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I’ve always been a pragmatist. My mother never took me to church as a child. And I sure as hell never found Jesus while on tour for the past two decades. But there’s only one secret I’ve ever kept from Claire, and it’s this: For the past eighteen years, I’ve been going to church and praying for Abigail to come back to me.
No one knows my secret. Not even my best buddy, Tristan, knows. It may seem like an insignificant thing to keep hidden. And I’m sure Claire would understand why her agnostic husband has been paying regular visits to a small church in West Raleigh for eighteen years. But I haven’t kept it a secret because I’m afraid Claire won’t understand my need to have a little faith. I’ve kept it a secret because I’m afraid of how it will affect Claire to know I’ve been keeping a secret from her for so many years.
I drain the last drops of orange juice from my glass then stick it in the dishwasher. Standing at the kitchen sink, I gaze out the window at the curved driveway in the front of our house in Cary. The sun is shining bright, imbuing everything with a warm glow; the grass, the plants, even Jimi’s black Mercedes, they all sparkle in the Carolina sunshine. Today would be a perfect day to go to the beach and get the summer started, if it weren’t for that foolish thread of hope tying us to our house in Cary.
For two months, we’ve been sitting on the edge of our seats, waiting. Every phone call and every knock on the door is met with feverish anticipation. We promised Jimi, Junior, and Ryder we’d leave for the beach house last weekend, but Claire and I both decided we’d wait one more week. It’s Saturday. If Abby doesn’t show up by tomorrow night, we’ll head out.
I might make a trip to the safe-deposit box tonight. It will be my third visit since Abby’s eighteenth birthday two months ago. I keep thinking there will be something in there, a note, a picture, or something telling me she knows about Claire and me but she’s not ready. Maybe there’ll be a video of her birthday or her high school graduation.
I just want to know that she’s okay. It would be even better to know that she doesn’t hate us.
We should just gather the kids and head to the beach house tonight. It’s been two months. If Abby hasn’t come by now, she’s not coming at all. I need to accept that I got my hopes up for no reason. Faith is a dangerous thing.
Junior walks into the kitchen with his wireless headphones in his ears.
He nods at me. “’Sup, Dad?”
He heads straight for the door leading to the walk-in pantry and disappears inside. He comes out with a box of cereal. I lean back against the counter and cross my arms over my chest as I watch him. He sets the cereal down on the kitchen island and locks eyes with me. His shoulders slump as he removes the earphones from his ears.
He tucks them into his pocket and heads for the refrigerator. “Where’s Mom?”
“She’s upstairs. She’s not feeling well.”
“Migraine?” he asks, bringing the jug of milk to the island.
“No, just tired I think.”
He raises his eyebrows as he opens a drawer and grabs a bowl. He knows why she’s not feeling well, but no one’s talked about Abby for months. As if mentioning her name will break the spell, the illusion that we ever had a chance of having her in our lives.
He opens another drawer to get a spoon, then he settles down at the breakfast bar with his cereal. “So… we’re not going to the beach house today?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see how she’s feeling later. Where’s your brother? Is he still asleep?”
He shrugs as he shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He swallows his food then responds. “He went to bed late last night. I heard him playing that new game at two in the morning.”
I shake my head at this news. Eleven-year-old Ryder is the quietest of the three kids, and he’s very good at testing our limits. But he knows that all it takes to get back in my good graces is to ask me to teach him to play something on the guitar.
Fourteen-year-old Chris Jr. isn’t much like me at all. He likes music, but has no interest in learning to play. He plays three different sports, but he doesn’t know what career he wants to pursue when he’s older. The only thing I think we have in common is our sense of loyalty and our love of fast cars.
Sixteen-year-old Jimi is still my princess. She’s always been a daddy’s girl and was pretty shy until she started middle school. She began taking acting classes and came out of her shell. I’ve had lovesick boys knocking on my door for five years now.
I’m about to head upstairs to wake Ryder, when the sound of gravel crunching gets my attention. I turn around to look out the kitchen window and see a red convertible Plymouth Barracuda pulling up behind Jimi’s Mercedes. It’s a sweet car, but it’s the person sitting in the front passenger seat who has my full attention.
I’m frozen as I watch her eyes scanning her surroundings, taking in the house. She hangs her head and the guy in the driver’s seat watches her, waiting. Then she looks up again and my heart stops. She sees me in the window.
The seconds tick by in slow motion as I wait for Abby to move, to smile, to cry, but she looks frozen, too.
“Dad, what are you looking at?” Junior asks.
“Not now,” I reply, refusing to divert my attention.
“What is it?” he says, and I can hear his chair scrape across the tile floor followed by the sound of his footsteps.
He’s next to me by the sink now and I glance at him to make sure he’s seeing what I’m seeing. “Do you see her?” His gaze is pointed in the direction of the red car, but he seems a bit stunned so I ask again. “Junior, do you see her? Please tell me I’m not seeing things.”
He nods as a smile curls the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s her.”
I turn back to the driveway and the car is empty. Junior races toward the front door and I chase after him. It’s selfish, I know, but I want to be the one to answer the door for her. I want to be the one to welcome her inside.
“Don’t touch that,” I say as Junior reaches for the door handle.
“Why?”
“Because I want to do it.”
He steps aside and nods. “Hurry up.”
My hand reaches forward, but I take my time pulling the door open. When I finally lay eyes on her, I’m overwhelmed.
Here she is, standing on my doorstep. Looking like an angel. The angel I’ve been praying for.
Her blonde hair is pulled up in a ponytail and her small hands are clasped in front of her. She’s not wearing any makeup. She’s naturally beautiful, like her mother.
Claire. I have to go get her. But first, I have to hear my angel’s voice.
“Do you want me to get Mom?” Junior whispers and Abby’s eyes dart toward him.
She knows that Junior knows who she is. She knows we wouldn’t have told Junior about her if we didn’t hope he’d meet her someday. And someday is finally here, but I can’t speak. My mouth feels wired shut.
“Dad?”
“No,” I finally reply, not taking my eyes off Abby. “No, I’ll get her.”
She looks away from Junior and our eyes meet for a second before she hangs her head. Silent tears roll down her cheeks. Like me, she doesn’t know what to say either. We didn’t get an instruction booklet on what to say when we met. We’re both just overwhelmed by this moment.
“Abigail?” I speak her name softly and she sniffs as she raises her head to meet my gaze. “I’ve…” I try to swallow the painful lump in my throat, but it doesn’t budge. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
She presses her right hand over her heart and begins rubbing her chest.
“Are you okay?” I ask and the guy standing off to the side of her steps closer.
“Abby, what’s wrong?” he asks, and that’s when I notice he’s holding her purse.
It takes a special kind of guy or a special kind of relationship for a guy to hold a girl’s purse. Abby and this guy must be in a serious relationship. I try not to think bad things about him, since he obviously seems to care about her
well-being. But I guess that fatherly instinct never goes away no matter how much distance or how many years separate you from your little girl.
“I’m fine,” she whispers and my heart nearly stops at the sound of her voice.
I’ve heard her voice on the few videos that Lynette and Brian have shared with us, but they haven’t sent us many videos over the past five years. Almost as if they didn’t want us to witness her growing from a child into a young adult. But now, hearing her speak right in front of me, not through a speaker, is a dream come true.
“Do you want to come inside?” I offer.
I could probably stand here all day, staring at her and listening to her talk, but I don’t want to freak her out. It must feel strange for her to know that we’ve all been waiting for her.
She shrugs then nods. “Okay.”
