskly, neatly slicing the celery ribs. “It’s fine.”
“Happy birthday, Baby Jorgenson!” As if stricken, he fled from the kitchen to the front door, where Abby was just coming in with a platter of strawberries and a tub of marshmallow creme. “Think fast!” She tossed the tub underhanded to him. It plopped to the floor as he dodged it. “Jorgenson, what was that?” she demanded, but he said nothing as he took the fruit platter from her hands and set it on the floor. “Don’t let Firefly near that!” she called to no one in particular, as he pulled her outside and closed the door behind them.
“It’s freezing out here! What is going on?”
“Abby, I promise I had no idea.”
“About what? Jorgenson, what is—,” she paused as she studied his face, and her gray eyes grew pale with concern. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“Yeah, I’m—no, I—I truly had no idea.” He tried to form the words, but his throat was tight. “My mom, I think she—,”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know how this happened but she somehow, sort of invited Reagan to the party and now she’s here. Charlotte, too.”
“What? Why? Oh, my goodness.” She buried her face in her hands. “Your mom really doesn’t like me, does she? I mean, I had a feeling, but I told myself that I was crazy, and—oh my goodness, Jorgenson—how are you feeling about this? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even look at her.”
“Who, your mom? Never mind. Okay,” she said, taking his hand. “Okay.” He waited, watching her face, hoping she was going to come up with some brilliant evasive maneuver. “Okay.”
“We should just act normal, right? Like it doesn’t bother us?”
“Right,” she agreed. “Normal. There will be thirty other people here, so it’ll sort of—I don’t know,” she made a swirling movement with her hands.
“Dilute the weirdness.”
“Exactly. Does that sound like a plan?” He nodded and held out his palm, and she gave him a furtive low-five.
When they came back into the house, Dad and Mom were sitting on the couch, watching them.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. J,” Abby offered. Casper was impressed at how normal she sounded.
“Hi, sweetie,” Mom said, with much more warmth than she had in months. Perhaps she felt a little guilty for orchestrating such a nightmare for the two of them. He couldn’t believe it. She had meddled before, but this level of underhandedness had no precedent. “I put the strawberries on the table for you. They look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Abby stooped to pick up the tub of marshmallow creme, then pulled a brick of cream cheese out of her coat pocket. “I still need to mix these up. You have a mixer, right, Jorgenson?”
“No, but I have a spatula.” It felt like they were rehearsing a scene from a play.
“That’ll do. Let’s go.”
Exit stage left.
When they found her in the kitchen, Reagan was still standing where Casper had left her, arms crossed, mouth pressed in a polite seam. Charlotte was seated at the kitchen table, bent over open sketchpad.
“Excuse me. Sorry.” He eased past her and stood by the stove, resuming his task.
“Your mom told me you learned to cook.” He managed a tight nod. He couldn’t say anything back. He was sick. “You must be Abby.” His head whipped around to see Reagan offering her hand.
“Yeah,” he cut in. “Abby, this is Reagan. Reagan, this is my girlfriend. Abby. Her name is Abby.”
“Nice to meet you,” they both said at once, shaking hands. A polite chuckle followed. Then silence.
“So, you’ve been talking with Mrs. J?” Abby asked. “How did that start?”
“She friended me a couple years back. We mostly talk about kid stuff. And the royal family sometimes.”
“A couple of years? Wow. Nice,” Abby replied. A silence so thick Casper could feel it in his sinuses. “And you must be Charlotte?” she asked, sitting down at the kitchen table. Charlotte nodded. “I’m Abby. Can I see what you’re drawing?” Charlotte looked away, but tilted the sketchpad toward Abby, who smiled beautifully. “You like horses?” Charlotte nodded again. “Me too. I even took riding lessons for a few years.”
“You never told me that,” Casper said, charmed at the thought of a young Abby, stiffly astride a mare, jostling up and down in the saddle.
“You never asked, Jorgenson. Also, I was very bad,” she added to Charlotte in a loud whisper. Charlotte pressed her lips and glanced back down at her sketchpad. Abby was undaunted. “What’s your favorite kind of horse?”
“Arabians.”
“Totally gorgeous,” Abby agreed.
“Yeah, totally,” Casper added over his shoulder, never having heard of such a thing. Abby smiled at him, and he grinned back. He couldn’t help it. The whole situation was surreal, but Abby was there. Thank God, Abby was there.
