“If you were to get involved in Emma’s life,” Heather interrupted their conversation, “it wouldn’t be as a substitute for Ray, but as a completely separate, unique individual. Her birth father.”
“Can Emma have picked up her problem from her father somehow? From her adoptive father?” Dylan asked. “I mean, if he was mentally ill, could she have—”
“No.” Heather sat forward, legs apart, elbows on knees, the picture of sincerity. “And this is important for you to understand, Dylan. Emma is simply a healthy, normal child who suffered a trauma. She has what we call post-traumatic stress disorder.”
The words healthy, normal child reassured him. Not that it would make a difference in what he had to do.
“Well,” he said, “I’d be lying if I said this doesn’t make me more than a little anxious. I mean, I have zero experience with children. I was the youngest in my family. My sister has two children, but I rarely see them.” Even when he did see his sister’s kids, he was never sure what to say to them. “And taking on the responsibility of a child, especially one like Emma, wasn’t exactly part of my plan for my life.” He smiled. “But nothing I’ve heard changes the fact that she’s my daughter. I have an obligation to her, maybe even more so now that I know all she’s gone through. I want to meet her.”
Heather did not look so sure. “I’m worried you might have a romanticized notion about her,” she said. “What if she drives you crazy? What if you just plain don’t like her?”
He drew in a long breath and let it out. “You know, I didn’t want this,” he said. “I didn’t want any of it. I tried not to look at her picture, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. And then I looked at it and…that was that. She’s mine. And maybe she will drive me crazy sometimes. But don’t all kids do that? Isn’t that part of the parenting package? I’m not expecting perfection, in her or in myself. But I want to help her. I can’t know that she—that my flesh and blood—is out there, struggling, and do nothing to help her.”
He looked at Laura. She had turned away from him, and he saw that she was fighting back tears.
“I want Emma to meet him,” Laura said suddenly. “I want her to know who her father is.”
Heather looked less certain of the decision but nodded nonetheless. “Is there anyone,” she asked Dylan, “a woman, maybe, who would be upset by the sudden appearance of your daughter in your life?”
“No.” He shook his head, thinking only briefly of Bethany. “I’m unattached and have no plans to change that.”
“Well, then,” she said. “Let’s figure out the best way to handle your meeting Emma.”
The three of them talked awhile longer. Heather suggested a book Laura could read to Emma to help the little girl understand the difference between her adoptive father and her biological father. She suggested a couple of books for Dylan to read as well, and he wrote down the titles.
“Sometimes,” Heather said to him, “a new person stands a better chance of getting a voluntarily mute child, like Emma, to talk. If the stranger simply acts as though he expects the child to talk, she may sometimes comply. I tried to do this when I first met Emma, but it didn’t work. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Driving home, Dylan thought of how both women had described Emma. He hated the idea that her adoptive father had not treated her well. Aside from that, what had her childhood been like? Had she needed anything he might have been able to provide for her if he’d known of her existence? She had a wacko mother, that much he knew already. A mother who would sleep with a guy the first night she met him. Watch the double standard, Geer. A mother who would trick him into taking her up in the balloon to tell him about his daughter. Furious though he’d been at the time, the memory of her misguided ruse made him laugh out loud.
This was nuts. He had friends, mostly men, who had children they never saw and they viewed their noninvolvement as a blessing. Well, maybe they didn’t know what it was like to grow up without a father. If anyone had asked him a year ago how he would feel if he found out he had a child, he, too, might have expressed indifference.
But that would have been before he saw her picture.
18
LAURA WAS SHORT OF BREATH. SHE’D NOTICED IT FIRST IN THE grocery store as she tried to decide what to serve Dylan for dinner that night. Deciding Emma’s needs were far more important than Dylan’s, she bought hamburger meat along with corn on the cob and Emma’s favorite red-skin potato salad. She’d watched the young woman dishing the potato salad into a plastic container and wondered if something was wrong with her heart that she couldn’t seem to take in a deep breath.
