A Father For Zach

by Irene Hannon

  For once he didn’t argue. But instead of folding himself into his mother’s embrace, he lifted his arms to Nathan. “Will you carry me?”

  Taken aback, Nathan checked with Catherine again.

  “If you don’t mind. It will help reassure him you’re okay,” she said softly.

  He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t mind in the least.”

  Wrapping his arms around Zach, he hoisted the boy onto his hip and stood, then extended a hand to Catherine. “I bet your toes didn’t appreciate that position.”

  With a slight grimace, she accepted his hand and rose. “They’ll be okay. Let me show you to Zach’s room.”

  She led the way down the hall, limping more than she had since early in the week. And she took the stairs to the second floor very slowly.

  Meaning she was hurting a lot more than she’d admitted.

  The little boy shifted in his arms, emitting a soft sigh, and nestled closer to his heart. Nathan’s throat constricted as he stroked a comforting hand over Zach’s back. In his whole life, he’d never held a child. But the boy felt right in his arms. And good.

  Catherine paused to catch her breath on the landing of the dormered second floor, and he took the opportunity to get the lay of the land. It looked like the house had three bedrooms—a large master bedroom on his right, crammed with unopened boxes and furniture, and two smaller bedrooms on the left. The closest one contained a twin bed, and he started toward it.

  “No…Zach’s room is next door, at the back of the house,” Catherine corrected him.

  He gave the first room a quick inspection before continuing on. In addition to a twin bed, it contained a small dresser, chest, nightstand and straight chair. The bare walls were in desperate need of paint, the windows were curtainless, and the scuffed hardwood floor cried out for refinishing.

  Zach’s assessment a few days ago of the state of the main house had been right on.

  Yuck.

  The second floor was bad. And while he hadn’t seen much of the first floor, the kitchen spoke volumes. The appliances were outdated, the flooring was cracked and the Formica countertop was chipped.

  He couldn’t imagine anyone who’d been an interior decorator living in this environment.

  And interior decorator or not, Catherine deserved better.

  “You can set him on the bed, Nathan.”

  Cradling Zach’s head, he eased through the door to the adjacent room.

  Once over the threshold, he stopped in surprise. Not only was this room bigger than Catherine’s, it had been fully decorated—and with an imaginative hand. The walls were painted a cheery yellow, and a large throw rug featuring a parade of animals in primary colors hid much of the worn hardwood floor. Canvas swags at the windows were draped over stuffed giraffe heads, and the bedspread was done in a zebra pattern. Throw pillows shaped like safari hats were propped against the head-board, and a child-height coat rack was topped by silk palm leaves.

  It was a little boy’s dream room.

  “Wow.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  The whisper of a smile softened Catherine’s tense features as she entered behind him and threw back the covers. “He’s been into zoos and animals and safaris for the past year. When we moved, I decided to recreate his room here. I thought having one familiar place in the house might ease the transition.”

  She stepped aside, and Nathan moved forward to lay the boy down. But the youngster tightened his grip around Nathan’s neck.

  “Are you leaving?” His words came out slurred with sleep.

  “No. I’ll be downstairs. Remember, we’re going to have pizza when you wake up.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mom?” He looked over Nathan’s shoulder, and Nathan felt Catherine come up behind him.

  “I’m here, honey.”

  “Okay. Just checking.”

  His eyelids drifted closed, and Nathan set him down, then stepped back as Catherine drew the covers up to Zach’s chin. Leaning close, she pressed her lips to his forehead, brushing back a wisp of his blond hair with fingers that still trembled.

  “I think I’ll stay for a few minutes to make sure he doesn’t wake up.” She stood and faced Nathan across the bed, her gaze flicking to his bare chest. And lingering for a second on the jagged scar on the upper right side.

  He’d forgotten about that. And the fact he was shirtless.

  Time to exit.

  “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  She gave a slight nod and turned back toward her son.

  As Nathan retraced his steps, determined to rinse out his shirt and put it back on before she reappeared, he cast another look at the room where she slept. There was a forlornness about it, a sadness, that seeped into his pores. The feeling of aloneness was so visceral it permeated his soul.

  Yet despite the tragedy she’d endured—and only a tragedy could have induced the kind of scene he’d just witnessed with Zach—she was carrying on. Trying to make a new life for herself and her son.

  He admired that. A lot.

  But he was also curious.

  And he hoped that in addition to offering him some pizza tonight, she might also offer him a glimpse into her heart.

  As Nathan disappeared down the steps, Zach’s even breathing told Catherine her son was already sound asleep. That it was safe to go downstairs.

  But safe was a relative term.

  Because a man with questions in his eyes would be waiting for her.

  And that was scary.

  She limped over to the window and stared up at the deep blue sky. Not once in the past two years had she talked about the traumatic event that had changed her life. An event that still felt as raw as if it had happened yesterday.

  Maybe it always would.

  As she watched, a gull soared high above her on a wind current, suspended halfway between earth and sky, belonging to neither. That’s how she’d felt for the past twenty-four months. In limbo. Apart. Isolated.

