Chương 3
“About me?”
“About us.”
Ethan thought about that.
“Were you sure you wanted me?”
Rachel twisted farther around despite the seat belt cutting into her shoulder.
“Yes.”
Daniel’s answer came at the same time.
“Always.”
Ethan frowned.
“But you did a test.”
Rachel looked at Daniel.
She saw the same realization in his face.
To an adult, a paternity test could belong to a complicated history.
To a seven-year-old, it meant somebody had asked whether he was wanted.
Daniel pulled into an empty pharmacy parking lot.
“What are we doing?” Rachel asked.
“Talking.”
He parked beneath a white light and turned around.
Ethan looked worried.
Daniel reached between the seats.
“Give me your hand.”
Ethan placed his small hand in Daniel’s.
“When you were born, your mom and I were not very good at talking to each other.”
Rachel almost laughed.
It would have been inappropriate.
It would also have been true.
Daniel continued.
“We had been apart for a while. Then we were together again. There were questions about timing that grown-ups understand and kids shouldn’t have to worry about.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
Daniel squeezed his hand.
“But here’s the part I need you to hear. I decided I was your dad before any piece of paper could tell me anything.”
Ethan looked at the hand holding his.
“You mean even if the test said no?”
“Yes.”
Rachel looked out the windshield.
She had never heard Daniel say that to Ethan.
She had heard him say versions of it to her.
Years earlier.
In a hospital room.
In a courthouse hallway when they completed paperwork.
Once in their kitchen after Margaret had made a remark about “certainty” and Rachel had thrown a ceramic bowl so hard into the sink it broke.
But never to Ethan.
Ethan asked, “Then why did Grandma care?”
Daniel’s thumb stopped moving over his knuckles.
“That’s something she has to answer for.”
They reached home after eleven.
Ethan brushed his teeth without being asked.
He changed into pajamas and left his suit folded in a pile on the floor instead of hanging it over the chair the way Rachel had taught him.
She did not correct him.
Daniel sat on the edge of Ethan’s bed while Rachel found the stuffed dog Ethan claimed he no longer needed but still slept with whenever he was sick.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“If somebody says it again, what do I say?”
Daniel stared at him.
Rachel stopped beside the dresser.
Ethan waited.
Daniel answered carefully.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anybody.”
“But what do I say?”
“You can say, ‘That’s not your business.’”
Ethan considered this.
“Can I say, ‘You’re wrong’?”
“Yes.”
“Can I say, ‘My dad says you’re wrong’?”
Daniel looked down.
“Yeah.”
Ethan pulled the blanket to his chin.
“Okay.”
Rachel turned off the lamp.
At the doorway, Ethan called them back.
They both turned.
“Are you both staying here tonight?”
Rachel’s chest tightened.
“Yes.”
“Together?”
Daniel answered.
“Yes.”
Only then did Ethan close his eyes.
Rachel waited until they were downstairs.
She walked into the kitchen, placed both hands flat on the counter, and said, “Show me the folder.”
Daniel did not pretend not to understand.
He had left it on the entry table with his keys.
He brought it in and set it between them.
Rachel stared at it.
“How long have you had this?”
“Since this morning.”
She looked up.
“This morning.”
“Yes.”
“You had proof this morning that your mother lied to us for seven years.”
“I had a report I needed to read.”
“And you decided not to tell me.”
“We had a wedding in three hours.”
“That’s your answer?”
“No.”
“Because it sounds like your answer.”
Daniel pulled out a chair.
Rachel remained standing.
He sat anyway.
For years, his calm had been one of the things she loved about him. Sometimes it was also the quality she most wanted to throw through a window.
“I found the original lab invoice in a box from my father’s office six weeks ago,” he said.
Rachel’s anger changed shape.
“What box?”
“The estate boxes Margaret asked me to clear from storage.”
“You found it six weeks ago?”
“A receipt. Not the result.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know what it meant.”
Rachel laughed once.
It sounded ugly in the quiet kitchen.
“You found a receipt from the exact lab that supposedly failed to produce our son’s paternity results, and you didn’t know what it meant.”
“I knew what it might mean.”
“That is not better.”
“No.”
He did not defend himself.
That made her angrier for about five seconds.
Then it made it harder to keep yelling.
Daniel opened the folder.
“The receipt said the account was completed. Not canceled. Completed. It had a file number.”
Rachel pulled out the chair opposite him.
“You called them.”
“Yes.”
“They just gave you records from seven years ago?”
“No. They made me verify my identity, send the original consent information, and submit a records request because I was one of the tested parties. It took weeks.”
Rachel looked at the report.
“And this arrived today.”
“I picked up the certified copy this morning.”
“You drove to the lab?”
“A records office. The original lab merged with another company.”
Rachel pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose.
He slid the report toward her.
She did not touch it.
“Why the black folder?”
“They gave it to me in an envelope. I put it in that because I didn’t want it bent.”
She stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re angry about the folder.”
“I’m angry that I asked what it was and you told me it was work.”
Daniel’s eyes dropped.
“That was a lie.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
She leaned back.
The refrigerator hummed.
Somewhere upstairs, plumbing shifted in the wall.
Rachel had spent years imagining what she would feel if she ever got a definite answer about the old test.
Vindication, perhaps.
May you like
Relief.
An almost childish satisfaction at being able to place the result in front of Margaret and watch her retract every poisonous implication she had ever made.
