by Katy Regnery
I rev the motor like I was shown, looking up at my parents with a smile. “Don’t worry. See you tomorrow?”
My father puts his arm around my mother, holding her close as she wipes her eyes and nods. “Be careful, bug.”
“We love you, Brynn. See you tomorrow.”
I don’t wave as I pull out of the parking lot and onto Golden Road. In fact, the wind in my face feels really good, my wrist isn’t bothering me (thanks to three Advils), and I have always loved thinking while driving.
I think about Cassidy.
I think about him saving me from Wayne that day up on Katahdin, and carrying me on his back to safety.
I think about him sliding into bed beside me when I asked him to, holding me close all night long, and how I would wake up to him singing.
I think about him hiking back up Katahdin to find Jem’s phone, and how he chastised himself so harshly for being unable to find it.
I think about him chopping wood without a shirt on and chatting with Annie while he milked her and fishing for brook trout on sunny days.
I think about kissing him for the first time, cuddled up on the couch watching a movie together.
I think about the way he looked at me, calling me his life’s greatest treasure, when he made love to me.
I think that I will love Cassidy until the day I die, and I hope—oh, God, I hope so damned hard—that he meant it when he wrote on that note that he loved me too.
I think that he deserves to know who he is, and I hope that by learning that he’s the son of Nora and Jackson Wayne, it will release him from the terrible burden I suspect he’s always carried.
I think that one day I’d like to be his wife and the mother of his children. I’d like to fall asleep every night with those strong arms around me, and wake up every morning to those beautiful blue and green eyes.
I think that if Cassidy is my future, I’ll be the luckiest girl in the world.
The voice on the GPS tells me to turn onto Telos Road, where I stay for two miles, chasing my thoughts away so I can concentrate on the drive. It’s a double-lane dirt road for logging, I think, with thick forest on each side. I almost miss my next turn right, onto a single-lane path that’s been used by other ATVs headed to Harrington Pond, which skirts the boundary of the Cleary land. I’m bumping along now, but nothing could make me turn back. I’m doing this. I’m almost there.
I turn right again onto another dirt path, my heart thrumming with excitement to share everything I’ve learned with Cassidy. What will he say? What will he think? Will he believe me? And after I’ve shared everything with him, will there be a place for me in his life? Will he want to take a chance on us? To explore the possibility of building a life together? I hope so. Oh, God, I hope so.
Finally I come to a fork in the road, and the GPS tells me to turn left to reach the pond, but there’s no path in sight. Bushwhackin’. I look to my left, where there’s nothing but thin woods and high grass. I take off my helmet for a second, idling at the end of the trail, and that’s when I smell it: smoke.
Looking up, I realize that there’s quite a lot of smoke, thick and gray, coming from somewhere ahead of me, a little off to the right.
Wait . . .
“No!” I cry, as my mind quickly puts together that the only thing out here that could burn that big and that hot is Cassidy’s home.
Has he abandoned it? Or—a chilling thought makes my heart clench with agony—could he somehow be trapped inside?
“NO! PLEASE! Please, Cass! Please wait for me! Please! I’m coming!”
It’s a mantra as I jam the helmet back on my head and turn the bike in the direction of the billowing smoke.
I have no idea what I’ll find when I get there.
I just pray I won’t be too late.
Cassidy
“I packed up what I wanted: some clothes and food, rope and knives. Your rifle, Gramp, and the picture of us three, Mama. I took it out of the frame and rolled it up to keep it safe. I grabbed a few of my favorite books and Gramp’s old guitar. I left Annie, the girls, and T. Rex at the store. I reckon they’ll find homes for them. Hope so anyway.”
I take a deep breath and sigh, looking in the direction of the homestead, where smoke is rising thicker and darker. It’s not that I wanted to live there anymore—I don’t know how I would have borne it without Brynn. Heck, I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to. Lord knows I need to be getting north, far away from this town, as soon as possible, before the sheriff comes knocking on my door, just as he came knocking on my father’s.
I look at the smoke again, feeling a little conflicted. Maybe because that homestead offered me sanctuary as a child, or because it was where Mama and Gramp died. It was my home for so long, maybe it’s just a bit of misguided sentiment.
I look down at Gramp’s grave marker.
It was his place to do with what he wanted. All I did was carry out his wishes. I squat down beside the stone, gently pushing away the leaves, then I lay my palm flat over it.
“Gramp, I burned it like you told me to. The house, the greenhouse, and the barn. It won’t fall into the wrong hands now. No kids out here doing drugs. No government agencies coming out here to look around at what you built. You can rest easy, Gramp,” I say, my voice breaking a little because I know I won’t be back here for a long time, if ever. “I took care of everything, just like you asked.”
I look over at the smoke again. It’s been a wet summer, and the nights are already cooling down into the high forties. Situated as it is between Harrington and McKenna Ponds, the homestead should be a controlled burn and not rage into a wildfire. It was always part of Gramp’s plan to burn it when he didn’t need it anymore, and I find there’s peace in carrying out his will.
I pivot on my heels and face Mama’s grave.