Another silence. Mom and Dad strode in at last, wearing meek, chastened smiles. Joule was sitting on Dad’s hip, crunching a mouthful of orange Tic-Tacs. Casper turned back to the stove, unable to look at them.
“So, Reagan—,” Mom began, “we’re so glad you could make it. I hope it was a nice drive.”
“We’ve never been to Iowa before. It’s pretty. Isn’t it, Charlotte?” Charlotte shrugged. “I’m sorry we got here so early. Is there anything I can do to help?” Nobody spoke. Casper opened three cans of crushed tomatoes and dumped them into the pot. He watched as the sauce swirled together, then reached down to turn up the burner. He hoped he wasn’t expected to answer her. Even if his tongue weren’t clamped to his hard palate, he had no idea what else needed to be done for the party. Abby had tasked him with lasagna and mercifully, nothing else.
“Everything is pretty much done,” Abby answered at last. “Right, Mrs. Jorgenson?” Casper glanced behind him to see Abby gazing at her hands in her lap.
“Absolutely, honey. You’ve done a beautiful job. Abby put all of this together. She’s been just wonderful. Isn’t that right, Joule? Do you like your tiger party?” Joule nodded, smacking his sticky lips and pawing Dad’s pocket for more breath mints.
“It does look beautiful,” Reagan agreed.
“Oh, shoot!” Abby scooted back from the table and affected a laugh. “I totally forgot. I left something in my car. Be right back.”
“Do you need a hand?” Casper offered, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“No, I’ve got it,” she breezed, giving him a coarse squeeze on his arm as she moved past.
—
Two hours after everyone finally arrived, the lasagna was served. The guests set upon it as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks, though they had been feasting on Mama Reyes’ triple batch of chips and salsa. They all made a point of teasing him over his tardiness even as they took second helpings.
It was strange to see Reagan and Charlotte folded in as if they belonged there. Mikayla, though two years younger, had been overjoyed to see a girl even remotely close in age, and even more so, one who had the sophisticated edge of being in upper elementary. They disappeared together into one of the empty bedrooms, only occasionally emerging to ask him for more paper.
As he made his rounds chatting, he would occasionally glance in Reagan’s direction. Without fail, she was always well looked after, constantly in one conversation or another. Abby, on the other hand, scarcely left her mom’s side.
After an intense, emotional game of Dutch Blitz, Casper went to find her.
“You doing okay, Rice?” he asked, coming into the kitchen and putting his arms around her.
“I should ask you the same question.”
“Don’t worry about me. I haven’t spoken to her all day and the party is almost over.” Abby leaned back against his arm and looked at him doubtfully.
“You don’t believe she drove all the way here for the party, do you?”
“Maybe she wanted to get away from Mark for a bit. Maybe she wanted to see Joule.” Though he hadn’t seen her go near him. Abby tilted her head.
“She’s here for you, Jorgenson.” Casper shook his head. “Didn’t you notice how gorgeous she looks?” He had only noticed that she was wearing a ton of makeup. He squeezed Abby tighter. She stiffened.
“Look, Rice. Even if you’re right—and you’re not—there’s nothing to worry about. I promise.” She nodded, but didn’t look at him. Rosa called for his intervention regarding a toy dispute in Joule’s room. He lingered and kissed Abby’s hair.
“Go,” she said. “I’m okay.”
—
The cake was homey, still in its pan, slathered with some frosting and a few handfuls of sprinkles. Small plastic tigers wandered through the forest of candles. Mom had never observed the tradition of using only the number of candles to correspond to age. Since birthday candles came in a packs of a dozen, she simply planted all of them in the frosting without a qualm, a rare display of extravagance.
He sat with Joule on his lap, content to pass on the birthday cake, watching as his son stomped a plastic tiger through the frosting on his paper plate.
“What’s the tiger’s name, Bud?”
“His name…” Joule thought, licking his fingers. “His name Noodle!” he pronounced, giggling with triumph.
“Your mom has done it again,” Abby admitted, taking the seat next to him. “This cake is unreal,” she pronounced regrettably.
