by Katy Regnery
I am holding my breath as he stares at me, without moving, without flinching. The only thing I can see in my peripheral vision is the relentless rise and fall of his chest.
“What are . . . what are you saying?” he asks again. And then he asks a third time, his voice louder and more frantic. “Brynn, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that your birth name,” I swallow quickly, trying to stay calm, squeezing his hand in mine, “is Jackson Wayne Jr.”
He releases my hand like it’s burning him, and his entire body jerks away from me. His voice is breathy and low. “That’s . . . that’s not possible. That’s crazy.”
“Cassidy,” I say, forcing myself to regain control of my emotions. “You are not the biological son of Paul Isaac Porter. You never were.”
“Brynn,” he says, wincing as he turns to face me, “I know you want me to be someone else so you can—”
“No, Cass,” I interrupt him. “You are someone else. I have proof.”
“That’s impossible. My mother was—”
“Nora Wayne.”
“No. No!” he yells, his eyes wide and wild. “Rosemary Cleary was my mother.”
“Rosemary Cleary loved you and raised you,” I say, “but your biological mother is Nora Wayne.”
“The pastor’s wife? No. No. No, no, no. No no no no no. I know who I am. I . . . I know who I am. I’ve always known.”
“Cassidy,” I say gently, reaching for his arm, which—I’m grateful to say—he lets me hold, “I can tell you more.”
“This isn’t true,” he says frantically. And then, more softly, “This can’t be true.”
“It can be,” I say, my heart breaking for him, “because it is. Can you listen to me? There’s a little more.”
He runs a hand through his hair and nods, but his voice is breathless when he says, “W-what? How can there be more?”
“Do you remember the name of the man who attacked me?” I lower my chin and watch his face—I watch as he remembers, as the horror of the truth starts making sense to him.
“Wayne.”
“Yes,” I say. “Jackson Wayne. The man who attacked me, the man who . . . who died that day, thought his name was Jackson Wayne, but Cass . . .” I have to keep going now. He needs to hear it all. “He died. He died when you threw him. And when they recovered his body, he had no ID on him, so the police ran a DNA test. There was only one match in the system.” I pause before connecting the dots for him. “To Paul Isaac Porter . . . his biological father.”
“Oh . . . God!” he sobs, his breath coming in uneven fits as he digs his hands into his hair and faces away from me.
“Cass,” I say gently, reaching for him, but he shrinks from me, turning away, hiding his tears.
His shoulders are shaking, and he has drawn his knees up against his chest, clasping them with his arms, his back partially turned to me.
Cass. Oh, Cass. If I could take away this pain, I would.
His entire life has been a struggle, a lie, an accident, a terrible conviction.
For a moment I consider leaving him to his tears, but deep inside I know he needs me now more than ever. Spreading out my legs, I scooch up against his back, wrapping my legs and arms around him and resting my clasped hands together over his. I rest my cheek against his strong, broad back, a shock absorber for his tears. His body shakes, and I can hear the gut-wrenching sounds of a grown man sobbing, but I clench my eyes closed and force myself not to cry, no matter how much I want to. How many times was Cassidy strong for me? It’s my turn to be strong for him.
Eventually his sobs subside, and his breathing begins to even out.
“If this is true . . .”
“It is true. All of it. You are not Paul Isaac Porter’s son.”
“Jackson Wayne was a . . .” His voice breaks. “A mean little kid.”
“He was Paul’s biological son.”
“And I’m . . . I’m . . .” His body shudders again, and he can’t speak.
“You’re the son of Nora and Jackson Wayne, Cass.” I take a deep breath, making sure my voice is strong and even before I say, “You’re not the son of a serial killer. There is nothing but goodness in you.”
“But I yelled at you,” he says, turning to face me. “I raised my fist to you.”
“Couples fight,” I say, searching his eyes. He spreads out his legs on either side of me, and I slide onto his lap, scooting up until our chests are touching and our arms are around each other. “You didn’t hit me. You would never hit me, Cass. You were only trying to protect me.”
