Could I Have This Dance? (62 page)

She’d gone to the hospital to see if she could discover the reason for Clay’s crash. But in the process, she had uncovered something more disturbing than a reason for his death: she didn’t know the reason for his life. His blood type revealed that Wally couldn’t be his father. And if Wally hadn’t fathered Clay, then who had fathered Clay’s twin sister?

“Who am I?” she whispered to herself.

On the day her father had finally said “I love you,” she’d discovered he may not be her father at all.

Chapter Forty-Five

D
elia arrived hugging an armload of groceries, to find Wally on the couch staring at the TV screen, with the phone on the floor beside him. His cheeks were moist. Perhaps something on the TV had upset him.

Della heaved the groceries onto the kitchen counter. “I’m home, Wally.”

Wally didn’t answer right away. Della didn’t expect him to. Speech initiation was often a problem in HD.

Life had changed so much for them, since the mystery had been solved. Finally there was an explanation for his altered speech, his apathy, poor impulse control, his irritability, the emotional roller coaster that took him from high to low within a moment’s time. Finally there was an explanation for his difficulty with making choices, even obvious ones like when to urinate or what to eat. Finally, there was a reason for the constant movements he couldn’t control.

But Wally didn’t often cry. This had been a recent development. Della had seen it when he watched Clay in the ICU, then later when he talked with Pastor Phil about Clay, eternity, and God’s forgiveness.

Maybe it was a new stage, a loss of impulse control, just like his anger and frustration. She walked to his side and dried his face with a kitchen towel. “What’s wrong, honey?”

He paused, his head in constant motion, unable to lock onto her face for more than a few seconds.

She’d learned to be patient. He would tell her if she waited.

“Cccla—Claire called.”

Della sat beside him on the couch and waited as he jerked his story out. It seemed as though his breathing could not be coordinated with his mouth and lips. The message that he wanted to speak didn’t arrive at his mouth and his lungs at the same time. But she waited, and eventually understood, through the jumble of starts and stops, and the slurred speech, what Wally had done.

Della understood. The tears were not an impulse problem. The tears were joy, and God’s Spirit was the fountain from which they flowed.

She kissed his cheek, but not before their foreheads collided. Della knew that embracing a patient with HD carried this risk, but this opportunity was not to be neglected. Hazards to the wind. She needed to kiss her husband.

She stabilized his face in her hands and kissed him again. “Wally, you old softy.” She tussled his hair into disarray and stood. “I’ll fix you some lunch. I bought the Pringles you like so much.”

After lunch, and cleaning up Wally, the floor, and the table, Della helped him into the bathroom, and then into his wheelchair before pushing him into the afternoon sun on the back porch facing the Blue Ridge. She sat on the porch swing and called Claire, nestling the phone against her shoulder and watching Wally.

Claire picked up after one ring. “Hello.”

“Claire, it’s Mom.”

Della heard her sigh, a sure sign that Claire was worried.
What’s up now, little girl? You’re always stressed lately.
“How was your flight?”

“Mom, who is my father?”

The question blindsided her.
What? Where did that come from?
Della grabbed the phone and jumped off the swing. Then, with one glance at her husband, she slipped into the house. “Claire, what on earth—”

“Mom, I know. Don’t play games with me.”

Now Della was the one in need of a deep breath. But somehow, it wouldn’t come. Her chest felt tight, constricted by a band of fear that wouldn’t let her inhale. She stared at the phone. This was so like Claire. Direct. Straight to the bottom line. She’d never been the child to skirt around an important issue. “H—how?”

“I went over Clay’s medical record. I saw his blood type, Mom. Clay is type A. He can’t be Daddy’s son.”

Della stumbled into the bedroom and closed the door. The moment she’d feared for nearly three decades had come.

“I—I hardly know what to say.”

“How about the truth?” Claire started to cry. “You deceived me, Mom.”

“No, Claire. I was never sure myself.” She halted, unsure how to proceed.
Oh, God, help me.
“Claire, honey, believe me. I only did what I thought was best. I made some bad choices a long time ago. And I never really thought it would make a difference if you knew.”

