by Beth K. Vogt
“You’re kidding, right?” Claire grabbed her by the shoulders—gently—and turned Haley to face her. “You are not having your baby alone. End of discussion. Moving on.”
Haley allowed Claire to hug her, leaning into her for the briefest of seconds before squaring her shoulders. Inhaling. Exhaling. “Now all I need to do is figure out what kind of classes to take. What do you think?”
“No experience in this category, my friend.” Claire masked the shadows Haley glimpsed in her hazel eyes by leaning forward to study the screen, causing her shoulder-length black hair to fall forward like a shield. “So, we’re back to you: What do you want to do?”
Haley’s troubles were no reason for her to ask careless questions. “Here’s what I want: anything and anyone to ensure I have a fast, uncomplicated delivery.”
“That’s what every pregnant woman wants.”
“Then someone should have figured it out by now.” Haley closed the laptop sitting on the table with a soft click, standing to stretch her back before moving past the archway into the kitchen. Through the sliding glass doors, the solitary tree in the backyard seemed to lift its branches in supplication to the muted gray sky. “I’ll look at that again later. You thirsty?”
“Sure. Hot tea?”
“For you, always. For me, soda.” She pulled a Plexiglas bowl of rinsed green grapes and a smaller bowl with some mini squares of sharp cheddar cheese from the fridge. “Look, I cooked just for you.”
“Rinsing fruit and opening a bag of precut cheese is not cooking.”
“For me it is.” She grabbed a bag of cheese-flavored Doritos out of the mostly bare pantry and set a tub of cream cheese beside it. “One of the members at the range said this is delicious.”
Claire wrinkled her nose at the chips-and-dip option. “That’s all yours.”
“Fine.” Slipping her hand beneath her long-sleeved denim top, Haley rubbed the faint tightness in her lower back. “So . . . something happened last night.”
Claire stopped sorting through the wire basket on the counter that contained the few boxes of tea Haley kept on hand for her friend. “Something bad? Or something good?”
“Something . . . weird.”
“Weird? Baby weird?” Claire paused, as if weighing the effect of her next question. “Being-without-Sam weird?”
Haley chewed her bottom lip, leaning back against the counter, gripping the edge of the sink. “Some guy showed up claiming to be Sam’s brother.”
Claire dropped the box of Constant Comment tea she’d selected, causing it to hit the floor with a dull thud. “Sam doesn’t—he doesn’t have a brother.”
“That’s what I thought.” Releasing her death grip on the counter, Haley filled the electric teakettle with water, setting it on the counter and turning it on.
“Sam would have told you if he had a brother.”
Claire knelt and scooped the tea packets back into the box. Haley pulled a red ceramic mug from the cabinet and placed it next to the electric kettle. She had five more just like it—a bargain at a dollar apiece. “Again—that’s what I thought after meeting this guy who looks and sounds exactly like Sam. I mean, why would he have a twin brother—and not tell me?”
Claire looked up from where she knelt—why hadn’t Haley swept those scattered dust bunnies and cereal and chip crumbs? “What did you say?”
“I said why would Sam not tell me—”
“No, you said twin.”
“He’s Sam’s twin brother.”
Claire plopped onto the floor, seeming to abandon all thoughts of cleaning up the tea bag mess. “This gets more and more bizarre.”
“Welcome to my personal episode of The Twilight Zone. You’ll have to be satisfied with a cameo appearance, as it seems I have the starring role.”
“Is this guy a—what do they call it—a fraternal twin? You know, the kind that doesn’t look alike?”
“He looks exactly like Sam.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Claire, I was there.” Haley refused to allow even a hint of anything—everything—she’d experienced last night to creep into her voice. “When I say ‘exactly,’ I mean I couldn’t tell the difference.”
“What?”
“He walks like Sam. Sounds like Sam. If Sam looked in a mirror, he’d see this guy. It was dark . . . but for a minute or so, I thought . . . I thought . . .”