  She’d shared her feelings with no one, though. Not her high-powered lawyer sister on the West Coast, who kept pushing her to get counseling. Not her career–Army chaplain father, now stationed in Germany, who continued to urge her to get right with God. Not any of the well-intentioned acquaintances she’d left behind in Atlanta, who’d kept sending her social invitations she didn’t want and coaxing her to get out and meet new people.

  And the reason for her reticence?

  Fear.

  She’d been afraid that once she let go, once the words started to tumble out, she’d be unable to stop them. And they would reveal the dark corner of her heart where grief and rage and hate lived.

  It wasn’t a pretty place.

  But she couldn’t ignore what had just happened, either. And she’d prefer Nathan get the explanation from her rather than Zach.

  She only hoped her strong feelings wouldn’t turn him off.

  Yet for some reason she sensed that this stranger…this man who still called her Mrs. Walker…this man with his own scars…wouldn’t judge her. That he would understand.

  If he didn’t…if he walked away from her problem-plagued little family…she and Zach would go on together, as they had for two long years.

  She’d be okay with that, she assured herself, folding her arms tight across her chest. If she could survive the loss of David, she could survive the loss of a man she hardly knew.

  But it would hurt.

  For reasons she didn’t care to examine.

  After scrubbing out every last vestige of spaghetti sauce, Nathan wrung his T-shirt out in the kitchen sink, twisting as hard as he could. The wet garment wasn’t going to be comfortable—but remaining shirtless in Catherine’s presence would be less comfortable. For both of them, he suspected.

  Uneven footsteps on the stairs alerted him she was on her way down, and he worked the shirt over his head and down his chest. Then he leaned back against the kitchen counter, palms flat, fingers curled around the edge.

  Wondering what was going t
o happen next.

  She took two steps into the room and stopped, frowning. “Your shirt’s wet.”

  “I rinsed it out. It’ll dry.”

  “You can’t wear a wet shirt. Why don’t you throw it in the dryer?”

  He shrugged and tried for a smile, but he only managed to coax up one side of his mouth. “I’m not accustomed to sitting in a woman’s kitchen without a shirt.”

  “Oh.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth, and he watched as uncertainty gave way to decision. “I have a shirt you can wear.”

  She disappeared before he could respond, and he heard her rummaging through some boxes in the front of the house. She returned with an Atlanta Braves jersey. A large one. Her husband’s?

  Holding it out, she gave him the glimmer of a smile when he hesitated. “Wrong team?”

  “I’m okay in this, if you’d rather…if that was your husband’s.”

  Her smile faded. “It was, a long time ago. I used it as a sleep shirt for a while. No one’s worn it in years. I’m not even sure why I brought it. It has no sentimental value, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He had been thinking that. Until she’d mentioned she’d slept in it.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and took it from her. “Okay.” After turning his back, he stripped off the T-shirt, slipped the jersey over his head and wadded his own shirt into a ball.

  “Why don’t you let me throw that in the dryer? By the time you leave, it will be ready to put back on.” She took a step toward him and held out her hand.

  He gave her the glob of damp fabric. “Thanks.”

  She disappeared again, through another door off the kitchen, and a few seconds later he heard the distinctive sound of a dryer at work.

  When she reappeared, she hovered near the door. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she clasped her hands in front of her and shifted from one foot to the other. “Would you like to sit?”

  She was nervous. Really nervous. Because he was in her kitchen again? Or because she didn’t want to explain the incident with Zach?

  Probably both.

  It had been a long time since he’d had any occasion to practice social graces. Longer still since he’d dealt with a nervous woman. But he dug deep for whatever skills might be in hibernation, hoping they thawed quickly.

  Adopting a relaxed posture, he crossed the room and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. There was no sense avoiding the obvious topic, but maybe he could lead into it.

  “Will Zach be okay?”

  She took the chair on the opposite side of the small table, keeping the expanse of oak between them. Resting her hands on top, she folded them into a tight knot and focused on her knuckles.

  “He should be. He’s always tired after one of these episodes, and sleep is the best thing for him. I expect he’ll be a little clingy for the next few days, though. This was a bad one.”

  Moistening her lips, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “I’m sure you’re wondering what happened. Most kids don’t freak out over spilled spaghetti sauce.”

  “He thought it was blood.” He said the words quietly, watching her. As long as she’d given him an opening, why pretend he hadn’t heard Zach’s comment?

  “Yes. It goes back to an incident he witnessed when he was four.”

  Silence descended, broken only by the distant caw of a gull.

  When it lengthened, Nathan spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She unclenched her hands and massaged the center of her forehead with the tips of her fingers. “But in light of what happened earlier, you need to hear the story. That way you’ll understand if Zach isn’t his usual perky self for the next few days.”

  She reclenched her hands and swallowed. “Every Saturday morning, my husband and Zach used to go up to the corner convenience store to buy the weekend paper and a cinnamon roll. It was a ritual they both loved. Two years ago, while they were in the store, an armed robber came in.”

  Her voice faltered, and Nathan caught a shimmer in her green eyes. He wanted to reach over and cover her clasped fingers with his own. But he resisted, afraid she would be offended—or spooked—by the gesture.

