Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  I stroked Logan’s hair, made a silent vow that had been building inside me for days. If I found his family, if they were good people, the kind who’d love and cherish him the way I did, I’d consider telling them who Logan was. If they weren’t, I’d silently retreat, never talk about the situation again. Not to anyone. Not ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  By the time the first signs of dawn slid in between the tattered curtains, I’d already been staring at the ceiling for an hour, listening to Logan, who was still fast asleep, sprawled out on his back with his mouth open. I got off the bed, pulled on the clothes I’d chucked in a heap on the floor and crept to the window without making a sound. The weather hadn’t brightened, but the rain had morphed into a constant drizzle, extending from the sky as if it were a net curtain. So much for the uncharacteristically warm weather.

  When Cookie let out a quiet bark and hopped off the bed, I unlocked the door and we walked to the truck. My stomach grumbled. “You hungry?” I said, and she wagged her tail. “Yeah, me, too.”

  I dug around the cooler for some bread and peanut butter, and a pack of puppy food. Once I’d checked Logan was still asleep, I pulled on my jacket, sat on the plastic chair underneath the covered deck outside the room, gave Cookie kibble and water, and watched the Saturday morning come to life as we ate.

  The noise of the traffic on the main road slowly picked up, and bleary-eyed people emerged to load up their cars, moving on to what I hoped were pleasanter destinations. When a couple about my age walked out of the room two doors down, holding hands, kissing and laughing, an immediate pang of jealousy hit me. I looked away, envious because of what I’d lost, angry because I’d always question if it had ever been as real for Grace as it had for me and downright furious because I’d never know.

  “Okay,” I said to Cookie, ordering myself not to dwell. “Let’s check on your master.” She yawned, looked at me with one eye and rested her head on her front paws. I smiled. “Come on, little lass.”

  Logan sat up as soon as I opened the door, his face a mixture of sleep and confusion. “Where did you go, Dad? I woke up and you weren’t here. I was scared.”

  “Right outside. Thought I’d let you sleep. How are you feeling?”

  He stretched before flopping back down, burying his face in his pillow. “Better. But I stink,” he said, the words muffled.

  I walked over and ruffled his hair. “Yes, you do a bit. Want to shower and see how you feel afterward? I’ll get some clean clothes ready for you.”

  Ten minutes later, a citrus-smelling Logan emerged from the bathroom, his wet hair sticking up in a chicken-feathery mess. “I’m so hungry I want a whole pig for breakfast,” he said.

  “No can do. You’re on water and crackers today,” I said as Logan stuck out his tongue. “Don’t pull a face. We have to be sure you’ve got rid of your tummy bug.”

  He snuggled with Cookie on the way back to the campsite, and I made them both stay in the truck while I gathered the rest of our things, grateful the tent next to us was empty, too, so I could prepare myself for our next stop, one only I knew about.

  When I’d told Lisa I wouldn’t go looking for Charlie Abbott’s family, I’d lied. I’d deliberately chosen a campsite near Sturbridge, and as we’d got closer the day before, I’d wondered if I’d change my mind. If anything, I’d become more determined, even more so as I packed everything up, and we set off in the truck again, driving south.

  “Look! There’s a water park.” Logan’s yell made me jump, and he pointed at the huge sign of kids on inflatables, their grins ten feet wide. “Can we go? Can we?”

  I shook my head. “You were bringing up a lung last night. We definitely can’t—”

  “But I feel fine now, and—”

  “No. We can’t—”

  Logan crossed his arms and glared at me in the mirror. “Mom would let me. She’s—”

  “She’s not here.” I hadn’t meant to say it, not as harshly at least, and I wished I could pluck the words out of Logan’s ears and stuff them in my pocket.

  His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again he could have been a kid twice his age. “Yeah, and it’s your fault.”

  It took every ounce of effort to keep looking straight ahead. The veins in my temples throbbed as I took the next exit, where I pulled to the side of the road, switched off the engine and turned around. “What do you mean it’s my fault?”