“Mama,” I say, picturing her frizzy blonde hair and sweet blue eyes, “I met someone.” I blink rapidly as my mother’s face is replaced by Brynn’s. “She was . . .” I gulp. “. . . everything to me.” The breath I take is uneven, and I inhale through my nose to keep from sniffling. “But you were right to worry. I think . . . I think I might be changing. So I let her go. Couldn’t saddle her with someone like me.” I place my palm flat on Mama’s stone as I did with Gramp’s. “I love her, Mama. I suspect I’ll always love her, but I did what was right. I just want you to know that.”
After destroying the kitchen and living room last night, I packed up a few things in preparation for today. As long as I worked toward the goal of leaving, I allowed my mind to indulge in fantasy.
I thought about Brynn’s words: I want to be with you. I love you just the way you are. And her plan about getting a little place closer to town with lots of privacy. Read books and make love. Have a couple of kids. A merging of two lives that probably never should have collided, into one.
And damn if it doesn’t make my chest ache like someone’s driving a hammer into it because I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of my life. Brynn. Me. A place of our own. A family of our own.
I burned all of my family’s pictures, letters, and documents in the campfire. I punched a hole in the cistern and let the water drain out so it wouldn’t douse the fire and siphoned diesel from the generator to feed it.
When everything that needed to be done was finished, I lay my weary body down in the bed where my Brynn had slept, burying my face in her pillow. It still smelled of her—of us—and I thought again of what that sweet life in an alternate universe, in an alternate life, might have looked like. I knew one thing for certain: there would never be a man on the face of the earth as grateful as I would have been. And I would have lived every day of my life knowing I’d been pardoned, knowing I’d been spared, knowing what it felt like to have a dark fate swapped with a bright and glorious future. Knowing that I’d been blessed with grace.
I went to sleep surrounded by memories of my Brynn, dreaming about a forever that could never be.
Today I start over.
&nbs
p; I stand up from the graves, looking back and forth between them and knowing I might never be down this way again.
“Bye, Mama. Bye, Gramp. You did your best for me, and I will always be grateful for your care. I will always try to honor you. I will fight against it for as long as I can. But I promise, when the time comes, I will join you before I give in to being him.”
I take one last look at each of the stones and turn the ATV north.
Brynn
When I arrive at the homestead, it’s an inferno.
Flames lick the structures of the barn and the cabin, and the roof has fallen in on both. I keep my distance, standing knee-deep in meadow grass and screaming Cassidy’s name, my voice filled with terror and a sadness so profound, I don’t know how I remain standing. Over and over, I scream his name until I am hoarse and exhausted, tears running down my face as I stare at the destruction of his home—a place where I rediscovered my will to live and met the love of my life.
“Cassidy!” I shriek through sobs, knowing I’ll never find him now that he’s gone.
I wish things were different.
“Come back!” I scream, terrified that I have now lost a second man I loved.
You are the greatest treasure of my entire life.
“Heeeeeeelp!” I wail to the sky, to the God who seems to have abandoned me again.
You asked if I love you, and the answer is yes.
Depleted of strength, I slump to the ground against a tree at the edge of the meadow, several yards from the burning house. I am limp and devastated, utterly spent after two days of racing against the clock. I bow my head, resting my forehead on my knees and weep, because I am at the end of the race now, and I have lost.
I have lost everything.
“Angel? Brynn?”
I hear his voice, urgent and panting, and yank my head up to look at a man backlit by the sun, his strong body and wild hair instantly recognizable to me, even in silhouette. “Cass. Oh, Cass,” I murmur, but I don’t trust myself. The vision is ethereal, and I am drained and bleary. I can’t trust myself. I don’t know if he’s real.
But suddenly he kneels before me, his mismatched eyes looking directly into mine. His hands reach for my unbandaged hand, gripping it gently but firmly between his. He brings it to his face, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to my fingers. And with that soft, familiar touch, I know it’s him.
It’s my Cassidy.
I launch myself against him, winding my arm around his neck and inhaling the goodness of him. Tears stream from my eyes as I feel his arms wrap around me and hold me close. He stands up, lifting me into his arms.
I am being carried. My face is buried in the warm skin of his neck, and I won’t let go. I don’t care where he’s going, I care only that we’re together again, and I silently promise that I will never, ever let him go. No matter how long it takes to convince him, Cassidy will be my life’s work, my heart’s only desire. And I will never give up on the love we share or the future we can have together.
“Why, Brynn?” he says raggedly, still walking with sure strides, holding me safely in his arms. “Why did you come back?”
I don’t answer him. I nestle into his neck, nuzzling his throat with my nose. We will talk when he stops walking. For now, I just want to reassure myself that I’ve found him and he’s holding me in his arms. I haven’t lost him, after all.
“I begged you not to come back. We can’t be together, angel. We can’t.” His voice is agonized, and my plan not to speak goes out the window.
“We can,” I whisper.
Still walking at a clip over uneven ground, he continues. “No! You don’t . . . Brynn, you don’t know about me. You don’t know who I am. You don’t know where I come from. I didn’t want to tell you, but damn it, Brynn!” he cries, holding me tighter. “Why did you come back?”
“Because I love you,” I say near his ear.
