by Dori Lavelle
I look up but don’t see him. “Hector, sorry. I have to go.” I rise from the chair.
26
Brooke
A chill trickles down my spine as I gaze up at the metal gates surrounding the jailhouse. Why am I even here? When I responded to Derrick’s text message, half an hour ago, I received a call from his lawyer, who instructed me on where to go, without telling me what happened. Apparently Derrick wanted to tell me himself.
As I’m led through the gates, I feel somewhat responsible for him being behind bars. My rejection could have driven him to do something terrible, something to ease his pain.
I hand over my belongings and allow myself to be scanned, unable to stop trembling.
“Are you okay, Ma’am?” One of the guards asks me, and I nod and force a smile. The truth is, claustrophobia is getting the best of me as though my freedom is being snatched away. The scream of police sirens, the smells of metal, sweat, and cigarette smoke make me want to turn and leave.
Clasping my hands in front of me, I follow a guard into the waiting room.
Only a few of the white tables are occupied. I’d never been in a jail before. This one reminds me of a hospital room, white-washed and sterile, smelling of industrial cleaner and sadness.
I draw in a shaky breath and sit at the table the guard points to, listening to the sounds of jail as I wait for Derrick to arrive.
A woman at a corner table is crying into a crumpled tissue. The man she’s talking to attempts to reach for her hands, but one of the guards yells for them to stop touching. They both lean back in their chairs and the woman clasps her hands together. At another table, a boy with an arm covered in tattoos is talking to a frail-looking woman with snow-white hair and a hard face.
After what seems like hours of waiting, Derrick finally walks through one of the sliding doors opening into the room. The moment our eyes meet, his entire face breaks into a smile. For a prisoner, he looks rather happy. Could it be he broke the law to catch my attention, to pull at my heartstrings? If this is some kind of manipulation tactic, I’m not even sure whether to be flattered or pissed off.
“Brooke, I didn’t think you’d come.”
I lean back and cross my arms. “Why are you here, Derrick? What did you do?” He better not be manipulating me.
We both lower our gazes to his swollen knuckles.
My stomach drops. “Were you involved in a fight?”
“I did what had to be done. Hey, it’s okay.” He leans forward and whispers. “No need to worry about me. I’ll be out on bail within the hour. My lawyer, Fred Barret, is on it.” His face lights up. “Once I’m out of here, we’ll be a family. No one will ever stand in the way of us being together again.”
Hot, red pain grips my heart. “Don’t do this. Not again.”
“You came.” His hand hovers over mine. He glances at one of the guards before he brings it back to his body. “The fact that you’re here tells me you love me. You don’t need to say it because I already know. And soon we’ll be complete. You, me, and our little boy.”
His words take a moment to sink into my dizzy mind. “What—what are you talking about?”
He leans back, still holding my gaze. “Eric . . . I’m talking about our son. He’s alive.”
My stomach drops. “Derrick, I know you want this to be true, but Eric is dead. I was there, remember?”
“Did you see him? Think carefully, Brooke. Did you see his co—”
“No, okay? I didn’t see his corpse—him. I didn’t want to . . .” My words dissolve on my tongue. What I want to tell him is, I wanted the memories of my baby to be perfect, to remember his healthy body as it moved on the ultrasound screen, his heart beating. “This is crazy. Our baby was stillborn. I didn’t see him but he died.”
“I know how this sounds. But I’m telling you, he’s not dead.” Derrick’s eyes are clear, confident. He seems to really believe what he’s saying. “I saw a photo and knew instantly it was him. I felt it here.” He places a hand on his heart. “You have to listen to me. I won’t lie to you. They stole our baby.”
“A photo? That’s bullshit and you know it.” I clench my hands into fists, glare at him. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing yourself? Let it go. Just. Let. It. Go.”
Derrick leans forward, clasping his hands on the table. “You have to believe me. The last thing I want is to cause you any more pain.” He lays his hands flat on the table. “I visited Mother Care a few days ago. I wanted to see where Eric was . . . born. I needed to find closure.” He shrugs. ”I thought I’d make a donation as a way to thank them for being there for you. As soon as I mentioned money, I was led to the office of the woman who owns the place. On her desk was a photo of a six-year-old boy.”
“And you—”
“I knew without a doubt. As soon as I left, I called a private investigator friend of mine. He found out where the woman lives.”
“Deena,” I say softly.
“Yes. Deena Neeson is her name. This morning, I showed up at her house. Guess who I found playing in the yard?” His face brightens.
“Eric? No.” I lift my fingertips to my lips. “That’s impossible.”
“He was kicking around a red ball. I wanted to talk to him but her husband came out of the house. He ordered me to get off his property. So, I clocked him. I wasn’t going anywhere without our son.”
Trembling, I tighten my arms around my middle. My skin feels cold to the touch. “It can’t be—it—no.”