“No way.” Lightning didn’t strike twice. His childhood had instilled in him a categorical distrust and dislike of all cake, out of a primal survival instinct. Abby held up a forkful for him to taste, offering him an enticing nod. Only last week, he had endured a twelve-hour stomach ache after powering through one of Mom’s homemade blueberry muffins. He obliged at last, narrowing his eyes as he gradually realized that there were no chunks of fruit or gummy, undercooked batter. Earthy, fluffy, dark. Delicious. But he could barely swallow it.
“It’s her recipe. Reagan’s, I mean. That’s the only reason it’s good. Same for the cinnamon rolls on my birthday. I know it.”
“She cooks, too?” Abby dropped her fork and shoved away her plate.
Just then, they heard Mom tell everyone it was time for gifts. Casper had emphatically implored the guests not to bring presents, though they had ignored him. As it was, Joule could barely keep up with all the toys that had been handed down and dropped off in Hefty bags — puzzles, Lincoln Logs, wooden trains, Hot Wheels, educational toys that sounded off in the middle of the night, counting to ten in Spanish.
Three years ago, when he had been waiting in panicked anticipation for the birth of his child, he had actually wondered how he would afford the barest necessities. But he had quickly learned that humans who became parents naturally developed a keen instinct for the needs of other such people, joining the ranks of an ancient tribe; a tribe with its own rites of initiation — being startled out of sound sleep by bloodcurdling screams, cleaning wet, squirming butts in the middle of the night, and blowing raspberries on jiggling tummies. As a result, Joule had wanted for nothing.
Amid the swamp of new gifts, torn gift wrap, and crumpled tissue paper, there were two items that caught Joule’s notice: the empty cardboard box which had contained a new Cozy Coupe, and a plush orca.
“Boba! Boba, Dad!” Joule shrieked, holding up the adorable cetacean to show Casper, before clutching it to his chest and burying his face in its softness. Then he crawled into the cardboard box and closed the flaps behind him. Everyone laughed, reminiscing fondly and trading stories about their own children who had done the same thing. Firefly immediately sprang to action, pawing furiously at the doors of Joule’s makeshift den, nosing and whining in a desperate attempt to join him. From inside the cardboard walls, Joule’s muffled voice could be heard shouting in protest. “NO, Fi-fly! Go way!”
Mikayla crouched on her hands and knees and knocked on the cardboard door.
“Joule, it’s Mikayla! Let me in!” A moment later, the door opened, and Mikayla scrambled inside, pressing the door shut behind her feet before Firefly could follow. She poked her head out again. “Uncle Cass, where’s that girl?”
“Who?”
“The girl with the glasses. Can you find her? And tell her we made a fort.” He said he would because he couldn’t think of an excuse. He waded through the crowd of conversations and the maze of folding chairs, then glanced into the empty bedroom that the two girls had commandeered as the headquarters of their new art collective. There she was, sprawled on her tummy and surrounded by half-finished sketches, alone in thought, working silently with her pencil.
“Hey, Charlotte.” She didn’t hear him. He cleared his throat and spoke her name again. Her head popped up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mikayla is looking for you.” She hesitated for a moment before returning to her work. “I like this one,” he said, crouching and picking up a page. A winged horse bearing a rider with no head. The pencil lines were dark and heavy, streaked by a budget eraser. The horse’s body, legs, and head, had been created by circles and connected with lines. He recognized the sketching technique from the drawing books he had used as a kid. She had attempted to add shading to the horse’s musculature, and he could see the stem of a neck, where she had attempted to shape the rider’s face before giving up. “Are you going to finish it?” he asked. She shook her head. “People are harder to draw, aren’t they? You did the arms and legs pretty well, though.” He smiled. “Did you draw the horse’s mane covering the hands on purpose?” She nodded again, concealing a shy smile. “Smart. I would have done the same thing.”
“Do you still like to draw?” she asked quietly. She lightly pressed her pencil against the paper in small, quick strokes, creating a stiff, windblown mane.
“Yeah. Actually—come with me, I’ll show you the last picture I did.” He led her to Joule’s bedroom and flicked on the light. Above Joule’s bed, he had tacked up several of his drawings, including an orca leaping out of the water, a tiger conducting a train, and a copy of a large drawing he had given Mom and Dad last Christmas. In front of a field of ripe corn, stood his parents, Nick, Rosa, Mikayla, Joule, and himself. “See how everyone conveniently has their hands either in their pockets or behind their backs?” he chuckled.
“Your mom is holding a cat.” Charlotte giggled shyly. “Is her cat really that fat?”