  “You forgot the salt!” Logan shouted. “I heard her say not to. But you did!”

  I saw the resentment in his eyes, the hatred transforming his face into an ugly mask. I couldn’t blame him. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t stand who I saw, either. In his place I’d feel exactly the same, would’ve directed way more venom toward me. I’d never been my greatest fan, but now...being responsible for Grace’s death and not daring to admit it, finding out about Logan but not having the balls to go to the cops...

  Maybe that was the answer; drive to the nearest police station and tell them everything. Wouldn’t Logan be better off in the long-term without me, a lying coward, a pathetic excuse for a role model? If he hated me this much now, it could only get worse. His resentment would build and grow inside him, a destructive disease that would erupt, leaving a shell of a person behind.

  I wanted to talk to him, tell him I was sorry and beg him for forgiveness, but the words caught in my throat, threatening to strangle me as I slumped down. After wrestling with my seat belt forever, I got out of the truck, had to bend over by the side of the road, my chest heaving as I gulped in lungful after lungful of humid air. I don’t remember how long I stood there, only that Logan suddenly slipped his arms around my waist.

  “Please don’t be mad, Dad. Please,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  The red-hot pain in my chest was only a fraction of what he must have felt in his, and I deserved every last shred of his anger. “I’m sorry, Logan,” I whispered, kneeling and pulling him close. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  Our shoulders trembled as we stood by the side of the road, the increasingly fragile bond between us straining and writhing, threatening to break us apart forever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  We’d been back on the road for a little while, and neither of us had talked much since we’d got in the truck. I knew where I was going, had memorized the exact route to take and turned right as soon as I saw the cookie-cutter hotel on the corner. You could only go so far with Street View, and as soon as I got onto the dusty path flanked by towering oak trees, I entered unseen territory.

  My intention was to slow down when we passed the Abbotts’ house, get a quick look, park the truck and have a walk around, keep my distance. That changed when I saw the Harley-Davidson standing in the driveway, the opportunity too good to miss.

  I doubled back and parked. “I’ll be a minute,” I said. “Stay in the truck with Cookie.”

  “Okay.” He reached for the 101 Amazing Facts About Dogs book Ivan had given him, ready to read out loud to Cookie.

  As I walked up to the house the front door opened, and a woman I recognized from the news stepped outside, a cigarette between her lips and a beige, chipped coffee mug in her hand. She put the mug on the broken plastic table, and pulled her two-toned hair into a tight ponytail, her pink, tie-dye shirt rising up over her swollen baby-belly. When we finally made eye contact, I stumbled, recovered as fast as I could.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Uh... I saw your bike. It looks great.”

  “You’d better believe it.” She arched her back, and I suddenly had an image of her going into labor on the front steps. “Gotta love America’s finest.”

  “What year?”

  “Early ’90s.” She took a drag of her cigarette, blew the smoke from her nostrils before reaching for her cup.

  “I’m Josh,” I said, holding out a hand, but
she made no effort to move.

  “Jen.”

  I knew exactly who she was. Jennifer Abbott, twenty-seven, mom of Charlie Abbott, wife of Derek. I’d watched and rewatched the news reports of when Charlie went missing from this exact spot. A tiny bungalow, its roof now in even more desperate need of repair than it had appeared on TV, boarded-up windows on every floor, and rotting wooden steps that didn’t look sturdy enough to carry a child’s weight, let alone an adult’s. The garbage can to the left side overflowed with bags of trash, the pungent smell of rotting food wafting past me in the breeze. I told myself to stop feeling superior. If I hadn’t had Lisa’s help years ago, I’d probably have ended up in a similar place.

  “We might sell the bike.” She took another drag. “You interested?”

  “Why are you getting rid of it?”

  “Need the cash.” She picked a piece of tobacco from her lip and flicked it away.

  “Who doesn’t, right?”

  “Tell me about it.” Her smile took years off her face, almost made her a teenager. “Factory closed few months ago. Both me and my husband got laid off.”

