Chương 3
“How do you know him?”
Lorraine frowned.
“What?”
“He said the photograph came from Grandma’s locked box.”
Lorraine closed her eyes.
Ethan waited.
When she opened them, the defensiveness was gone.
That frightened him.
“About three years after Noah was born,” she said, “I found Mara.”
“You found her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to know whether they were okay.”
“You could have asked me.”
“You didn’t know they existed.”
“That was your doing.”
“I know.”
The words were quiet.
Ethan leaned back.
The clock clicked.
“I searched her name,” Lorraine continued. “Found the nonprofit she was working for. There was a staff page. She looked… tired.”
“You stalked her online.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I drove there.”
Ethan stared at her.
Lorraine gave a humorless little shrug.
“I sat in the parking lot for forty minutes. Then I left.”
“Good for you.”
“I went back the next week.”
“Why?”
“Because guilt makes people stupid.”
That sounded like something his mother might actually say, which was inconvenient.
“What did you do?”
“I waited until she came outside.”
“And introduced yourself as my mother?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I used my second husband’s last name.”
Ethan frowned.
“Hale?”
“Yes.”
Lorraine had been married to Robert Hale for less than four years after Ethan’s father died. Ethan had disliked him, and Lorraine had reverted to Cole after the divorce.
“Mara had never met me before,” she said. “She didn’t recognize me.”
“So what were you to her?”
“At first? A donor.”
Ethan’s laugh came back, harsher.
“You donated to her nonprofit.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“That’s not relevant.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Then what?”
“Then I volunteered.”
“You inserted yourself into her life.”
“I helped at events.”
“You inserted yourself into her life.”
“Yes.”
“And Noah started calling you Grandma?”
“Not immediately.”
Ethan stood again.
Lorraine’s eyes followed him.
“The organization ran a community reading program. Mara sometimes brought Noah when childcare fell through. He was three. Then four. I became…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“Useful.”
That word landed strangely.
Lorraine looked down at her hands.
“Mara’s mother had died the year before. Her father lives in Arizona. She didn’t have much help nearby. I started watching Noah occasionally when there were evening events.”
“And she trusted you.”
“Yes.”
“Without knowing who you were.”
“Yes.”
“And you let my son call you Grandma.”
Lorraine’s mouth trembled.
“The first time he said it, he was five.”
Ethan turned away.
He put both hands on the edge of the sink and stared at the backyard.
There was a plastic bird feeder hanging crookedly from a tree.
He remembered installing it last spring.
His mother had stood below him saying, Too high, Ethan. The squirrels will get it.
There had been a child then.
Five miles away? Ten?
He had no idea where Mara lived.
He knew nothing.
“What was in the locked box?”
Lorraine’s voice came from behind him.
“Photographs. Letters. Things from your father.”
“And my picture.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She did not answer.
Ethan turned.
“Why did you keep that picture?”
Lorraine looked at the folder.
“Because Noah asked me once what my son looked like.”
Ethan could not speak.
“I told him I had a son who lived across town,” she said. “He was maybe six. He wanted to see a picture. I said I didn’t have one nearby.”
“So you put one in a box instead.”
“I printed it after he left.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
She covered her mouth for a second.
When she lowered her hand, her voice was rougher.
“Because I wanted one place in my life where I wasn’t lying.”
Ethan stared at her.
“You understand how insane that sounds.”
“Yes.”
“Did Mara ever find out who you were?”
“Three days ago.”
The café confrontation snapped into a different shape.
“What happened?”
“Noah needed old photographs for the school project. He knew I had albums. I was upstairs getting one when he found the key to the box.”
“Where?”
“My desk.”
“So much for locked.”
Lorraine ignored that.
“He opened it. He found your photograph. There were two letters from Mara underneath.”
“What letters?”
Lorraine’s face changed again.
Ethan saw fear.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“Where are they?”
“Ethan.”
“Where are the letters?”
“In the box.”
“Get them.”
“I don’t think—”
“Get them.”
She sat very still.
Then she rose and left the kitchen.
Ethan heard her climb the stairs.
For a wild second he considered leaving.
He could go home. Throw away the folder. Tell himself he needed a DNA test before any of this mattered. Tell himself he did not have to reorganize his life because a child had his eyebrow and a photograph had been glued to construction paper.
Then he pictured Noah pointing.
From Grandma’s locked box.
Ethan remained where he was.
Lorraine returned carrying a small wooden case with a brass latch.
She set it on the table.
The key was already in the lock.
Inside were photographs Ethan recognized. His father in fishing clothes. Ethan at a college graduation. Lorraine and Robert Hale on a beach before their marriage became unpleasant.
Two envelopes lay beneath them.
Both had been opened.
The first had Ethan’s name on the front.
ETHAN.
No address.
He unfolded it.
The handwriting was Mara’s.
He recognized it immediately, which hurt in a way he had not expected.
Ethan,
Your mother says you don’t want me contacting you. I’m trying to believe her because I don’t know what else to do, but I need to hear it from you.
I’m pregnant.
I’m almost eleven weeks.
I’m not asking you to promise me anything. I don’t even know what I want yet. But you deserve to know, and I deserve not to have this conversation through your mother.
Please call me.
Mara
Below the name was a phone number.
Ethan’s vision blurred.
He blinked until the words sharpened again.
The second letter was dated four months later.
Ethan,
May you like
I stopped calling.
Your mother said you were seeing someone and that you had asked her to make sure I understood there would be no relationship with the baby. She said you would contest paternity if I named you.