“She’s totally fat. But if she went on a diet, the whole house would be overrun with mice.”
“Maybe we should get a cat. Mom tries to catch the mice and let them go in the park, but they always come back.” Her smile faded as she studied the wall. “And Grandpa wouldn’t like it.”
“How is your grandpa?” he asked. Charlotte shrugged.
“Different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s that?” She pointed to a paper on the wall which had been folded and unfolded, crumpled then flattened. “It looks like—,”
“Lottie.” Reagan was in the doorway. “Mikayla is looking for you. She’s in the dining room.”
“In the cardboard box,” Casper added. Charlotte grinned, her eyes briefly lit with a gleam of mischief, and she scrambled away. He hoped Reagan would follow, but she seemed to be hesitating. Her eyes were dark and inquiring as she looked at him. She moved into the room. She placed a hand on Joule’s headboard. She closed the door behind her. Her lips parted. Casper panicked. “I’d better go see what they’re up to out there. Excuse me.” He reached behind her, opened the door, and fled.
—
The party was winding down, and people were beginning to say their goodbyes. It was nearly seven o’clock, and after a long day of merrymaking and indulgence, Joule was getting cranky. Having gathered up his blanket, his battered copy of The Little Engine That Could, Boba the plush orca, and a handful of Ritz crackers, he refused to leave his den, content to hibernate till kingdom come.
“What if we put your den in your bedroom?” Casper offered.
“You cannot let him sleep in that, Jorgenson. It could collapse on him.” Abby gathered up a handful of fallen streamers and stuffed them into a black trash bag.
“You worry too much, Rice. How is it going to collapse?” He gave the den a pert nudge with his foot. From within, Joule protested. “See? It’s solid.”
“Cass, where do you keep the aluminum foil?” Rosa called from the kitchen, holding a half-empty tray of lasagna.
“In the drawer under the microwave. Joule, I don’t care if you sleep in there tonight, but you are going to get your pajamas on first.” Joule screamed as if his leg had been cut off. “And you need to brush your teeth.”
“Honey, he doesn’t need to get dressed for bed,” Mom gently admonished as she stacked empty plastic cups. Dad told her to stay out of it.
“Yes, he does,” Casper bristled. “Let’s go, Bud.” Casper reached in the box and pulled Joule out by the ankle. Blind with birthday rage, Joule arched his back and banged his head on the floor, promptly dissolving into tears.
“Somebody needs to go to bed,” Nick wryly observed.
“No kidding,” Casper muttered, heaving Joule over his shoulder like a bag of flour. By the time he reached the bedroom and closed the door, Joule was pounding his legs and screaming in his ear. He didn’t see her there until he flicked on the lights. She must have seen the hair stand up on his neck and the tremor of panic travel from his head to his feet, gluing him to the floor.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was just looking at—,” her voice was muffled under Joule’s caterwauling.
“What?” he asked loudly, stepping past her and kneeling by the dresser, Joule still draped over his back like a sack of angry cats. He rifled through the top drawer, and realized he had forgotten to throw in a load of laundry the night before. No clean pajamas. “Shoot. Is there something you need, Reagan?” he asked over his shoulder, as he went to the closet and rummaged through a box of hand-me-downs Abby had labeled “4T-5T.” At last, he pulled out a pair of Christmas footed pajamas. As gently as he could, he forced Joule to lay on the bed while he dressed him.
“I was just looking at his room.” He wished she would speak up. Or better yet, leave. He didn’t relish the thought of being watched while he forced his son’s kicking feet into a Grinch onesie.
“Boba! Where Boba?” Joule screamed.
“I’ll get Boba in a second. Hold still.” Casper pushed Joule’s cocked elbow through a sleeve, ignoring his plaintive screeching, and began fastening the tiny clasps running in a diagonal from the toe of the garment to the neck. One of them was missing, and another refused to clip. Something black and soft brushed his face. He thought it was Firefly and prepared to swat her away, but Joule hugged Boba to his chest and buried his red face into its plush depths.
Through the open door, he could hear his family still cleaning up. Rosa and Nick were arguing over the merits of ground beef versus turkey while Abby chimed in, Firefly’s paws clattered across the floor as Dad tossed her tennis ball, and Mom was probably cleaning or otherwise interfering in his life.
“I’m glad he likes it,” she said, standing by the dresser.