His face falls, crumpling before my eyes.
“I killed him,” he whispers, horror laced in his voice. “I killed Jackson Wayne. I’m a murderer. What if they come for me?”
“Come for you? Oh, Cass,” I say, my heart breaking all over again for him. I reach for his face, looking into his eyes. “No. No, you aren’t a murderer, and the case is closed. I was attacked, and Wayne fell on his knife. No one’s coming for you but me. You saved my life. You’re a hero, Cass. My hero.”
I press my lips to his, then pull him closer, pressing his forehead onto my shoulder. This time, his sobs are silent, though they rack his entire body and mine too.
I readjust my arms around him.
It’s my turn to hold him.
***
He has a lot of questions after his initial shock wears away, so I take his hand and lead him back to my rented ATV, where the manila file awaits.
“You’re sure we were switched?”
“Mm-hm. On the birth certificate of Jackson Wayne Jr., the doctor wrote a note about heterochromia.”
“Whoa,” he sighs, the puff of breath sharp because he’s still processing everything. “You said the nurse had a brain tumor?”
“Yes.”
“Do my . . .”
I stop walking and turn to look at him. “What?”
“Do my . . . parents . . .” He pauses for a moment, then continues, “know about me?”
“Not yet,” I tell him. “But you look exactly like your dad. It’s uncanny.”
He exhales through his mouth with a phew sound. “I’ve never used that word before.”
“What word?”
“Dad,” he says softly.
I clench my jaw to keep from sobbing. When I can, I respond. “Maybe now you can.”
And then we keep walking.
The homestead has burned almost to the ground by the time we return, and after I pull the file from the quad’s side pocket, I turn to find Cassidy standing still, staring at the smoking, smoldering destruction before him.
“Do you wish you hadn’t burned it down?” I ask.
“No,” he answers, turning his head to look at me, his gaze infinitely tender. “I couldn’t live here anymore. I would have seen you everywhere.”
Oh, my heart.
I nod at him, holding out the folder. “Do you want to go somewhere to look through everything? My parents got me a hotel room in town. We could go there if you want.”
He takes a deep breath. “I need time to process this, Brynn.”
“Oh.” My mind scrambles to understand his meaning, and as I do, I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. He needs time. Time. Alone. Away from me. Fuck. Get it together, Brynn. You’ve just turned his life upside down. If he needs time, give it to him. I force a smile, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “Okay. Well, I could go, and you could come and find me when you’re, I mean, if you—”
“Not time away from you,” he says in a rush. “It’s just . . . hotels, people . . . I don’t know if I’m ready to go hang out in town yet.”
“Ohh.” My relief makes me light-headed. “Right.”
“There are cabins at the Golden Bridge Campground,” he says. “Maybe we could rent one for a few days and sort this out. I have to get my head around it.”
“Definitely,” I say, offering him the file. “We can definitely do that, Cass.”
“Wait,” he says, takin
g the file and placing it on the ground before looking back at me.
“What?”
“Angel,” he says, his voice deep and emotional as he pulls me against him, then puts a finger under my chin, tilting it up so I’m facing him. He captures my eyes with his and holds them steady. “I don’t ever want any time away from you. Understand? Never.”
“Never,” I whisper back, feeling tears track down my cheeks.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much, it’s been killing me inside not to tell you.”
“I love you too. So much. Don’t ever leave me again.”
“I promise,” he says, his palms flush against my cheeks, his thumbs swiping at my tears.
“Say it again,” I ask him, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
“I love you,” he says, dropping his lips to my forehead. “I love you,” he says again, kissing one eyelid and then the other. “I love you,” he says, pressing his lips flush against mine.
I wind my arms around his neck, leaning into his body, into his strength, into his kiss. His tongue meets mine, and I sigh into his mouth, threading my fingers through his hair and arching my back so that my breasts flatten against the ridges of muscles on his chest.
