Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “Promise?”

  “Pinkie promise.” It was out before I could stop it, before I remembered there was no guarantee I’d be able to keep my word, not with what I was about to do. I imagined the agony of losing him, of us saying our final goodbyes, and as the pain threatened to rip me apart, I had to inject a giant syringe of fake enthusiasm into my voice. “About this road trip. We’ll leave in the morning and head for a cool campsite I found by a lake. We can swim and fish.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, for real.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” he whispered, giving me a hug. “You’re the best. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, blinking hard as I pressed my lips on the top of his head.

  * * *

  We loaded up the truck the next morning with our overnight backpacks, a cooler full of food and drinks, sleeping bags, my old tent and a set of beach toys. Logan was still yawning and rubbing his eyes when we stopped at a drive-thru thirty minutes later.

  “Want anything?” I said.

  “Chocolate donut?” He gave me a goofy smirk, wiggled his eyebrows à la Kevin McCallister in Home Alone, a movie that had made the three of us laugh so hard we’d cried.

  I grinned at him. “What is it with Americans and their donuts? I was going to suggest white milk and a multigrain bagel...but whatever. Double chocolate with sprinkles?”

  Logan’s mouth dropped open, probably willing me to get the food in it so he could gobble it down before I changed my mind. Grace would’ve crucified me for feeding Logan crap before ten in the morning, hell, at any time, but she wasn’t there, and in the case of double chocolate donut versus kidnapping, I’d take the sugar sin, thanks very much.

  As I picked up our order from the window, Ivan’s number flashed on my mobile. I hadn’t told him or Lisa we were going away. If I answered, he’d quiz me about where we were and what we were doing, plus he’d mentioned us going over there tonight for dinner, said he’d make his famous Swedish meatballs. Tempting, because he was as much of a beast in the kitchen as he was in the ring, but our camping aka fact-finding mission took priority over everything.

  I switched my phone to silent and settled into my seat, listened to Logan humming along to the country radio station tunes, enjoyed the warmth from the sun streaming in through the windshield, the temperature uncharacteristically high for the time of year.

  This was the calm before a monstrous, category five hurricane, which had the potential to rip our lives apart, change them forever. And still I pointed the truck east and drove, knowing full well I was heading directly for the eye of the storm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Although the Happy Families Campground on the shores of East Brimfield Lake sounded cheesier than a family-sized bag of Cheetos, it appeared a safe bet for a night or two, and a few hours later we pulled up to our designated spot, next to a tent the size of a small county. A gray-haired woman dressed in fluorescent pink shorts and a neon green T-shirt looked up, and as soon as Logan and Cookie got out of the truck she clapped her hands and said, “Oh, my stars, I’m in love.”

  “Good morning,” I said, wishing the office had given us a space farther away from our neighbors so I didn’t have to engage in chitchat. With my luck she was a retired schoolteacher who’d give me the third degree about why Logan wasn’t in class.

  “Glorious day, isn’t it?” she said, tilting her head to the blue skies. “Are you on vacation?”

  I nodded. “Kind of. One night. Maybe two.”

  “How lovely, me, too. I’m about to meet my sister at the café for lunch. Have you been? The ribs are delicious, but you’ve got to get there early. Want me to save you a spot?”

  “Thanks, we’re all set.”

  “You’ll regret it, trust me, but suit yourself.” She waved at Logan. “Bye, cutie.”

  Logan helped me unload the truck, and before long we made a first attempt at setting up the ancient tent I hadn’t used since I’d backpacked around Australia more than a decade earlier. Cookie’s idea of assistance consisted of gnawing on the strings and poles, but eventually the decrepit two-sleeper stood firm, albeit leaning somewhat to the left. We sat on the ground, ate sandwiches and drank a can of pop from the cooler.

  “Want to check out the lake?” I said after we’d finished, handing Logan his bathing suit. Before I had a chance to slip off my shoes, Logan had already dashed into the tent to change, and took off in the direction of the water with a whoop and a squeal.

  He jumped in and leaped straight out again. “Argh! It’s freezing, Dad.”