“Yeah, he loves orcas.” He struggled to close the clasp at Joule’s knee. “Ever since he was a baby, this has been his favorite blanket.” He plucked it off Joule’s bed and showed her. The colors had faded after many wash cycles, but the pattern was still visible. “My mom must have told you that.” She didn’t answer. He glanced up. She was looking past him, straight at Joule’s chest. He touched the pink seam with his fingertips.
“Tump-tump,” Joule gravely informed her. “Dis my tump-tump.”
“I see,” she whispered. Her eyes were pink and trembling. “Does it hurt you?” Joule shook his head and grinned. “You’re very brave, aren’t you?”
“Yes, he was very brave,” Casper answered, hastily closing the onesie. “All done, Bud.” He patted Joule’s leg and turned to Reagan. “I’m glad you could both come today,” he said, feeling magnanimous as the moment of her imminent departure approached. “Charlotte has grown up so much.” Reagan nodded. “She still likes to draw. I’m glad.” She fidgeted with her necklace. “Is she in fourth grade now?”
“Dis!” Joule stood on his bed and held up Boba toward Reagan. She froze. “Dis!” he shrieked adamantly, pointing at a drawing above his bed. The dimple in his left cheek deepened as he grinned at her. “Daddy, dis!”
Casper immediately understood.
“What are you talking about, Bud? Are you sleepy?”
“No, no sweep! Dis!”
“Sorry, he’s still pretty excited. Come on, Bud,” he said, lowering him into the bed and covering him with a fleece Hawkeyes blanket. But Joule immediately clambered out of bed and toddled over to Reagan. He pulled at her jeans, tugging her to follow him.
“Dis!” She resisted, standing stiffly against the dresser. Her hands were clenched. Her face was white and taut, even as she smiled carefully down at him. Casper walked over on his knees and pulled Joule away.
“Joule, come on, Bud. Leave her alone.”
“Is that me?” she asked.
“What? Where?” She wandered to the wall and touched the paper that had been crumpled and smoothed. “Oh, that. It’s just a drawing I did a few years back. It’s not very good, is it?” She carefully peeled off the tape that held it up. She took it down and studied it in her hand. “Sorry, I always meant to redo it and never got around to it.” He was making it worse. She gave him a good-natured grimace.
“I don’t really look like that anymore, do I?”
“Well, he recognizes you,” Casper shrugged. “I guess there must be some resemblance.” He refused to look at it.
“Why?”
“The shapes are all right, I think.”
“I meant—why have you told him about me?”
“What do you mean? You’re his mother.”
“No, I’m not. She is, isn’t she?” Reagan gestured past him toward the open door. “Or she will be. Soon.”
“Go on, Bud.” Casper set Joule on the floor and sent him out of the room. He closed the door behind him and turned to face her. “I wanted him to know where he came from.” She crossed her arms and stepped over to Joule’s bed, peering at the drawings on the wall. She noticed a portrait he’d done of Abby — the one with her hair braided with gold ribbons, from when they’d gone to a Hawkeyes game.
“So that wonderful girl — she knows there’s a portrait of me above his bed?”
“I’ve told Abby everything.”
“Your mom told me you’re planning to propose any day.” His mind flew to the small box in his sock drawer.
“She had no business telling you that.” Reagan pressed her lips doubtfully. “But, yes. That’s true.” She nodded silently. Till that moment he hadn’t noticed the false eyelashes, black and shiny, shading her eyes till they were dark and colorless. Her cheeks had been brushed to a bright, unnatural pink, and her lips were stained and smudged with dark lipstick. As she stood nearer to him than she had all day, he could detect a faint, musky perfume. He started to feel a clenching in his belly.
She spoke so quietly he could barely hear her.
“I’m so sorry, Casper.”
Finally. Here it was. He had hungered for those words. Like a prize he had fairly won and been denied. He had imagined it happening in many different ways, but never like this. The fantasy had served him for a long time, as if it were an imminent reward for his labor. Someday, it’ll all be worth it. Someday, she will be sorry. And it’ll all be worth it.
Here she was. Sorry. She continued.
“I’m so sorry that I let you go. That I let—,” she hesitated, as if she were afraid to say his name. “That I let him go. That you had to go through all of this alone.” She had left them alone. As he sat in the surgical waiting room, as he slept fitfully in hospital chair staring at his son through a plastic window. As he labored day after day, night after night, hating himself for failing his son and giving him only half a home. She was sorry.
