So Much More (35 page)

More honesty. I shake my head and feel my face scrunch up as a fresh round of regret and emotion batter me. “No, not at the time.”

He huffs like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“But now? I’d give anything to go back to the first day we met. I’d give anything to be a different person then. I’d give anything to have been able to love you the way you loved me.” My words are shaky and tear stained.

His watery eyes fill quickly and spill onto his cheeks in a silent display, and I know that he knows my secret. “Were you ever going to tell me about Kira?”

I’m not even shocked that he knows. I’m relieved I didn’t have to drop the bombshell on him. “No.” It’s a single syllable delivered on an exhalation of air, all emotion, lacking enunciation.

Hate and hurt are uncorked. Again. His face pinches in with heartache. “You bitch. Kira isn’t a pawn in your fucked up games.
She’s a child. She’s my child.
” His hissing whispers assault me.

It makes my throat tighten. I swallow hard against it. “I know.”

“You know?” he says loudly, it sounds strangled, like the words are lodged in his windpipe.

I wait until his wild eyes find mine, and I lay it all out. “I made a lot of mistakes in our relationship over the years. A lot.” I take a deep, shuddering breath before I continue, “I’m so sorry. But when I see you with Kira, I know that my getting pregnant with her wasn’t one of them. No matter who fathered her, you’re her daddy…and she’s your little girl, Seamus. That’s no mistake.”

The sobs wrack his body silently before they find volume, and when they do it’s excruciating to witness. His face drops into his hands and his shoulders rise and fall in the stuttering attack of emotion. When he catches his breath, his eyes find Kira sleeping in the chair near me. “She’s mine. In my heart she’s always been, no question. But she’s legally mine too, I signed adoption papers a few weeks back. Loren took care of all of it.”

If it’s possible for my shattered heart to feel relief, it does. “He never wanted children. I’m glad.” I also know that any chance of reconciliation with Seamus is impossible. His heart and mine just aren’t puzzle pieces that will ever fit together.

They say the truth will set you free.

That’s bullshit.

I feel like I’ve been trampled on.

And Miranda looks like a ghost. Pale. Translucent. Void of life.

I’ve never felt exhaustion like this. I’m emotionally drained. A vessel of bone and tissue, hollow to its core. I let silence grant us both respite for a few minutes before I wipe my wet face off on the front of my shirt. There’s no point in discussing any of this further. It’s all been said. Insults have been hurled. Shit’s been slung. I’m done. “Do you want some coffee?”

She nods. “Please.”

I get us coffee and we drink it in silence.

The kids wake to use the bathroom and go back to sleep.

We get periodic updates on Kai. No change. They assure us that’s a good thing. It doesn’t feel like a good thing when you’re a parent.

Somewhere around five in the morning, Miranda excuses herself to make a phone call.
 

An hour later she excuses herself again, to the bathroom this time, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. They’re grim.
 

“Excuse me?”

There’s a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair standing in front of me. Drowning in my grim thoughts, I didn’t see him walk in.

He speaks again when I don’t. “I’m sorry, excuse me. I’m looking for Kai McIntyre’s mother, Miranda. You wouldn’t happen to know her?”

I nod. “She ran to the restroom. She’ll be back any minute.” And then I remember my manners because the shock of the past several hours has stifled everything except basic survival skills, pleasantries have been forgotten, and I offer my hand. “I’m Seamus McIntyre. Kai is my son.”

He pats the side of my forearm with one hand while he shakes with the other. “I’m so sorry to hear about Kai. Miranda said he was out of surgery, but in ICU, when I talked to her on the phone.”

I nod as our hands part.

“I’m Benito Aragon. I work with Miranda at Good Samaritan House.” He points with his thumb down the hall. “Is the restroom this direction?”

I nod again.

“I’ll just go and look for her. It was nice to meet you, Seamus. My prayers are with Kai.”

“Thank you.” I watch him walk away, not because I’m interested but because it’s something to do to keep my mind off what’s happening with Kai. When he’s out of sight, my face drops into my hands. I’m bent over thinking. Thinking that the darkness behind my hands is preferable to the overhead florescent lighting. Thinking about the pain in my head, it feels like my skull is being squeezed in a vise. Thinking about—a hand on my shoulder interrupts the thought. I know that touch. “Please tell me you’re real?” I beg from behind my hands. I’m talking in a voice that I usually reserve for internal dialogue, it’s questioning, but pessimistic. “I need you to be real.
Please
.”
 

“I’m real,” she whispers in my ear.

When I raise my head and remove my hands, she’s kneeling on the dingy tan linoleum in front of me with tears glistening in her eyes. I never thought I would see her again. She’s even more beautiful than I remember. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I. I pull her in for a hug without asking. It’s a hug that dissolves everything for a few minutes. “I’ve missed you, Faith. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Seamus.” Her voice cracks on my name. “How’s Kai?”

“He’s in ICU. They won’t let me in to see him.” I sniff. “How did you know?”

When I pull back from the hug, she swipes her hands under her eyes. “Miranda asked Benito to find me. He drove me here.”
 

I try to smile. “I knew I liked Benito.”

She laughs through her tears. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. We picked up Hope from Miranda’s house too. She wanted to see you all and check on Kai.”