  I chuckled as he ran up the beach, jumping around in an attempt to get warm. “Maybe you should’ve dipped a toe in first?”

  “Toes are for losers,” Logan yelled. “Charge!” He disappeared beneath the surface while Cookie barked at him and ran around in circles.

  When Logan resurfaced he laughed out loud, a deep belly sound I hadn’t heard in months, and it was all I needed to entice me into joining him. Logan was right; the water was freezing, tiny ice picks piercing my skin, but it felt pure and cleansing, almost as if it could wash the last three months clean away. I swam the few yards over to Logan, picked him up and lifted him above my head.

  “Throw me,” he said, waving his arms around. “Please, Dad, throw me!”

  We’d played the game before at the local swimming pool, got growled at by one of the lifeguards for being unsafe. The shores were empty here, nobody to stop our messing around. I scanned the lake and launched Logan like a human missile. He dived into the clear water, hooting and splashing as he resurfaced. “Again. Again!”

  I didn’t stop until my biceps burned and had to practically crawl to the beach, where I flopped down on a towel. Cookie ran over, shook her coat, covering me in speckles of sand and water. I rubbed the dog’s belly and watched Logan play on the shore for a few minutes. He was on his hands and knees, a yellow plastic bucket with a picture of a starfish by his side, an orange shovel in his hands, the tip of his tongue peeping out from between his lips.

  “Whatcha doin’?” I asked.

  “Diggin’ a moat. Anybody who attacks my castle will be eaten by crocodiles.”

  “Crocodiles? That’s a tough break. Want some help?”

  Logan looked up. “Yes, please. But I’ll be the king.”

  “As you command, Sire. I am but a subject.” I gave a short bow, which sent Logan off into another fit of giggles as he whispered “butt subject” under his breath.

  Over the next hour we fashioned a castle Logan declared better than Disneyland’s, decorating it with pebbles, twigs and a flag made of candy wrappers. More people arrived, older couples, some younger ones with small children, no doubt on vacation before the summer rush and mandatory high-season price hikes.

  I lay back on my towel, stared up at the sky as my body warmed in the sun and thought how quickly my life had changed after I’d met Grace in the middle of the street on a rainy April day. We’d spent the next two hours in the coffee shop before going our separate ways, her phone number safely tucked away again in my pocket, where I wouldn’t forget about it this time.

  I’d called Ivan that evening. “You’re never going to believe this. This afternoon I met the woman I’m going to marry.”

  Ivan groaned. “Pass me the barf bucket, man. You had a fight in the ring today? Someone smack you in the head or something?”

  “No,” I answered, too high on the memory of Grace to be offended. “She’s amazing, mate. Really. So is her son.”

  Ivan made a choking noise. “What happened to not wanting someone else’s problem?”

  “You’ll never guess who it is...” I said, ignoring his dig.

  “No way. You met Grace? You finally called her, huh?”

  “Not exactly. We met in the street by accident.”

  “Get out of here. Isn’t she great? I knew you two wou
ld get along.”

  “You’re right, but I’m not the one you need to convince.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She seems...hesitant,” I said.

  “Maybe, but she’s a great person. She deserves to be with someone who cares about her. Anyway, leave it to me. I need a new book. I’ll stop in at Ruby & Rose’s, and—”

  I laughed. “Back away, my friend. I can manage this on my own.”

  I’d called Grace the next day, asked when I could see her again. She’d seemed surprised to hear from me so soon, maybe surprised to hear from me at all.

  “Let me take you for lunch today,” I said.

  “Josh, I’m flattered. But I have Logan, and I can’t get a sitter that easily—”

  “We could go to the aquarium,” I said. “The three of us. There’s one in Schenectady.”

  Grace didn’t answer right away, but when she did, I heard a smile in her voice. “You want our first date to be at an aquarium...with my kid?” And then she’d laughed, a gentle sound, making me feel strangely breathless, and I’d laughed, too, before we arranged for me to pick them up. I’d begged Lisa for cash, and she’d been happy to oblige when I told her why.