“I just got off the phone with a detective friend of mine. He found out that Mother Care is an organization that operates under the disguise of taking care of young, helpless pregnant women with nowhere to go. But in truth, all they care about are their babies. Deena Neeson and her entire family are baby sellers. They’ve been in this business for six years now.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe. Deena had approached me at the homeless shelter. She and her sister had taken such good care of me, covered all of my pregnancy-related medical bills. My mind reminds me of the call I had made to her some weeks ago, how she wouldn’t come to the phone.
“Tell me you believe me now.”
“I don’t understand.” His words are swimming inside my head and I’m trying to catch them, to string them together in a way that makes sense to my fractured mind.
“They sell babies to childless couples, Brooke.”
“They might have started the home with good intentions but, somewhere along the way, they saw a twisted money-making opportunity and grabbed it, hurting many people in the process.” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You were their first victim. We’re lucky they kept our son. Some mothers might never get their kids back. I had planned to go and see the place Eric was born. I never expected to find him.”
My mind takes me back to one rainy morning during my stay at Mother Care, when Deena had confided in me about the miscarriages she’s had. I asked why she and Jack were not considering adoption. What she said then now chills my spine.
“There has to be an easier way than adoption,” she’d said and ended the conversation.
“But . . .” Sorrow closes up my throat. “How could I not have known? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t you remember anything suspicious at all? What do you remember about the birth?”
“I was in labor for ten hours. I reached a point when it got to be too much. I couldn’t go on but they forced me to keep pushing. They said they could see the baby. Deena’s sister, Verla, gave me something to drink. She said it will help with the pain. I fell asleep.” I touch my trembling lips with the tips of my fingers. “When I woke up they told me the baby died.” I remember being hysterical, accusing them of lying.
Eric was everything to me, the only family I had, my only hope. To hear that he was dead drove me out of my mind. I remember many arms holding me down, Deena and Verla telling me to stay calm. Verla had plunged a needle into my arm. Whatever she put into my system sedated me.
I was
in a hazy fog for a week. One day, Deena walked in and told me to quit taking the meds and pull myself together. She said as much as she wanted to help me, they didn’t have enough beds for the women who really needed them. When I refused to leave, she had me forced out. In less than a year, I was back on the street, homeless again.
A suffocating sensation squeezes my throat shut. It’s a struggle to breathe. “They took him away from me? Are you sure? Eric is really alive?”
“Yes.” Derrick’s face brightens at the realization he has hit a chord. “They call him Jack. Jack Neeson.”
“Jack,” I whisper the name and then my head jerks up. “I need to go. I need to see my son.” I shoot to my feet. The chair falls to the floor. I don’t pick it up.
“You can’t, not yet at least.” A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry about him. He’s in great hands. My lawyer contacted Child Protective Services, and the police are on the case. We can’t have him, until it’s confirmed he’s our son. I gave a DNA sample. If you want to do the same, call my lawyer. He’ll fill you in on everything.” He pushes a business card toward me, even though I already have his lawyer’s phone number on my phone from when he called me.
I take the piece of paper, holding it tight. “What if—Derrick, what if the tests prove us wrong? What if it’s not really him?” My vision blurs, distorting his features. “I can’t lose him a second time. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”
“You won’t. It’s him, trust me. He has my eyes and your beautiful red hair. He’s our kid.”
“Time’s up,” a guard calls out. Breaking the rules, Derrick grabs my hand. “I’ll make it all better again. We’ll be a family.” He grins. “Say you love me, Brooke, and that we’ll be a family.”
I bite my bottom lip, overcome with emotions. “I think so.”
“Don’t think.” He lets go of my hand when a beefy guard shows up at the table and glares at him. “This is meant to be. You know it. I know it.”
I nod and turn to leave. The only thing I know at this point is that I want to see my son.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m out of this place,” he calls after me as I disappear through the door.
Outside the gates of jail, I sink to the ground right there in public and break down. I cry for the years I’ve lost with my son. I scramble to my knees and pray to God that Derrick is right. I finally pull myself together and get into my car.
Forty minutes later, I pull up in front of the Mother Care building. It’s changed from when I last saw it, with more floors and a fresh coat of mint green paint covering the cracks. The garden is now well-manicured with a playground that looks brand new.
I’m tempted to get out of the car, to barge into the building and demand answers, but the moment my hand touches the handle, the door to Mother Care opens and two cops in uniform exit, carrying boxes. They lock the door behind them.
Overcome with emotion, I lean my head against the steering wheel and cry all over again. Derrick could be right after all.
27
Derrick
My hands bunch into fists at my sides. Brooke is sitting next to me and our eyes are fixed on my flat screen TV.
The young reporter makes a half-turn to the Mother Care building, looming behind him. He turns back to the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, behind me is the place where close to two hundred young mothers, most of them teenagers, were deceived into believing the babies they gave birth to were stillborn. The truth is, Deena Neeson, the owner, and her family, have been running a baby selling business for close to six years. They fooled young mothers into thinking they have found a home. They fed them, dressed them, and even covered their medical expenses, only to drug them during childbirth. When they came to, they were told the devastating news that their babies had died. Soon after, they were pushed out the door to make space for new pregnant mothers.”
I take Brooke’s hand and allow her to hold onto me for comfort and strength.