She was still short of breath late that afternoon while shaping the hamburger patties and husking the corn, but by this time she was certain it was nerves. The same anxiety was evident in Emma, who raced around the house, a naked Barbie in her hand, stopping to stare out the front window every few minutes.
“He’ll be here at 5:30,” Laura said the fourth time she caught Emma looking toward the driveway. “See?” She pointed to the clock. “He’ll be here when the big hand is on the six, and the little hand is between the five and six.”
Emma listened to Laura’s explanation, studying the clock, then ran into the living room and turned on the television. A few minutes later, though, she was back at the kitchen window, and Laura wished she knew whether her daughter was dreading or looking forward to meeting the stranger.
A few days earlier, she’d had a long, one-sided talk with her.
“Do you remember Marti, Emma?” she’d asked as she was tucking her into bed. “The little girl you used to play with in our old neighborhood?”
Emma had nodded.
“Do you remember that Marti had two daddies?”
The nod again. Emma hugged her bunny close to her cheek.
“Well, the daddy she lived with was her adoptive daddy, and the daddy she went to visit was her birth daddy.”
Staring at the ceiling, Emma frowned.
“You know how a mother and father have a baby together?”
Emma nodded. She knew about sperm and eggs, although she’d never asked exactly how the two got together.
“Well it’s the birth father whose sperm helps make the baby. He’s responsible for that baby ever being born. But sometimes the birth father isn’t the one who raises the baby. That’s the adoptive father. So Mr. Linder was Marti’s adoptive father.”
Mr. Linder was no such thing, in reality. He was simply Marti’s stepfather, and not a very good one at that. But for the purpose of illustration, he would have to do.
“Not everyone has both an adoptive daddy and a birth daddy,” Laura continued. “Most people, like Cory, just have a birth daddy. But you happen to have both.”
Emma looked surprised at that, and Laura knew she was following her.
“Ray—Daddy—was your adoptive father. He loved you just as much as if he was your birth father, though. You were very special to him.”
Emma picked at the bunny’s ear with her thin, delicate fingers, her eyes turned away from Laura’s. She doesn’t believe that for an instant, Laura thought.
“You also have a birth daddy,” she said, “although you’ve never met him. I talked to him the other day. He’d like to meet you.”
Emma’s eyes widened in either surprise or terror. Laura couldn’t tell which.
“Not yet, though,” she said quickly. “Not till you’re ready to meet him. I have a book that will help you understand about birth fathers and adoptive fathers. We can read it tomorrow, okay?”
Emma didn’t react. Laura bent over to kiss her, turned on the fairy night-light and left the room, realizing as she did so that laying this on Emma right at bedtime had been a stupid thing to do. Emma had enough trouble sleeping without having something this enormous rolling around in her head. Sure enough, she was up and down for most of the night.
They read the book Heather had recommended together three times, and Dylan sent Emma pictures of himself so that he
would not be a complete stranger when she met him. Still, Laura had no idea how much of the situation Emma understood, much less how she felt about it.
At five o’clock, she and Emma walked down the lane to the string of mailboxes lining the road. Laura got their mail, sorting through it on the way back to the house. There was another long white envelope bearing no return address, and she fingered it for a moment before tearing it open. She stopped walking to read.
Memory loss can be a blessing. Sarah is nothing to you. Don’t go again.
The message sucked the remaining air from her lungs. Was this some sort of warning? She looked at the front of the envelope. This one had been mailed from Trenton rather than Philadelphia.
Emma tugged at the hem of Laura’s T-shirt.
“All right, honey,” she said, walking again. She folded the letter and put it in the pocket of her shorts. Don’t go again. Was there an “or else” implied in that demand? Should she call the police? They would think she was making something out of nothing, and she probably was. Once she was back inside the house, though, the isolation of living on the lake suddenly overwhelmed her, and she locked the doors.