  Logan accepted me within twenty minutes of us arriving at the aquarium. One chocolate ice cream later, and I felt his sticky hand slip into mine as he pointed at the clown fish, then at my shoulders and said, “Up?”

  I’d often wondered if people thought we were a regular family that day; a mom, dad and son on a fun day out. I hoped so, because I already felt I was exactly where I belonged, as if I’d finally found my purpose. It might not have been building the winding roads or physics-defying bridges I’d dreamed of as a kid, but when Logan giggled as a seahorse grabbed hold of another’s tail, and Grace squeezed my hand, I knew I was finally home.

  It had taken a while to gain Grace’s trust, even longer for her to tell me she loved me, but I wasn’t after a fling, much to Lisa’s delight, who declared Grace the sister she’d always wanted.

  “What do you see in me?” I asked Grace on more than one occasion. “I’m a broke thirty-year-old with a crappy job and no real prospects.”

  She’d simply answered, “You’re a good man. You love me, you love Logan. It’s all we’ll ever need.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” Logan’s voice startled me and I opened my eyes, so lost in the memories I’d forgotten we were by the lake. “I get sad, too.”

  I looked at him, confused until I felt a tear leak out of my eye and slide down the side of my face. Logan leaned in, his eyelashes tiny fluttering wings against my bare arm.

  “I get the saddest when I’m having fun,” he whispered. “Because I’m happy and then remember Mom’s gone, and I don’t want to have fun anymore because it makes me feel bad.”

  I pulled him in for a hug. Lisa had often accused me of becoming emotionally stunted after our parents had died, incapable of feeling anything, or worse, refusing to, and she hadn’t been wrong. Their deaths were something I still couldn’t talk about, didn’t want to talk about. Grace had pulled me from that deep, detached state, and I never wanted to disappear into it again. At least the raw, stabbing pain of grief I felt in the core of my heart meant I was still alive.

  We moseyed back to the tent, pulled out the cooler and set to work grilling hot dogs to absolute perfection in the nearby firepit. Logan got a kick out of the telescopic forks I’d bought at the Dollar Tree in the fall. Grace had laughed at them, called me a “silly sausage,” an expression Logan had borrowed since.

  While I ate one hot dog, Logan devoured three, including one that fell on the ground despite my insistence he throw it away. Cookie chewed her kibble, throwing us an occasional look of disappointment, drool running out of her mouth as she eyed the food. Once we’d cleaned up and brushed our teeth, we settled down in the tent, zipped into our sleeping bags as the temperature outside slowly dropped. We lay on our sides, facing each other with Cookie between us, as we listened to the chirping crickets.

  Logan reached out, rubbed his hand over my cheek. “This was the best day ever.”

  “Really? You enjoyed it that much?”

  “Yes.” His mouth turned into a yawn, and he closed his eyes. “It’s been my favorite since Mom left.” He looked at me. “Can she see us? From heaven?”

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “I bet she’s looking down at you right now thinking how brave you’ve been. And how well you’re taking care of little Cookie.” I watched him smile and close his eyes again, listened as his breathing slowed, his chest moving up and down with increasing regularity. I took in the pattern of the freckles on his nose, his long eyelashes, the little dimples on his cheeks, barely visible now he was almost asleep.

  “I love you, Logan,” I said, and kissed him softly on the forehead, forcing the lump back down my throat. “I love you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I’m not sure what was louder, the clap of thunder roaring right above our heads, or the sound of Logan’s retching. Either way, I grabbed the flashlight and leaped to my feet. My head bounced off the roof of the tent, making me crouch back down. Cookie cowered in the corner, and Logan was on his hands and knees, a pile of fresh vomit pooling on top of his sleeping bag.

  “I don’t feel well.” He clutched his belly, his face like old scrunched-up newspaper.

  I swallowed the saliva running down the inside of my mouth, grabbed a plastic bag and handed it to him. As Logan was sick again, the wind picked up, and drops of rain hit the tent at an increasingly alarming speed. A flash of lightning lit everything up, illuminating Logan’s crumpled face, the sound of intense thunder echoing above us.