She was gazing straight back at him, tears brimming. Her nostrils flared and her lips trembled. She tried to say something, voicelessly, but her throat constricted in a sob. Be quiet, he wanted to say. Don’t say anything else. Please.
But he was struck still as if under a spell. He knew what she was about to say, and he was powerless to stop it.
“I remember everything you said to me that day.” So did he. It felt like a lifetime ago. I love you. Marry me. Marry me. Marry me. “And I remember everything I said to you. And every day, I wish—,” she paused, and the churning in his stomach lurched to a sudden stop. Don’t, he prayed. He opened his mouth to speak. “Every day I regret it.” The heavy lashes trembled above her eyes. Leaf green. He shook his head, pleading with her not to say another word. “Please. Will you marry me?” The breath caught in his throat.
“Reagan.” Hot tears blinded him. He turned away, but she took his hand and pressed it against her heart.
“Cass,” she began, but her voice broke. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. She wiped one hand across the tears on her own cheeks and with the other, clasped his hand more tightly. “This is all my fault. I should have said something a long time ago.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he snapped, tearing his hand away from her. He smeared away the tears as they coursed down his cheeks. “I would have given anything—,” his voice broke, but he forced himself to continue, his strained words coarse with the effort. “—Anything to hear you say that three years ago! Why now? What’s changed?”
“I wanted to. There hasn’t been a day since that I haven’t thought of it. There were so many times I got in my car and almost came. But I was scared.” He scoffed.
“You were scared? So that’s why you didn’t come to the hospital? That’s why you ignored me for months? And that’s why you sent me that money and that note without any explanation—,”
“I knew I didn’t deserve another chance and I was so afraid of what you would say that I couldn’t—,”
“Your dad told me you were done! That you wanted nothing to do with us!” A gasp escaped and she seemed to stagger as if she’d been struck.
“He said that to you?” Casper nodded. He drew himself up, wanting her to hear him say it.
“And I believed him.” Reagan flinched, but didn’t look away.
“I tried to be done,” she admitted quietly. “I tried to be. For my own sake, for yours. For—,” She stopped herself before she said his name. “For his. But—,” she shrugged helplessly and her lips quivered. She spoke quickly. “My dad never told me I was like her until that day he saw you at the hospital.” She gazed up at him. “And he was right.” He felt sick all over again. “But by the time I realized what I’d done, I was afraid it was too late.” His stomach was leaden. He thought he would sink straight through the floor. “Then—then, your mom told me how well you were both doing, and I heard about Abby, and I—I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to ruin things for you.”
“But now you do? What’s changed?” he demanded again. She took a deep breath that snagged along her tearful throat, and squared her shoulders. She spoke quickly, breathlessly.
“My dad doesn’t read the newspaper anymore.” As the last word left her mouth, her voice broke again.
“What?”
“His episodes are getting longer. A lot longer. And they’re getting a lot worse. I’ve taken him to the ER twice in the last month. Cass, he doesn’t read the paper anymore,” she said again, her reddened eyes searching his own. “You know my dad. He has never been a teddy bear, but—but he’s always been kind to Charlotte. But now—,” she stopped, her nostrils flaring. “I don’t even recognize him. He’s—he’s,” she hesitated. “He’s mean, Cass. And Charlotte gets so scared. It’s like she’s afraid of my dad and she’s afraid of him dying, and there’s nothing I can do about either. And sometimes I just wish he would—,” she stopped again, and her voice was choked by another sob. “But then there would be nobody else, and I’m afraid—I know she would end up like me.”
He knew it was wrong to consider it, but as long as Mark lingered on, he was going to drag them both down. He already had. But Reagan still had access to eight figures if she needed it.
“But if anything happens to your dad, Charlotte will still have Foster.”
“Foster signed away his rights last summer.” Reagan sat down on Joule’s bed. The drawing had fallen on to the Hawkeyes blanket. She traced the ear and jawline with her finger.
“Why?”