Claire scrambled to her feet, walking over and wrapping her arms around Haley. “How awful. This guy is really Sam’s twin brother?”
Haley shrugged out of the embrace. “I should have known it wasn’t Sam. The guy called me ‘Haley.’ To Sam I was always ‘Hal’—you know, like one of the guys.”
“Your husband did not think of you as one of the guys!”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, I called Sam’s mom last night. She confirmed it—although don’t ask me why I needed her confirmation. Miriam said she couldn’t tell me about Stephen before because it was up to Sam to do it. And he never did.”
“What did Sam’s brother say?”
A snort escaped her lips. “Not much after I threatened to shoot him if he didn’t leave.”
“You. Did. Not.” Claire gave her space, gathering up the tea packets before tearing one open, positioning the tea bag in the mug.
“I did.” She’d collapsed in some strange man’s arms—who, even in the muted light, seemed to have the same cleft chin as Sam . . . the mirage had haunted her sleep all night.
“One day, Haley, you are going to shoot somebody. Then what?”
“Then, as my brothers would say, I’ll have made ’em proud.” As the teakettle whistled, Haley poured boiling water into the mug, the water hissing as it flowed over the tea bag. The scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted into the air.
“What did he do when he found himself face-to-face with your gun?”
“He left. I’ll give him points for being smart.” She picked up the ivory business card with brown lettering that he’d wedged between the screen and the front door. “He did leave me this.”
“What? His card?” Claire scrutinized the writing. “ ‘Stephen R. Ames. Architect. Entrepreneur.’ Huh. Thinks a lot of himself, doesn’t he? Lives in Fort Collins. Sam’s twin brother lives in Colorado?”
“Apparently. Two hours away—and he shows up after Sam dies.” As the baby moved inside of her, Haley covered her tummy with her hands. “What do I do, Claire?”
“About?”
“About this guy . . . if he shows up again?”
“Hear him out?”
“Why?”
“Because he’s Sam’s brother, and he’s here for a reason.”
“But Sam never told me about him, and he did that for a reason.” She paced the kitchen, stopping to stare out into the backyard. “Why should I get to know him now?”
“Have you prayed about it?”
“Yes. And no.” Claire’s burst of laughter tugged a smile across Haley’s face. The first of the day.
“What do you mean, ‘yes and no’?”
“If you mean have I said a formal ‘Dear God, what do you want me to do about Sam’s lookalike?’ prayer, then no, I haven’t prayed about it.” She retrieved a can of Sprite from the refrigerator, taking a sip in hopes of soothing the ache in her throat. “But if you mean have I prayed in a ‘God, help me, help me, help me’ kind of way . . . then I’ve been doing that since the day I shut the door when the Bereavement Team left.”
“So you have no plans to call Stephen R. Ames, architect and entrepreneur?” Claire wandered back out to the living room with Haley following her and settled on the couch, resting her bare feet on the redwood-and-pine coffee table.
“No.” Haley set the chips and dip beside her on the couch cushion.
“And if he shows up here again?”
This was one of the times Haley was glad she’d perfected the tilt-head-and-raise-one-eyebrow stare. “Do you really think some guy is going to want to face the wrong end of a gun again?”
“If he’s anything like Sam, he would.”
Maybe in the light of day things would go better.
Or maybe Haley Ames would just have a clearer shot at him.
Sam put the Mustang in park and gazed straight ahead, taking in the outline of the snow-covered Front Range against the pale blue of the Colorado sky. He hadn’t expected an armed standoff when he’d finally taken his best friend Jared’s advice to go looking for Sam’s widow. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he never imagined outright hostility.
“Pardon me for not closing my eyes, God, but the last time I was here, an irate pregnant woman threatened to shoot me. And, yes, I admit she had reason to be upset. So I’m asking for a little help here. Please let Haley listen.” He stole a quick glance at the house. Muted gray siding. White shutters that needed a fresh coat of paint. Faded brown grass waiting for spring to arrive. Nobody looking out the window—armed or otherwise. All clear. “And I wouldn’t mind a little heavenly protection, too.”