“A difference? I don’t even know—”

“Let me speak, Claire,” she interrupted. “As a mother, I only wanted what was best for you and Clay. I didn’t think it would be fair for you to
grow up under the shadow of my sin. It was my cross, not yours.” Della massaged her fingers against her forehead.

“Does Daddy know?”

She hesitated. “Yes. He knew of my affair. But he never seemed to question if our children were his. If he did, he never let on.”

“But why keep it from us?”

“By the time you were old enough to understand, you and Wally were having a bad time communicating. I couldn’t see throwing in another question that would threaten your relationship.” She clutched the collar of her blouse. “Claire, I did the best I knew how. I’m so sorry.”

“And what about now? Why not tell me so I wouldn’t have spent months worrying about coming down with Huntington’s disease?”

“Because I was never sure. I suspected, but I never really knew for a fact that Clay wasn’t Wally’s.” She paused. Her breath was coming easier now. “So I guess you don’t need to worry about HD. Margo’s negative. It looks like HD will stop in the McCall family with Wally.”

“Is this why you wanted me to talk Clay into being tested? You suspected he was negative all along?”

“I wanted him to stop all of his risk-taking.”

“And you didn’t worry about me? Didn’t you want to relieve me too?”

“It seemed different with you. You were always stronger than Clay. I could see that you could handle it, but Clay … I was afraid he would … die.” The words lodged in her throat, as she understood the irony. “Oh, Claire, do you think if I’d have told him the truth, that he’d be alive today? Did the threat of HD push Clay into the circumstances which killed him?”

“No, Mom. You can’t allow yourself to think that way. You did the best you knew how. You didn’t will for this to happen.”

Della paced the little bedroom, not knowing what to say or what to think. A sin long buried was back in her face, tearing at her soul again.

“Mom? Momma?”

Della took a deep breath. “I’m here.”

“I need to know something else.” She was reluctant to continue.

“What is it Claire?”

“Could I be Wally’s?”

“Claire, you’re Clay’s twin. You couldn’t be.”

“But we’re fraternal. That means that we could have different fathers.” She stopped. “If you were … with two different men … within a short time.”

‘A short time?” Jimmy made the house call a day before Wally returned from sea. She hesitated to confess. “I guess … it’s possible.”

“Then I could be Daddy’s girl?”

“You’re the doctor, Claire. I didn’t know such things were possible.”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. “Mom, I’m blood type O, just like you.” More silence, and a tapping noise.

Della looked at her nails. Claire drummed her fingernails just like her.

“Wally is type B. I need to know the blood type of the other man.”

More tapping noise.

“Who was he, Mom? Is he still alive?”

“He’s alive.”

“Mom, I need to know.”

“I promised him I’d never tell another soul.”

“This is different, Mom. It’s my future.”

Della closed her eyes tightly and let the name escape before she could retrieve it. “Jimmy Jenkins.”

There was no audible response. She supposed Claire hadn’t heard or was just being polite by not gasping.

After a moment, Della spoke. “Claire?”

“I heard you, Mom.” She paused. “I’ll need to ask him a few questions.”

Della lifted the bedroom curtain and looked out at Wally. “Do what you have to do, honey,” she spoke softly. “I’m so tired of keeping this secret.”

Chapter Forty-Six

B
y the next evening, Claire was still brooding over the news of her mother’s deception. She thought twice about canceling her date with Brett, then decided that having a friend to share the load might be just what she needed. Claire arrived at Brett’s to find preparations in full swing for a romantic evening. He had set a table on his back deck, hors d’oeuvres were arranged on a clear plate shaped like a sea scallop, there were pink roses on the counter, and a bottle of wine was chilling.

She inspected the scene. “Brett!” she scolded, looking at the bottle of wine.

He pointed a finger in her face, gently tapping her nose. “You only get one glass. I know how you get when you drink.”

“Where did you learn to do this?”

He shrugged. “My mother.”

“I’d like to meet her. She must be a wonderful woman to put up with more than one surgeon in the house.”

He poured the wine and handed her a glass.