At exactly 5:30, Dylan arrived. Emma was at the window, and when she saw him coming up the walk, she ran upstairs to her bedroom. Laura let her go.
In the living room, she pushed open the screen door. “Hi,” she said.
“You’re out in the middle of nowhere.” Dylan stepped into the living room carrying a foil-covered plate and a rectangular-shaped gift box. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts.
“You should talk,” Laura said.
“True.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Is there really a lake out there?” He looked through the back window at the thick screen of trees.
“Uh-huh. Through there.” She pointed to the patch of blue-gray beyond the trees.
“I brought some dessert.” He stepped away from the window and held out the covered plate. “Chocolate cake. Does Emma like chocolate cake?”
“Loves it, thanks.” Laura took the plate from him and set it on the counter. The wrapped package was still in his hands, and she knew what it contained. Doctor Barbie. He’d asked her what gift Emma might like. “Doctor Barbie?” he’d said. “I didn’t know there was such a thing. Barbie’s come a long way, huh?”
“How about some lemonade or iced tea?” Laura asked. “Then I’ll go see if I can convince her to come downstairs.”
“Iced tea, please.” If he was nervous about this meeting, it didn’t show.
She poured a glass of tea for him. “By the way,” she said, “when I was at the library to get the book Heather recommended for Emma, I picked up those books she’d suggested for you, as well. Save you a trip.” She hoped he wouldn’t think she was being pushy, but her daughter’s well-being was at stake.
“I’ve already read them,” he said.
She looked at him in surprise. “You have?”
“I want this to work, Laura,” he said. “I don’t want to screw it up.” Then he laughed. “I’ve read so much, I could probably get a job in a child care center by now.”
She felt like hugging him. Instead, she put the pitcher back in the refrigerator and went upstairs.
Emma was sitting on her bed, leaning against the wall, surrounded by her stuffed animals. Her thumb was deep in her mouth. She looked like a three-year-old.
“Come on downstairs, honey,” Laura said, cheer in her voice. “Dylan would like to meet you.”
She’d expected a struggle, but to her surprise, Emma slipped off the bed and reached for her hand. They walked together down the stairs to the kitchen.
Dylan faced Emma with a smile. “You must be Emma,” he said.
Emma slipped behind Laura, who put her hand on her daughter’s head. “Emma, this is Dylan. Your birth father. Remember?” She couldn’t see her, but she knew that Emma was peering out at Dylan, suspicion in her eyes.
“I brought a little present for you,” Dylan said, holding the gift out in front of him. “It’s to celebrate our meeting.”
Emma shifted position ever so slightly behind Laura’s back.
“Go ahead, honey,” Laura said. “Take the present.”
Emma moved slowly toward him, took the box from his hand, then stepped back to Laura’s side to open it. She tore off the pink paper and was unable to hide her delight when she saw what was inside. Her eyes lit up, and she wore one of those rare, genuine smiles Laura saw so infrequently these days.
“Do you like it?” Dylan asked, and Emma, clutching her new treasure to her chest, slunk once again behind her mother.
“Well,” Laura said to Dylan, “I hope you don’t mind a casual dinner. We’re having burgers. They’re Emma’s favorite, and I thought—”
“Good idea,” Dylan said. “What can I do to help?”
“I thought you and Emma could make the salad,” Laura said, hoping to ease the tension by putting them to work together. “Emma, let’s wash your hands, honey.”
Emma set the box containing Doctor Barbie on the counter and obediently climbed onto the footstool by the sink to wash her hands. Then Laura handed her a bowl of clean lettuce leaves. “You can tear these up and put them in the salad bowl, okay? Dylan, maybe you could chop the tomatoes and cucumbers.”