  “One of the other customers later said David turned to tuck Zach behind him. To protect him. The robber claimed he thought David was intending to rush him. To try and stop him.” Her words were shakier now. But he also heard a hard undercurrent of anger. “So he shot my husband in the chest. Twice. Then he ran off while David bled to death on the floor and Zach watched.”

  The air whooshed out of Nathan’s lungs and his stomach contorted as her stark words sank in. No wonder Zach had freaked out at the sight of spaghetti sauce all over his new friend’s chest. No wonder Catherine was so protective of her son. No wonder she was wary around strangers.

  He saw her bottom lip quiver. Watched as she dropped her chin and closed her eyes. Heard her suck in a harsh breath.

  “I don’t know what to say.” He wasn’t a word man. Never had been. And he’d never cared about that deficiency—until this moment. Heart aching, he wished he could dredge up some sentiment that would console this traumatized woman. “Sorry doesn’t come close to capturing how badly I feel for your loss.” It was the best he could do.

  “Thank you.” She kept her head down. Took another breath. When at last she looked up, she seemed more in control. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cry. I decided long ago that tears wouldn’t change anything.”

  He wanted to tell her it was okay to weep over such a loss, but he didn’t know her well enough to offer that kind of advice. So he stayed with the facts.

  “Does this kind of thing with Zach happen often?”

  “Not anymore. He hasn’t retained much memory of the actual incident. But he has a vivid emotional memory, according to the child psychologist I took him to for a year. Meaning the sight of blood can trigger a very strong response. In the beginning, even a cut finger could set him off. Now, it takes a lot of blood—or what he thinks is blood—to produce an extreme reaction like he had today.”

  Nathan folded his own hands on top of the table. “Did they catch the guy who shot your husband?”

  Her eyes hardened, the green irises chilling to the color of jade. “Yes. Within thirty minutes. He’s in prison now, and if I have anything to say about it, he’ll stay there for the rest of his life.”

  She shoved back her chair with enough force to startle Nathan, then rose to pace the room despite her limp, her posture taut, the planes of her face sharp with agitation. “I’ll never forget sitting at his trial, listening to the defense attorney try to excuse his behavior and make a case for a reduced sentence. He’d come from an impoverished background. He was raised in a broken home. The system had failed him by not recognizing the need to remove him from a dysfunctional environment. He got in with a bad crowd. It was society’s fault.” Sarcasm dripped from her words as she mimicked the arguments that had been put forth.

  Swinging toward him, she gripped the back of a chair, her eyes flashing with anger—and another emotion that was all too familiar to him.

  Hate.

  “The sympathy card didn’t work with me. When I looked at that creep who exhibited not one single shred of human decency, who never once expressed an iota of regret for what he’d done, I didn’t see a victim. I saw a killer. A violent criminal who got exactly what he deserved. I hope he rots in prison for the rest of his life. Along with all the other malicious felons who don’t deserve any more consideration than they gave their victims.”

  As Catherine’s merciless assessment quivered in the air between them, Nathan tried to breathe. Tried to keep his stomach from curdling. Tried to distance himself from her tirade.

  But he couldn’t.

  Because his participation in the armed robbery of a convenience store was what had put him behind bars for ten years.

  No one had been killed in that incident. But they could have been. He and Trace had both been nervous. If someone had tried to stop
them, he didn’t think his partner in crime would have hesitated to use his gun. In the heat of the moment, as his own panic and self-preservation instincts kicked in, he might have, too. And in the process, he might have snuffed out the life of a good man like David Walker.

  That was the harsh truth of it.

  Meaning he was no better than the man Catherine hated.

  As the silence between them lengthened, her knuckles whitened on the back of the chair and her chin tipped up. “I’m sorry if that sounds callous. But it’s how I feel.”

  “I can understand your bitterness.” Somehow he got the hoarse words past his choked throat.

  Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and he could feel the tension vibrating in her body. “My father thinks I’ll never find peace until I forgive the man who killed my husband. But he doesn’t have to deal with a traumatized child. Nor did he lose the partner he loved. When I asked him how a caring God could let such a thing happen, he didn’t have an answer that made sense to me. And he’s a minister.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to understand God’s ways.”

  “No kidding.” She gave a derisive snort.

  “I didn’t think He cared, either, until two years ago.” The revelation came out before he could stop it, catching him off guard. He didn’t talk much about his newfound faith. A lot of his fellow inmates had ribbed him about it, and he’d learned to keep this thoughts to himself. His cherished relationship with the Lord had been fragile in the beginning, and he’d done his best to protect it. Nurture it.

  But it was strong enough now to withstand ridicule and attack. And somehow he sensed Catherine could benefit from hearing a little piece of his story. “Some bad things had happened to me, too, and I was angry at Him—and the world.”

  Her grip on the chair eased a fraction. “What changed your mind?”

  “Love.” It might not be the profound answer she’d been looking for, but it was the truth. “I finally opened myself to love from my siblings—and from God. It changed my life—and taught me that despite the bad stuff, goodness does exists as a strong, sustaining force that casts light into the darkest places. It also taught me how to forgive.”