“He has his own family now,” she shrugged, “and he doesn’t want her anymore. He doesn’t visit and he doesn’t call.” And doesn’t pay child support anymore. “I’ve lied to her. ‘He’s just busy.’” She sat up straight and affected a cheery smile, the same she’d presumably worn for Charlotte. “But she knows the truth.” He could see Charlotte hiding alone in her room with her sketchpad and smudged purple glasses, watching the window for a car that would never come. And he could see another nine year-old girl with green eyes, displaying her bug collection to the grizzled figure on the couch, hoping she could break him out of his immovable sadness.
The swift, unwelcome breakers of grief rushed upon him.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, Reagan. Listen, I don’t have a lot, but anything that I can give you, to help out, I mean…seriously, I can do that.”
“I knew you would say that.” She bent to the floor and picked up her purse, then plucked out a smeared, postmarked envelope. He recognized his own writing. “These are the checks you sent me after—,” she cleared her throat, “after Joule was born.” She handed them to him. “You know that I didn’t cash them, but I couldn’t throw them away. It was so kind of you.”
“It wasn’t kind,” he said bitterly. “I was trying to win you back.”
“But,” she began, then stopped. She looked up at him. His stomach began to roil with panic. “Would you take me back now?”
“Reagan,” he began, then swallowed. “I love Abby. I’m marrying Abby.”
“I know you do,” she said softly. “I’m only here on the off-chance that you might still love me—even a little. Because once you said you did.”
He wasn’t really standing there, hearing her say these things. It wasn’t real. A wild projection he’d dreamed up and abandoned. He couldn’t count the nights he had laid awake rehearsing this exact scene. Almost exact. Any moment, he would wake up.
“Yes, I did. But,” he clenched his jaw, “you didn’t believe me.”
“I do now. And I have for a long time.”
“What’s changed?” he repeated stiffly. She sat up straight, her eyes soft, her fingers smoothing Joule’s blanket.
“Even when Foster was still interested in Charlotte, he would take her once in a while and spoil her, and then set her down again and forgot about her. But he never set foot in our house. He never said a word to my dad. He never stayed with Charlotte when she got sick, or wanted to—,” she hesitated and smiled at him. It had been years since he’d seen that look. Unwelcome tears blurred his vision again. “He never wanted to marry me.” He hastily wiped the tears away. She got up and came to him. She gently brushed his cheeks with her fingers. “So when he signed away his rights, I wasn’t surprised. I could only think—,” she paused and stroked his hair, “—that you would never do that.” His breath shuddered in his chest.
“Reagan,” he began.
“I can tell you love her, and I think she must be the best girl in the world. But I knew this was my last chance.” Her fingers gently grazed his face, alighting on his ears and lingering. “I wouldn’t have come at all except for Lottie’s sake. I don’t want her to grow up like me—,” her voice broke again. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and one of the false lashes began to droop. She tried to blink it away, but the black, shiny thing fell over her eye. She sighed, released him, and tugged at the lashes, pulling them off in long, limp strips. She looked at them in her palm, then closed her hand. “I’m so sorry. But, Cass—,” she glanced back up at him. “Cass, we have nowhere else to go.”
“Reagan,” he began again. Her mouth was parted expectantly, her entire body poised tight and terrified. From the moment she had arrived that day, he had been longing for this. To tell her off, to cast her away just as she had him and Joule. He had hungered for the opportunity to look her in the face and reject her without a qualm. But now he felt sick. “Reagan,” he repeated. The gold hair pin, scratched and chipped. The half-house, the little brown dog, the stacks of newspapers, a blue-eyed girl with purple glasses. Leaf green eyes. “Reagan, I’m marrying Abby.”
She gazed back at him, her eyes warm and familiar. She blinked. Then she nodded. A sigh escaped her lips, as if she had suddenly lost the ability to hold it in any longer. There was a tired smile on her face, at once sad and relieved.
“I knew you would say that.”
“Hey.” Abby was standing in the doorway. She was staring at both of them, her lips open, and a look of deep sorrow in her gentle eyes. He hated to see the confusion in her face. “I’m interrupting something, aren’t I?” He immediately went to her and caught her hand.
“Stay,” he said, pulling her toward him. But she looked past him, straight at Reagan.
“Reagan, is there anything else you needed to say to Casper?” Reagan nodded.
“I’m really happy for you. All three of you,” she said. “And I wish you the best.” Reagan picked up her purse. “But there is one thing I’ll ask.” She picked up the drawing from the bed, carefully folded it, and handed it to Casper. “Please throw that away. And don’t tell him anything else about me.”
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Katie Bertola 