Hope is peeking around the corner, keeping her distance, trying to give us privacy. I wave her in. “Come on in and sit down, Hope.”

She walks in and sets a grocery sack on the chair next to me. “I brought some food from Miranda’s. Figured you hadn’t eaten nothing.”

“Thanks, Hope. That was very thoughtful of you. The kids will love it when they wake up.”

She nods to acknowledge me and takes a seat in the corner.

I look back at the angel in front of me. “How do you know Benito?” I ask.

“Our introduction is a story for another time, but now I rent a room from his brother and work in their bakery.”

I don’t know if the smile registers on my lips, but I feel it. I’m happy Faith made a change. “That’s great. I’m proud of you.”

She blushes and changes the subject when the kids stir. “Let’s eat.”

Rory and Kira are groggy and disoriented when they wake, but after they use the bathroom they’re both hungry. Hope made monkey bread. She’s officially their hero.

The room fills up quickly when Miranda and Benito join us with several cups of coffee and juice. The monkey bread disappears, and all that remains are sticky fingers and full bellies.

It’s then that we receive the news that Kai is improving. If he continues, he’ll be moved out of ICU by late afternoon. There was a moment immediately following the birth of each of my children that I felt intensely and overwhelmingly grateful to be given the gift of fatherhood. This news is the trigger that makes it swell within me again.
Thank you
. I repeat it over and over in my mind.

Relief floods the room. I see it in every face. We’re a mismatched tribe with a common link—we’re Kai supporters. Miranda is weeping into Benito’s shoulder. The kids are both hugging me. And Faith and Hope are holding hands in the chairs in the corner. Relief.

“Were your kids all born here? In this hospital?” Faith’s looking at me with her inquisitive, blue eyes.

I glance at Miranda before looking at Rory and Kira sitting on either side of me. “They were,” I answer with a smile.

“My God, I bet it was breathtaking,” she looks at Miranda before tracing her gaze back to me, “watching your babies come into the world.” Tears begin trickling down her cheeks, but she’s smiling. She wipes them away with her free hand. She’s still holding Hope’s with the other.

“It was. Each time. Witnessing their first breath. Hearing their first cry. Looking at their sweet face. Counting their fingers and toes. From the very first moment they imprinted on my soul, an unbreakable connection. It was breathtaking.”

Hope sniffles next to Faith. Her eyes are a glassy with happiness. “It felt like hope.” I’ve never seen this kind of emotion exhibited by her. She’s usually indifferent or detached.

I don’t know if that was a statement or a question, but I agree because she’s right. “It did feel like hope.”

She nods in return.

Faith is staring at me, and she’s still smiling. “Do you think my mom felt that way when I was born?” She looks content. The way she asked the question makes me wonder if she’s put the search for her birth mother behind her or if she’s approaching it with a new perspective and less desperation.

I answer, “I’m sure she did,” and I mean it. Faith has this incredible energy about her. I’m sure it was evident the moment she was born, that she was special.

Hope hops to her feet with an urgency I’ve never seen her display. She tugs on my hand that she’s still holding. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”

“Okay.” I stand and follow her out of the waiting room.
 

When we’re in the elevator, she pushes the button for the fourth floor. The doors open to a reception desk where a friendly looking woman greets us with a toothy smile and crinkled eyes. “Good morning. Do you need help with a room number?”

I’m at a loss, so I look to Hope.

She tries to smile at the woman, but the happy tears from earlier have been replaced with sadness she’s trying ward off. “Room four hundred.”

The woman slides a clipboard in front of us. “Sign in and I’ll need to see ID please.”

I write down my name and start to write down hers, but she stops me when I write Hope and sets her State of California ID card on the counter in front of me. It reads Jane Marie Martin. I scratch out Hope and write Jane Martin instead. The woman verifies our IDs and buzzes us through a secure door.

“Your name’s Jane?” I ask.

She stops walking and faces me. Sometimes Hope’s stories are random. She tells them like I’m privy to every detail of her life. I follow along the best I can. This is one of those stories. “When I was eighteen, Mama married Jonas. Jonas moved into Mama’s house and told me I couldn’t live there no more. Mama knew a lady, Mrs. Lipokowski, who had an apartment. Mrs. Lipokowski was real nice and gave me a job. I wasn’t no good at it though, working with customers and money, so she filled out a bunch of papers for me and I got money in the mail every month instead. She says it’s called public assistance. She takes a little bit for my rent, and I buy food with the rest. Mrs. Lipokowski’s always been real nice to me. Like I wish my mama would’ve been. When I turned twenty years old, I told her that I didn’t like my name, that I liked Hope better. She said I could be called whatever I want. Ever since that day I called myself Hope ‘cause I feel better with that name. It’s special.”

“Where are we going, Hope?” I’m nervous now. I have no idea why, but the tears running down her cheeks are puzzling.

She takes my hand and walks silently to room four hundred. She slows as we approach the open door. We take a few steps inside. There’s a woman sleeping in the bed.

When I start to retreat, retracing my steps backward so we don’t disturb the patient, Hope stops me with a firm, but gentle hand. “Do you know her?” I whisper.

She shakes her head without turning around to look at me. “No,” she whispers.

“Why are we here?” When I ask the question, I know the answer. I feel it in her touch.

Hope.

It felt like hope.

Good at keeping secrets