  “Jeez, that’s rough.”

  “Yup.” She pointed to her stomach. “Nobody gonna hire me with this.”

  “You got more kids?” I said, and when she raised an eyebrow I quickly added, “Only, I know how tough it is. Got laid off, too. Few weeks back. Still need to take care of my boy, but they didn’t care.”

  “Powers that be never give a shit,” she huffed. “What kind of work d’ya do?”

  “Construction. Been tough for me, but I worry more for my son, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Her face softened some more. “I’ve got a girl. Huge pain in the ass already and she’s only two.” She took a final drag on her cigarette and flicked the butt onto the dusty driveway, where it landed a couple of yards from my feet. “You interested then? Only, it’s fine chatting and all, but I got stuff to do.”

  “No, I’ll have to pass,” I said. “Thanks, though. Nice meeting you.”

  When she turned and went into the house, I took a quick step forward, dropped to my knees, feigned interest in the bike’s wheels. I snatched up the smoldering cigarette butt and tapped the tip in the dirt, hoping I wouldn’t contaminate any of Jennifer’s DNA. They made it look easy on the crime shows, but apart from the list Lisa had given me about items I could collect to get a sample, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, felt more like Johnny English than James Bond. A trickle of sweat slid down my back as I opened the trunk and quickly located a small, empty, paper sandwich bag I’d left in the cooler.

  “Who was that?” Logan said when I’d stowed away the cigarette and got in the truck.

  “Just someone selling a motorbike,” I answered, heading back the way we’d come in, looking over my shoulder, expecting to see someone tailing me, yelling at me to stop.

  “Did you buy it? Can we go for a ride?” Logan pouted when I didn’t answer. “You’re no fun anymore,” he said, staring out of the window, lips pressed together.

  I was grateful for the continued silence as my brain shifted into overdrive, the encounter with Jennifer Abbott whirling around my brain. If Logan was Charlie Abbott, could I send him to live with them? Could I really give him up, knowing what kind of a future he might have? That he, like two of the other Abbott kids, might end up in care? No, I decided. I couldn’t do that to him. They’d have to kill me first, pry Logan from my cold, dead hands before I’d let that happen. If it made me a bastard because I’d be depriving a mom and dad from knowing what had happened to their child, so be it. Logan’s happiness and future had to come first, not theirs.

  I wrestled with the thoughts for the entire trip home, and by the time we pulled into our driveway, I almost hoped Logan was Charlie Abbott. If he was, it meant I could perhaps justify the guilt of keeping quiet, and holding on to him in secret, forever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Lisa and Ivan brought two monster-sized pizzas over for dinner the next evening, along with what appeared to be their overnight kit. I pointed at it, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  “We’re sleeping over.” Lisa plonked a kiss on my cheek. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “I don’t,” Logan said.

  “Neither do I,” I said. “I know how you two love nothing more than bunking on the old, crappy sofa in the den instead of your huge bed.”

  “The sofa’s actually quite comfortable,” Ivan said, and Lisa coughed in an attempt to disguise her laugh.

  “You don’t need to keep checking up on me,” I said. “Either of you.”

  “Sure we do.” Lisa lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “That’s what you get when you don’t answer your phone in almost two days.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Whatever.”

  “We went camping,” Logan said. “We swam in a lake and made a castle.”

  When Lisa frowned and turned, I shrugged. “Spur of the moment thing. Change of scene because of the stuff at school, you know?” I told them about our trip, took some creative liberties about the location, but gave enough detail to stop them from asking too many questions.

  Logan regaled them with his stomach bug story. “I barfed so much it came out of my nose. And it was yellow at the end. Dad said that was bile because I was completely hollow.”

  “Ugh.” Lisa’s face turned a peculiar shade of green. “Well, you must be back to normal. You’ve scarfed two slices of pizza already and I haven’t eaten one.”