Now, why did a scene from Gunfight at the O.K. Corral flash through his mind as he approached the front door? He looked heavenward. No visible angels riding shotgun in the cloudless Colorado sky.
He rang the doorbell, a short, off-key peal, and then took two steps back from the screen door, which needed some repair. Braced his shoulders and straightened his spine. A few seconds later, the front door opened halfway and Haley Ames stared him down through the worn mesh screen. Even with her body shadowed, he saw her jaw clench, heard the swift inhale. She half-lifted her hand—why? To push him away?
“You look just like Sam.”
Stephen nodded. “Always have.”
“When were you born?”
“May 20, 1983.” He wasn’t sure what the personal trivia accomplished—just looking at him proved he was Sam’s twin. But he’d play along if it kept the woman on the other side of the screen door happy.
“Who are your parents?”
“Joe and Miriam Ames. They divorced when Sam and I were thirteen.”
“What was Sam’s full name?”
“Samuel Wilson, after the superhero the Falcon.” Stephen couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “My name is Stephen Rogers, after Captain America. Our dad was a real Marvel comic book fan.”
Haley didn’t crack a smile. Didn’t even blink. “Why are you here? Now?”
He risked taking a step forward, only to have Haley step back behind the muted blue door and start to close it. “Wait. Please. Hear me out.” They stared at one another, as if through shadowed glass. Now that he had her attention, how could he explain twelve years of silence? “I wanted to make things right between Sam and me.”
“A bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Her words, rough as unsanded wood, scraped at the wound Stephen still didn’t know how to live with. He could look back and count all the days he’d lost—and could look ahead and see the same: days lost with his brother. “Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
He cleared his throat. Tried again. “I want to know who my brother became . . . and I want to help you and the baby, if I can—”
“If Sam had wanted a relationship with you—if he wanted us to have a relationship with you—he would have contacted you.” The door was closing in his face. “And I—we don’t need your help.”
The barrier between him and what he’d come for was back. At least she hadn’t shot him. But with her words, Haley Ames had killed any hope of his connecting with his brother.
Haley stood with her eyes shut, forehead pressed against the hard surface of the door, hands clenched. Maybe by the time the blood stopped pounding in her ears she would be able to forget Stephen Ames existed.
“You’re not going to talk to him?”
The sound of her best friend’s voice reminded her that she wasn’t alone. At least, not for the moment.
“I said everything I need to say to him.” Haley turned, sagging against the door and crossing her arms.
“Really? You caught up on, oh, I don’t know, a dozen lost years with Sam’s brother?”
It wasn’t like Claire to be even slightly sarcastic. Supportive, yes. Kind, yes. “There’s no reason for me to ‘catch up’ with that man.”
“Except for the fact that he is Sam’s brother—his extremely identical twin brother, from what I could see.” She shrugged and offered a smile that didn’t even hint at repentance. “Sorry. I peeked through the bay window.”
“Mirror twin.”
“What?”
“I think they’re mirror twins. I looked it up this morning before you came over. Sam was left-handed. His brother’s right-handed. That kind of thing.” Haley pushed away from the door and reclaimed her place on the couch, dunking a chip in the cream cheese and popping it in her mouth. Crunchy. Creamy. Yum. Junk food was always good for what ailed her.
Claire turned her face away. “Honestly, Hal, does your doctor know what you’ve been eating?”
“My weight gain is fine—I have the metabolism of a hummingbird. And I drink lots of milk.” She dragged another chip through the cream cheese, nibbling on it without looking at Claire.
“Never mind—it’s hopeless to talk nutrition with you.”
Haley waited on the couch while Claire refreshed her tea. When the baby moved, she rubbed the area with her fingers. It seemed as if the only time she thought about her baby was when he kicked, as if to say, “Hey, I’m in here!”
Claire joined her on the couch, tucking her bare feet underneath her, perfectly manicured toes glinting a soft pink. “Question: Why can’t you have one decent conversation with this guy? And then be done with him?”