She accepted with a twinge of hesitation. She took a small sip and set the glass on the counter. “Let’s walk on the beach before dinner.”

They crossed the road, hand in hand, and slipped off their shoes. The sand was cool between her toes. Brett dropped her hand and took long, leaping steps, making footprints in the sand. Claire followed, and tried to land in the impressions he made.

Brett frowned. “What’s wrong? You are way too quiet.”

“I talked to my mom last night.”

They walked slowly, as Claire shared her new discovery about Clay’s paternity, her mother’s affair with the town doctor, and how Wally had said the words which broke her heart. “It’s weird, Brett. Just hearing him say ‘I love you’ seemed to change something inside me.”

His expression told her he didn’t understand.

“Maybe it’s just a father-daughter thing,” she offered. “Maybe all these years that I’ve been running from home, trying to do great things, I was really trying to win his approval.”

“You’re sounding like a psychiatrist, Claire,” he responded playfully. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t usually get these things.”

She punched his side. “You’re a man. You’ll never get these things.” She paused. “Unless you have a daughter one day.”

“If I do, I hope she looks like you.”

Claire tried not to smile as she examined the man beside her.
You have fallen for me hard, haven’t you, lifeguard boy?
She looked at the waves, conscious of the soothing effect the rhythm had upon her. Wally loved her. Brett was holding her hand. The air seemed to carry the expectation of brighter days.

“So what about Dr. Jenkins? Did you talk to him? Did you ask him about his blood type?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I didn’t know what to say. I started thinking about what his response would be, and I guess I chickened out.”

“Claire, you need to know. This whole Huntington’s disease cloud you’ve been walking under may all be imagined. You need to ask him about his blood type. Wally may not be your father after all.”

Claire nudged closer to Brett and slowed her pace. The wind had picked up, and the spray of the surf felt cold on her neck. Brett responded and put his arm around her shoulders. “I know that, Brett. And believe me, I want to know about my risk for Huntington’s, but … well, the fatherhood issue is different for me. It’s not just a DNA issue.”

“What is this, psychiatry revisited?”

“Don’t joke, Brett. This is serious for me. I keep thinking about something my mother said to Grandma McCall about Daddy. I remember it so clearly because I sat there amazed that this woman, whom I’d written off as so shallow when I was leaving home, could come up with something so profound.”

“Well?”

“She said that blood doesn’t change fatherhood in the real world. Maybe yes at some biological level, but not in relationships where it counts.”

She continued, looking out at the swells which crested near the shoreline. “For me, Wally is always going to be my father. That’s what God intended for me. For years, I’ve hated the fact that my father was the town drunk. But I’m beginning to see him differently now. HD has changed everything.”

“So what about Clay, his accident? Are you ready to move on?” He hesitated. “Let’s make this evening a milestone, Claire. Let’s move on. Together.”

Claire leaned against Brett’s strong frame, absorbing his strength, drawing from his encouragement to let the past go. She didn’t want to cry. “Okay,” she said.

They walked on toward the fishing pier which jutted sharply from the sand into the frigid ocean. The waves were large, crashing with a force which caused Claire to nestle even closer to Brett, and slow their stride to a meditative pace which they continued in silence.

They walked out onto the pier, an old wooden structure with thick pilings which held the walkway high above the water below. There was a small shack on the pier, a hundred feet back from the end, a bait supply which was empty now, left desolate by fishermen unwilling to endure the cold evening wind.

At the end, Claire looked down at the waves, frothing and grasping at the barnacled pilings some fifteen feet below.

“Here,” Brett urged, “lean out into the wind.” He guided her to stand upon the first crosspiece of the railing. “One more,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

She dared to obey, and with his strong arms around her waist, she leaned over into the wind. She could not look down, only forward. “I’m afraid.”

“I won’t let you fall. It’s time to trust.”

For Claire, it seemed a moment of epiphany. She had walked in her own strength for so long, priding herself in her own abilities, independent of her hometown, her family, her father, and her God.

She slowly raised her arms to her side. She was an eagle, ready for flight.