  Cookie whined, and when Logan threw up a third time, I poured him a cup of water, rubbed the back of his sweat-soaked pajamas. He brought up whatever he drank, until he pushed the cup away, refusing to try again. With the next flash of lightning I noticed the leak, rivulets of water traveling down the tent seams and dripping onto our sleeping bags.

  “This is hopeless.” I wrapped a towel around Logan. “We have to get out of here.”

  He didn’t argue as I piled him and Cookie in the truck, shoved the cooler in the trunk and threw together a backpack as they waited. I drove up the road to a motel I remembered passing on the way to the campsite. The rain splashed against the windshield when we pulled up, the flickering neon lights of the Keyes Motel sign making the place resemble something Norman Bates would have reveled in. I shuddered, but Logan had already used the plastic bag I’d given him, the tent might have been washed into the lake and we needed a dry place to sleep. If Psycho was in the Keyes Motel and wanted a fight, he’d picked the wrong guy.

  I lifted Logan up, praying to the Intestinal Gods he wouldn’t barf down my back, and grabbed Cookie’s lead. We made a mad dash to the motel’s office, where I chucked the vomit bag in the trash can outside and yanked the door open, only to be greeted by the rank smell of damp, mixed with stale cigarettes. A portly man sat at the counter, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, a sweat-ringed, red baseball cap askew on his head. He threw us a disinterested look before returning to his tablet.

  “Hi,” I said. “We need a room. My son’s really sick.”

  The man grunted, got up and reached for a panel full of keys, but when he took a second look at us, he shook his head. “No pets.”

  “It’s only for the night. She won’t be any trouble.”

  “Motel policy.” He pointed to a yellowing, hand-written sign on the wall: No Pets Aloud.

  I tried hard to keep my voice even. “Fine. I’ll leave her in the truck.”

  Logan tugged my sleeve. “No, Dad—”

  “We have to follow the rules. I’ll leave the window open a tiny bit and check on Cookie every couple of hours, okay? We have to get you warmed up and into bed.”

  “Your kid’s not going to puke everywhere, is he?” the man said, and it
was all I could do to stop myself from vaulting over the desk and pinning him to the wall.

  “Don’t worry,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’ll clean up whatever mess we make.”

  I signed the paperwork, handed over my credit card for the fifty-dollar charge I hadn’t budgeted for and grabbed the keys to room 4. It turned out to be the size of an old shoe cupboard, and smelled only slightly more appealing, but by that point I didn’t care.

  Once I’d laid Logan on the bed I made a show of going back to the truck and putting Cookie inside. The man from the front desk was eyeing me through the window, I was certain, but as soon as I turned my back I scooped the puppy up and hid her inside my jacket before grabbing the backpack and returning to the room. No more than thirty seconds had passed, but Logan had already rushed to the bathroom, knelt in front of the toilet, groaning as he held his stomach.

  I got down beside him, rubbed his back as he retched until there was nothing left to bring up. “It hurts, Dad,” he said, crying hard. “It really, really hurts.”

  I hugged him, carried him to the bed, where he slipped under the thin, scratchy blankets as Cookie snuggled up next to him. As I pressed down on the lower right side of his stomach, I prayed it wasn’t appendicitis, something I’d had when I was ten. I didn’t want to imagine what would happen if Logan was that ill. The lack of medical insurance, my unemployment...it was enough to make me gag, too. I mopped his brow with a cool towel and coaxed him into taking some sips of water, hoping he’d hold them down.

  “Take this.” I pressed a Pepto-Bismol tablet into his hand, grateful when he agreed, and when he finally fell asleep, the grimace on his face eased. Cookie curled up between us, panting and whimpering until she drifted off, too.

  As I looked at Logan, I couldn’t help wondering about his parents, what they would’ve done in my situation. Would they have been out partying somewhere, too shit-faced to give a crap? Would they have taken care of him the way I was? Were they terrible, despicable people, or perfect parents who could offer him far more in life than I ever could?