“Sam didn’t want a relationship with him; why should I have one?”
“One meeting.” Claire held up her index finger, the fingernail painted a matching pink. “Answer a few questions. That is not a relationship.”
Haley motioned to where she’d had her latest standoff with Stephen Ames. “He wants to help me.”
“As I heard—sorry, wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, even if I was peeking—you already declined his invitation to help you. Again, you’re not starting a relationship with the man.”
Haley closed the bag of Doritos, the foil crinkling. “I—I can’t do it, Claire.”
“What can’t you do?”
“I can’t look at him.” Haley’s voice came out small. Hollow. She closed her eyes, locking the first swell of moisture behind her eyelids. “The army shipped Sam home in a casket—a closed casket. I got a folded flag. His medals. A coroner’s report that I’ve never read. The last time I saw Sam, he was alive—walking away from me, getting on a plane for Afghanistan. And now . . . it’s as if my husband is standing in front of me again. Breathing. Talking. But it’s not Sam.”
Silence swallowed up her words.
Haley stared straight ahead. “Nothing to say?”
“What can I say to that, Haley?” Claire tried to blink away the tears in her eyes, but not before Haley realized she’d made her cry. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“And yet—” Haley stifled a groan.
“What?”
“I can’t help but wonder what God wants me to do.” She ran her fingers through her long hair, shoving it away from her face. “I hate that question sometimes. What would God want me to do? It makes me think of other people . . .”
“The whole you’re-not-the-only-person-in-this-equation syndrome?”
“Exactly.” Haley sat her soda on the varnished surface of the coffee table, which she’d edged with multicolored tiles, twisting to face Claire. “I didn’t sleep much last night. And I thought about what if . . . what if two of my brothers had somehow argued about . . . I don’t know what. Something. And then they didn’t talk to one another for years. I mean, I get that stuff like that happens. What about Jacob and Esau in the Bible?”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that—”
“You weren’t the one watching the clock last night. At least Jacob
and Esau reconciled. But what if one of my brothers died without a chance for them to forgive each other . . .”
“To talk.”
“Yeah.” Haley stared into her friend’s eyes. “I’m one way for Stephen to connect with his brother.”
“True.”
“Do you have to agree with me?”
“You usually like me to agree with you.”
“About where we eat dinner. Or what movie we watch.” Haley leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her palm. “Am I going to do this?”
“I think so.” Claire crossed the room and retrieved Stephen Ames’s business card from the breakfast bar. “You know how to reach him.”
“Okay. One phone call. One meeting.” Haley stood. Chin up. Back straight. Shoulders stiff.
“Exactly.”
“To answer questions.”
“Yes.”
“I am not becoming Stephen Ames’s sister-in-law.”
“Well, technically—”
“I don’t think there’s anything technical or legal about this. He’s Sam’s brother. And that’s as far as it goes. I’ll answer his questions this one time. And after that, he can talk to his mother.”
“But they’re not close, right?”
“That’s not my problem.” Haley took the business card from her friend, rereading the name scripted in plain block letters. “I don’t have time to worry about Stephen R. Ames’s family problems.”
four
The pale winter sun failed to warm her as Haley shuffled through the handful of mail. Electric bill. Milk bill. Weekly neighborhood flyer. Today was her lucky day. It had been an entire week since an ivory envelope embossed in gold from the Contrails Homeowners’ Association had lurked in her mailbox. Maybe Sterling Shelton III had decided to leave her alone—or perhaps the association’s president was drafting one long list of infractions before mailing another letter to her.
Could she stop dreading going to get her mail—holding her breath when she peered inside her numbered section, heaving a sigh of relief when all that awaited her was normal mail, or muttering to herself when yet another letter from the homeowner’s association waited inside? Maybe she should call Shelton again. Try to reason with him. But her first and only phone call had elicited nothing more than a “Read your covenants, Mrs. Ames. You signed the contract. You agreed to the covenants.”