He makes a sound halfway between a whimper and a groan, but doesn’t argue with me.
When he slows to a stop, without opening my eyes, I know exactly where we are. The cicadas sing, and I hear a fish—probably a brook trout looking for Cass’s lure—jump with a light splash.
We’re at Brynn’s Rock.
Finally I open my eyes, leaning away just a touch to look at the pond, then at Cassidy. His beautiful, familiar, beloved face—the dirty-blond scruff of day-old beard, the full pink lips, the three moles on his left cheek, and his unforgettable eyes—makes me sob, even though I’m smiling at him. When I got to his homestead, I thought I’d never see him again. But he’s here. God has not abandoned us, after all.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” He sighs, his face bereaved. “You should have stayed away. You’re not safe with me.”
“Yes, I am.” Then I say the same words I said to him that terrible night in his kitchen. “I love you. I want you.”
“But you don’t know—”
“Yes, I do, Cassidy. I know exactly who you think you are.”
Staring at me with an expression of utter shock and horror, his breath catches. His arms loosen, and I drop my feet so I fall to the ground beside him gracefully. His hands droop at his sides, and I take one, leading him to the warm, flat rock where I’ve slept, where we’ve made love, where we’re going to talk now and figure out a way to bridge the past, to the present, to forever.
“You know?” he murmurs, his eyes wide and distraught as he sits across from me on the rock. “Everything?”
I nod, speaking slowly and gently. “I know about Paul Isaac Porter. He and Rosemary Cleary had one child, a son, Cassidy. He was born on Easter Sunday, April 15, 1990. There was a freak storm that killed two boys up on Katahdin that day, and two baby boys were born at Millinocket General Hospital that afternoon. You were one of them.”
He searches my eyes, then clenches his jaw and lowers his head, staring down at the stone. I think he might be so overwhelmed that he’s crying, and I let him. I am the first human being who has spoken to Cassidy about his life, his truth, in over two decades. I cannot imagine what a shock and, maybe, relief it must be to share his wounded past with someone he loves. I swipe away my own tears and reach for his hand.
“I love you,” I repeat softly, jaggedly, through tears. “I want to be with you.”
“How?” he sobs. “How can you want me when you know what I am? When you know the monster I could turn into at any time?”
I whimper softly at the pain—the sheer and profound anguish—in his voice. I need to control my emotions. I need to be strong for him when I tell him who he really is and that most of his identity has been built on a lie.
“Because we are so much more than our parents,” I say, cupping his cheek and forcing him to look at me. “And because, Cassidy . . . not everything is always as it seems.”
“What do you—?”
“Can I tell you a story? And can you promise me that you’ll try to listen?”
“Brynn, I don’t—”
“Please. Please. For me.”
He closes his parted lips and nods.
“Do you trust me, Cass?” I whisper.
“You know I do.”
I take a deep breath, feeling nervous, wishing I had my manila file folder with me. But maybe it’s better to tell him first. Then, if he doubts what I’m saying, we can go get the file for proof.
Holding his eyes hostage and his hand in mine, I begin:
“Easter Sunday 1990 started warm and sunny. It was the spring thaw, and people went to church or got in their cars to join family for brunch. What they didn’t know was that just after twelve noon, a blizzard would start. It would be one of the worst whiteouts of the century, and later, they’d call it the Great White Easter Storm.
“That morning, two women in Millinocket went into labor. One was Rosemary Cleary Porter, who was married to Paul Isaac Porter. The other was Nora Wayne, who was married to the Methodist minister, Pastor Jackson Wayne. Both women arrived at Millinocket General Hospital in the late morni
ng, already in early labor, but neither gave birth right away. In fact, they were both in labor for about eight hours. Because of the storm, neither of their husbands could join them at the hospital, and the doctors and nurses on staff had already worked their full shifts. As the hours ticked by, the hospital became more chaotic, and there was no more staff coming to relieve those working. The storm made the roads impossible for passage. More patients kept arriving. The doctors and nurses were exhausted, but they kept working. The two mothers went into delivery that evening.”
I lick my lips, searching his face for signs of distress or realization, but I don’t find any. I offer him a small smile that he doesn’t return, and then I keep going.
“The doctor on duty that night, Dr. Elias Maxwell, probably knew that his head nurse, Theresa Humphreys, wasn’t performing as sharply as she had for most of her thirty years on the job, because she’d been suffering for months with a brain tumor that was likely affecting her judgment and job performance. But she was still the head maternity nurse. She was responsible for the two little boys born that night—Cassidy Porter and Jackson Wayne Jr.
“Two weeks later, on April 30, she retired. And three weeks after that, she passed away.”
“What are you saying?” he asks, his chest pumping up and down with shallow breaths, his eyes severe.
Gulp. “Stay with me, Cass, okay?”
He nods, but it’s not a leisurely gesture. It’s curt and impatient, wondering where I’m going with this wild, twisting story. Oh, Cass. It’s coming. I promise.
“One baby went home with the Porters,” I say. “The other went home with the Waynes.”
He’s still nodding at me, his eyes wide and intense.
“The wrong baby went home with the Porters,” I say as carefully as I can, “which means the wrong baby went home with the Waynes.”