Dylan asked Emma a few questions as they worked on the salad. What had she done that day? What was her favorite toy? Did she like to swim in the lake? Emma responded with her stony silence, concentrating on tearing the lettuce into various shapes, and Laura felt sorry for Dylan. He was trying, and she knew how frustrating it could be. Catching his eye above Emma’s head, she gave him a sympathetic smile. At least Emma was helping him with the salad. Laura had been afraid she’d hide out in her room all night. But when Laura stepped out to the deck to light the grill, Emma jumped off her stool and ran after her, obviously not wanting to be left alone with the stranger. Laura didn’t make an issue out of it, and once they were back in the kitchen, Emma climbed onto the stool again.
Pulling a ceramic bowl from one of the cabinets, Laura asked Emma, “Do you know what kind of work Dylan does?”
Emma concentrated on her task.
“He flies hot air balloons,” Laura said.
Emma raised her head at that, a blank look in her eyes.
“Do you know what a hot air balloon is, Emma?” Dylan asked.
She stared at him without answering.
“Maybe I could draw a picture of one,” Dylan said.
Laura was about to walk into the family room for some paper when Emma beat her to it. She returned with a box of crayons and a sheet of paper and set them on the counter next to the salad bowl.
It took Dylan less than a minute to draw his balloon, complete with its swirly striped design and a couple of people in the basket. “See?” he said. “I light a fire right here and that heats the air inside the balloon. When air is hot, it rises, so the balloon goes up in the air. People stand in this big basket and get to float through the air, above the treetops.” He added some trees to the picture.
Emma was nearly smiling, and it warmed Laura’s heart. Watching the two of them, father and daughter, talking about the balloon, she wondered if Dylan saw what she did—his own face reflected in Emma’s.
Still, Emma did not want to be alone with him. She followed Laura outside each time she went onto the deck to check the grill.
“Take your new Barbie upstairs,” Laura said, “and when you come back down we can eat.”
She and Dylan walked out to the deck, and Dylan watched while she checked the hamburgers.
“I was hoping I could get her to talk,” he said. “You know, like Heather said. If a stranger acted as though they expected her to talk, maybe she would.” Dylan looked as though he’d failed.
“I’m her own mother,” Laura said as she transferred the hamburgers to a plate. “The person she should be most comfortable with in the world, and I haven’t been able to get her to talk. So don’t feel bad.
She’s relating to you, at least. That’s far more than I’d hoped for.”
“I was overly optimistic, I guess.” He took the plate from her and carried it to the picnic table. “She looks so much like my sister’s kids,” he said.
“She looks like you.”
He smiled. “I knew from her picture that she was mine, but seeing her in person, I just…It’s hard to believe. I actually have a child.”
Emma returned from upstairs and the three of them sat at the picnic table, Laura and Dylan making one hundred percent of the conversation as they ate. Dylan talked a bit more about the hot air balloon, then changed the subject. “Your mom told me she’s an astronomer,” he said to Emma. “That must be a very interesting job.”
Emma suddenly left her seat and ran into the house. Dylan and Laura looked at each other.
“Was it something I said?” Dylan asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Laura said, perplexed.
In a moment, Emma returned to the table. Standing next to Laura, she handed Dylan the framed photograph of Laura’s fifth comet.
“She’s trying to tell you I’ve discovered some comets,” she said, touched by her daughter’s gesture.
“You did?” Dylan held the picture in front of him. Then it seemed to dawn on him. “Laura Brandon,” he said. “You’re not…this isn’t one of the Brandon comets, is it?” he asked.
Emma and Laura nodded at the same time. “That’s Brandon Comet Five,” she said.
Dylan was clearly stunned. “I had no idea.” He looked at Emma. “Your mom is very famous, did you know that?”
Emma slid behind her mother, the direct question making her shy once again.
“I used to pilot big planes,” he said. “Jets. And I remember how much I loved to fly on a clear night back then when this comet was in the sky. It was a beauty.”
“I saw it from a plane once, too,” Laura said. “You feel like you’re right next to it.”
“You’ve found another one since then, haven’t you?”
“Actually, five since then,” she said.
“Five! You mean ten all together? That must be a record.”