“You okay?” I ask, although I know the answer.
She gives me a shaky smile. “Ask me again after we talk to your lawyer.”
“He’ll be here soon.” I glance at my watch. Where the hell is he? He said he would be here at 11:00 a.m. He’s fifteen minutes late. Every second feels like an eternity when one is waiting for life-changing news.
The reporter is now interviewing a woman with stringy, caramel hair and mascara running down her cheeks. Several other victims of Mother Care have been interviewed in the past hour. Brooke could have been one of them, but she refused to be interviewed. She’s only interested in one thing, the child she thought she lost.
“You were pregnant at sixteen. Were you going to keep the baby?”
“I was young and far from ready to be a mother, but I was determined to learn . . . to be a good mom. I would never have given up my baby.” Tears glisten on the woman’s pink cheeks.
“You must have been really upset to hear your baby was stillborn.” The same question the reporter had asked the other victims.
“I was devastated. They didn’t even give me the chance to hold her . . . my baby in my arms. They said seeing the corpse would only make it harder for me to let go.” The woman runs a palm across her cheek, smudging the mascara across her milky skin. “They pretended to be good people. They made me feel like part of a family.” She lifts, then drops her hands at her sides. “Sorry, I—I can’t do this.” She walks away from the cameras and collapses into another woman’s arms.
I flick off the TV and sling an arm around Brooke. She leans into me for a few seconds before she gets to her feet, pacing the room, shaking out her hands, trying to get rid of the nervous energy. Fear flickers on her face, the fear of disappointment, more pain.
A dark cloud settles on my mind, dimming my confidence. What if I’m wrong? What if it turns out that the child I saw wasn’t really Eric? I spent so much time trying to convince Brooke that our son is alive. Instincts lie all the time. It would tear her apart to find out her baby really is dead or was sold. I’d never forgive myself.
An ache drives through my heart. I should have waited for the results before getting up her hopes the way I did. I had been so excited, I couldn’t wait to tell her. Now everything could blow up in my face and I might lose her.
Melissa, my housekeeper, walks in with a silver tray and places a pitcher of water on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Melissa. Now, I think you should start your weekend early.”
“Are you sure? I just started.” She straightens her slim frame.
I reach for a crystal water glass. “There’s not much to do around here. Go home. Spend some time with your granddaughter.”
Melissa is in her fifties. She became a grandmother for the first time two months ago. She’s a warm woman with the energy of a horse. Not once during her time working for me did she call in sick. A year and a half.
“Thank you, Mr. LaClaire. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Melissa walks out of the living room, and I fill Brooke’s glass with chilled water. I wish I could offer her more than just water. She’s been with me since 6:00 a.m. but refuses to eat anything. She didn’t even touch the breakfast Melissa had placed in front of her.
“Thanks,” she whispers and raises her glass to her lips. She only takes a sip. She lowers it to the table again. The moment the bottom of the glass touches the table, the doorbell rings.
Melissa, who still hasn’t left, goes to let Fred in.
Fred walks in carrying his shiny, black briefcase.
“You’re late, Fred.” I stand to shake his hand.
“I apologize. I had some things to take care of. I wanted to have all the answers before coming to see you.” He squeezes Brooke’s hand.
“Take a seat, Fred.” I wave toward the opposite couch. “Tell me you have good news.”
Brooke leans forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, hands in a prayer gesture, eyes on Fred.<
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Fred snaps open his briefcase and pulls out a sheet of paper. He hands it to me, his expression stoic. The guy always carries the same expression, whether he’s happy, pissed off, or in-between.
Brooke draws closer to me and we read the piece of paper together. She jumps to her feet, clutching her chest, panting for breath. She hurries from the room. The door to the downstairs bathroom slams shut, the sound vibrating through the entire house.
My hands calm and controlled, I place the paternity results on the glass table next to the tray and stand. “Excuse me, Fred. I’ll be right back.”
I knock on the bathroom door. She doesn’t answer. The water is running on the other side, but the sound of her sobs still make it through the wooden door. I refrain from knocking again. She needs time to process the information. I lean my back against the door, drawing in ten deep breaths. I push away and take a step toward the hallway. The door opens and she’s standing there, her cheeks glistening, eyes bloodshot. All I can think is that she’s never been more beautiful.
I tug her into my arms, one hand on her back, one buried in the curly locks at the nape of her neck. “It’s all right now,” I whisper into her hair. “Our son is alive.”
She pulls away and gazes up at me, a smile spreading across her face. “You were right. You were so right.” She leans back into me, holding on tight. “It was him.”
“It was.” My own eyes burn with moisture.
We return to the living room hand in hand to find Fred drinking a glass of water. His lips twitch in a smile, his face muscles barely moving. “I’m glad to be the bearer of good news.”
“Thank you, Fred.” I sink back onto the couch, pulling Brooke down with me.
Fred hands Brooke another page and she smiles at him. “What’s this?”
“Proof that you’re the mother. You only saw the paternity results.”
“Oh.” She smiles brightly, and lowers her gaze to the paper at the same time I do. She looks up at me. “We are his parents.”