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“She is, but—”
“Simon?” Samantha calls out quietly from the upstairs landing. She looks wary of me as she makes her way downstairs with slow, measured steps.
“Where’s the letter?”
“What?”
“The letter, Samantha. What did you do with it?”
“I don’t—”
“Come in and sit down, Simon.” Mrs. Westfield’s tone is meant to soothe me. “I’ll get you something cold to drink…You look terrible.”
“I don’t want to sit.” Samantha’s eyes are wide when she comes to stand beside me. She moves to take my hand but my fists are clenched. I lower my voice and turn to her. “Get me that letter.”
“I don’t have it.”
When I hit my fist into my open palm, she startles, and I have to walk away for a moment to collect myself. She follows me into their living room but keeps a good distance between us. That’s for the best, because if I don’t start getting some answers soon I’m going to start breaking shit.
“I burned it.”
I force myself to use my indoor voice, knowing that screaming and ranting won’t get me the information I need. “You burned the letter?”
She looks ashamed, lowering her head as she nods. “I was looking through your mail one day. I mean, you just always let it pile up on your counter. I’ve been looking through it for years now. Who do you think separates the bills from the junk mail?” She shakes her head when I don’t answer. Flopping down onto the couch, she lowers her head into her hands. “She called here. My mother gave me the messages to relay.” Looking up, she starts but then trails off, “I just—”
I take the seat across from her. I’m tired and I don’t want to plow through this muck of tangled feelings right now. “The letter, Samantha.”
“It was nothing, Simon. Some syrupy ploy to get you back.” When I go to stand, she puts her hands up in surrender. “I know, I know…That was yours to interpret on your own. I had no right to keep it from you. It’s just that from everything you’ve told me about your childhood, this seemed like nothing more than a desperate girl from the boonies trying to dig her claws into the boy who made good. Your star is on the rise, Simon. All she’d need to do is look you up online to see you have a bright future, to see an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?”
Samantha starts to bite at the skin around her thumb. It’s a nasty habit, and one I’ve only seen her resort to in particularly stressful times.
“Just tell me, Samantha.”
“She has a child.”
Now my head drops into my hands. “Holy fuck.”
“Simon, please listen to me. You and I both know this happens all the time. Who’s to say she didn’t get herself knocked up after you left? And now, bingo, years later she sees that a boy from her past has made something of himself. Problem, meet solution.” She adds, “He looks too young to be yours…It doesn’t add up.”
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“I—”
“Yousawhim?Him? It’s aboy?”
Her eyes are wide with fear. “There was, uh, a picture.” Her voice is pitched high when she adds, “Even Mom thought he looked way younger than what she claimed.”
“Samantha, I’m serious, whatever you’re keeping from me, get it right fucking now or I’m going to tear this house apart myself.”
She’s crying as she stands on legs that visibly tremble. “Wait here.”
She heads back to her room, shaking her head in warning at her mother as they pass on the stairs. Mrs. Westfield stands at the entrance of the dining hall, opposite from where I am, but close enough to swoop in if needed. She knows the score—was in on it even—and now she’s going to have to help her daughter pick up the pieces.
Samantha returns with something pressed against her chest. I open my hand, angry that she’s still holding back from me. She puts the small square into my palm. “I burned the letter but I kept this.”
Ethan James - 2 years, 10 months. It’s written in Charlotte’s hand. I stare at the name but can’t bring myself to turn it over for some reason. When I do will myself to look at the photo, I crouch back down and take a seat on the couch, speechless. He is small, this little guy, but I don’t really know what a two or three-year-old is supposed to look like. His face is what knocks the wind from me, though. It’s that picture of me and my brothers. I was around five or six in that shot, but this boy looks like me, like us. There’s no denying this child is a Wade.