We kiss while the smoke of one life winds around us and the promise of another is finally—finally—within reach. My Cassidy is a phoenix rising from that fire—the same good man he always was, without the burden of a mistaken identity, without cursed blood flowing through his veins.
When he draws away from me, his eyes are dark with arousal, but still somehow lighter than I have ever seen them.
“I’m not Cassidy Porter,” he says, a little bemused, a small smile tilting his lips up.
“It’s strange. I know that being Cassidy Porter was a burden to you. But to me,” I say, keeping my fingers laced behind his neck, “Cassidy Porter was an angel. A guardian angel. My guardian angel. You gave me back my life in so many ways.”
“Then we’re even . . . because now you’ve given me back mine.” He searches my eyes before kissing me soundly. When he backs away, his expression is serious. “When I left you at the police station, I told you, ‘If I ever see you again, I’ll never be able to let you go.’ And here you are.”
“Here I am,” I say, letting my tears fall because they are born of a happiness so complete, I never thought I could feel this way again.
“I’ll never let you go,” he says fiercely, and it’s a promise, a vow that holds with it the promise of a sweet forever: a home we build together, reading books and making love, and children. Our children.
“I want kids,” I whisper, holding my breath. “Your kids. Ours.”
His face seizes for a moment, then relaxes little by little. Finally his lips tilt up, and when they do, I realize that his eyes are glistening. He runs his knuckles down my cheek, caressing it.
“Me too. Someday,” he says.
I know that processing everything—trusting that what I’ve said and what he reads is true—will take some time, but I see the hope and promise shining in his eyes, and for me, a woman who was once broken, it’s enough.
“Someday,” I say, grinning up at him. I reach down for the file and hand it to him. “Hey, in the meantime, what should I call you?”
He tilts his head. “Cassidy, I guess. Not Cassidy Porter. Just Cassidy.”
“Cassidy,” I say, lifting on my tiptoes to touch my lips to his. “Just Cassidy . . . you are loved.”
One Year Later
Cassidy
Brynn sold her house in San Francisco, and had her cat, Milo, shipped East. From the sale of her house and the money I’d saved from Gramp’s pension, we were able to buy forty acres of land just over the border, in Bartlett, New Hampshire, with views of both Black Cap and Cranmore Mountains. Brynn’s not interested in climbing them, which I understand. The last mountain she climbed was Katahdin, last summer, with me. I took her up to Baxter Peak so she could bury Jem’s cell phone, like she planned. I will always be grateful to him, and to Katahdin. Without them, Brynn and I wouldn’t have found each other. But our memories of Maine were a mixed bag, and New Hampshire felt like the fresh start we both needed and deserved.
Our property’s at the end of a lonesome road, surrounded by the White Mountain National Forest, and we built our house ten miles into our land for even greater seclusion. I guess it’d be fair to say that we’re the very last house on the grid.
It’s a strange thing to have electricity at the flick of a switch, or hot water just because I want it. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it completely, but I’m man enough to admit that I appreciate the satellite TV, not that I understand why anyone needs that many channels.
It’s a twenty-minute drive from our house to the road, but once you’re there, it’s only fifteen minutes more to North Conway, which has every store and restaurant you can think of, plus Memorial Hospital, which is important to my Brynn.
Especially now.
I glance over at her, reading on a window seat in the sunlight, her belly rounder by the day. She’s not due for another four months, but I’m grateful to be closer to town too. Last week I joined her for her doctor’s appointment, and I could hear my son’s heart beating strong inside her. Grace. Such grace.
This woman, my wife, gave me back my life, and in her body she grows a life that is half her and half me. Together, they are the miracle I longed for, but never thought I could have, and my heart stutters at the thought of anything happening to them. I will protect them and cherish them until the light fades from my soul. I will never, ever take them for granted. I will live my life in reverence and thanks.