  Ivan laughed. “Change the subject, squirt, or your aunt Lisa will show you a magic trick with her food. Speaking of tricks, have you taught Cookie any new ones? Want to show me?”

  Logan turned to me. “Can we go to the backyard?” he said, jumping up and knocking over Lisa’s glass of water, which splashed onto my plate and into my lap.

  I leaped up. “Sh...oot.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” Logan said.

  “Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen, right?” I froze as he looked at me, wondered whether he might say something about Grace. Whatever he was thinking, he let it go. I pushed my chair back. “I’d better get changed.”

  I headed for the bedroom, where I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and winced. The person staring back at me was almost unrecognizable, my face yet again an overgrown, woolen mess. Despite that, I could see my cheekbones, mountain peaks jutting out, accentuating the valleys of my sunken cheeks. The bags under my eyes could’ve been made by Samsonite, and I didn’t want to know where the indecipherable stains on my T-shirt had come from, or how I’d failed to notice them until now. But, as I examined my reflection in the mirror, what was going on inside bothered me far more.

  I’d first noticed it a few weeks ago, but had pretended it wasn’t happening, had ignored it until the drive back from Sturbridge when Logan had asked me to turn up Grace’s favorite song on the radio. When I did, it hadn’t hurt quite as much as I’d expected. Although I didn’t want to admit it, wasn’t ready to say it out loud to anyone, my feelings for her had shifted. I no longer wanted to collapse in a heap when I thought about her. I’d stopped feeling a rush of love when I pictured her face; instead it was replaced by a simmering, growing rage I didn’t know how to stop, or what to do with. Everybody knew there was a fine line between love and hate, and I seemed to be dangling my toes closer and closer to the other side.

  I grabbed clean underwear and walked across the landing to the bathroom. “Mind if I have a shower?” I called out.

  Lisa’s voice floated up the staircase. “Good idea. And lose the beard, Santa.”

  I dropped my crumpled clothes in the bathroom hamper and turned the water on high. After a well-needed scrub, I wrapped a fresh towel around my waist and reached for my razor, almost resembling something human again as I hacked away the fluff. Back in the bedroom I pulled on a T-shirt, the Superman pajama bo
ttoms Logan had given me for Christmas and padded downstairs to the den.

  Ivan and Lisa sat on the sofa, Logan and Cookie snuggled between them. An unfamiliar, downright ugly green-eyed monster snarled within me as I stopped to look at them. Very soon they’d have a baby of their own, their kid, who nobody could take away from them. They’d be a happy family, fantastic parents, and I suddenly hated—no, not strong enough—loathed the prospect of them having everything I thought was mine a few short months ago.

  Lisa noticed something was up because she turned down the volume on the telly. “You alright? We thought you’d passed out.”

  I bit down my anger, patted my cheeks. “It was a lot of fuzz.”

  “You look better, Dad,” Logan said. “Very handsome.”

  “Thanks, but you know flattery won’t delay your bedtime, right?”

  Logan tried to burrow his way behind Ivan’s back. The result was him ending up being dangled by the ankles. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” Ivan said as he tickled Logan’s belly. “Give it up. Surrender to the mighty Viking. Bid adieu to your most awesome, most favorite aunt.”

  “Sh-she’s m-my only a-aunt,” Logan stuttered through fits of laughter, his face turning red, arms flailing around.

  “Yes, she is,” Ivan said. “Come on then, Sleeping Beauty—”

  “Hey! I’m not a princess!”

  “—and say good-night to the best dad in the world.” Ivan turned him the right way up, and Logan’s arms went around my neck, squeezing me hard.

  “Night, Dad. I love you. Night, Aunt Lisa.” He clapped his hands. “Come on, Cookie. I’ll read to you.”

  “And to me,” Ivan said as they walked out of the room, Logan still in his arms, pulling on Ivan’s ears and nose as they headed for the stairs. “Tell me more interesting dog facts.”

  Lisa flopped onto the sofa. A smile crossed her face, but as soon as our eyes met, it vanished. “I’m so sorry,” she said.