“You’re looking at me like crazy,” Brynn says, glancing my way and grinning.
“That’s ’cause I’m crazy about you,” I say, walking over to her with two mugs of tea.
She giggles as she accepts the mug and takes a quick sip. “Ooo! Nice and hot.”
I nod, looking out the window at the expanse of land and the mountain peaks in the distance.
“You talked to your . . . to Nora?”
In the weeks after Brynn told me about my parents, I reached out to Nora and Jackson Wayne via e-mail, once Brynn showed me how to use it. I explained that the son they’d known as Jackson Jr. had passed away, explained what had happened back in 1990, and introduced myself as their biological son. Though it took some time to unravel everything for them, once they understood, they were eager to set a time and place to meet in person.
I confessed the whole of my connection to their son, J.J.—that I’d killed him saving Brynn’s life—when we met, and I held my breath, wondering if they’d still want a relationship with me after this revelation. But to my surprise, they did. I am sure they grieved the son they knew in their own way, but they bore nothing but open-armed forgiveness and acceptance for me.
Brynn was right: I look exactly like my father, Jackson, whom I call Jack. So much so, in fact, that none of us were surprised when the DNA test we took came back matching us as father and son. Nora, my biological mother, asked me to call her Mom recently, but I can’t do it yet. Rosemary Cleary wasn’t perfect, but she loved me and I loved her. She was my mother even if we weren’t related, and out of respect for her memory, I think she’ll be the only woman I ever call Mom. I hope Nora will be okay with that over time.
I couldn’t get rid of the name Porter fast enough, but Wayne didn’t sit right either. In the end, with Brynn’s help, I decided that my name should be Cassidy Cleary, and our baby’s name will be Colin Francis Cadogan-Cleary, half the grandfather I knew and half the grandfather who already dotes on him.
We see the Cadogans, who bought a lake house twenty miles south of us, on Conway Lake, often. Their place is pretty grand, with plenty of room to host the Waynes, with whom they have become very close, and who are planning to visit closer to Brynn’s due date. This baby sure will be surrounded by love.
My Great-Uncle Bert—my grandfather’s brother—got in touch with me a few
months ago, and though I hadn’t seen him in years, we met halfway between his house and mine, and spent an evening drinking beer and reminiscing about the old homestead. I see it often in my dreams, and when I do, it isn’t burning. I remember the days that Brynn and I shared there, and mostly my memories make me happy.
Uncle Bert sold the land up in Maine and gave half the money to me. I don’t need it, I told him, but he insisted that Gramp would have wanted me to have it. I’ll make sure my wife is comfortable and put my son through college with that money, I guess, though it’s more than I can ever imagine spending. I was taught to live quiet, and even in our modern house, with electricity and satellite TV, I still like to keep things simple.
“I talked to her,” I say, responding to Brynn’s question about Nora. “She’s staying with your folks at the lake house in October.”
“And Jack?”
“He’s getting a replacement to take care of things at the church for the months of October and November.” I smile at her, remembering Nora’s words. “I think they’re going to follow that baby all over the hospital to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself.”
She smiles at me and picks up her feet so I can sit down. When I do, I place my tea on the window ledge, and she puts her feet in my lap, just like she used to when we sat on the couch together reading A Prayer for Owen Meany and Kurt Vonnegut. I rub her feet because I know she loves it. And I do it because I love her and never, ever—not for one second in any day between now and the one on which I die—will I forget that she is my life, my beating heart, my angel, and my salvation.
“I love you,” I say, pausing to look at her belly with profound pride and happiness before lifting my gaze to her face. “Always.”
“I love you too,” she says, a twinkle in her ivy-green eyes. “Always.”
I don’t think too much about Paul Isaac Porter anymore, though I dream about that raccoon now and then. In my favorite dreams, I figure out a way to set it free. I watch as it limps off into the woods, hoping it finds a way to magically heal itself and carry on living.
In a way, that’s what happened to me and Brynn, I guess.