Read Online Beneath the Night Tree by Nicole Baart - Free Book Online
Authors: Nicole Baart
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engineer at a successful biomedical corporation. You’d think I could leave the past behind, but I can’t.
Anyway, you have every right to hate me, and I understand if you do. I don’t expect anything from you. But if you still use this e-mail address, and if you can bring yourself to write back, will you answer one question for me?
Do I have a child?
Parker
By the time we left for church, I felt drugged, detached, like the first hour after Daniel was born, when exhaustion and hormones and shock and love all mingled together to make the entire experience feel out-of-body. I went through the motions with admirable composure, but I was sure that no one in my little family was much fooled. Grandma knew me as well as she knew herself, and Simon had always been perceptive. As for Daniel, we were connected; what else was there to say?
My son sat curled against me during church, his head beneath my arm and his fingers laced through mine as if he couldn’t quite get close enough. It was a rare experience—he normally squirmed, wiggled, and whispered his way through church, but it wasn’t hard for me to overlook his uncharacteristic behavior. I loved him snuggled close. Especially since I felt so unhinged. Daniel grounded me through songs that I didn’t sing and a long-winded sermon that I didn’t hear.
I have thought about you every day for the past five and a half years. . . . I’m sorry. . . . Do I have a child?
What did he expect me to say? Me too. You should be. Yes.
What I wanted to say was: You’re a jerk. A loser. A bum. You don’t deserve to know what happened to me or that you have a perfect, beautiful son. Your pathetic e-mail is too little, too late.
Or maybe I could just pretend that I never got his message. His words could be forever lost in cyberspace.
It was when the service was over and we were all turning to file out of the pews that I realized I couldn’t simply ignore Parker’s long-overdue plea. Daniel had finally unraveled himself from my arms, and he was several feet ahead of me, excited to find his friends in the fellowship hall behind our quaint sanctuary. Church services were still held in the old part of the building, a modest-size room with wooden floors and benches and stained glass windows that were lovely to the point of distraction. But a new addition had recently been tacked on to the antiquated chapel, a modern hall with a kitchen full of stainless steel and more than enough room for the under-ten set to run themselves into a froth.
Usually, the first words out of my mouth when the morning service was over were No running, Daniel. You’re going to knock someone over. But today I was distracted, and when he was nearly free of the benches and poised to race down the aisle, my five-year-old tossed a quick glance over his shoulder.
His chin was tilted away from me, and he looked up through faintly narrowed eyes. There was a smirk on his lips, a grin that he tried to hide because it was obvious that he was convinced he was about to get away with murder. It was that look, that mischievous I-have-the-world-by-the-tail expression that reminded me the most of Parker. Daniel was indisputably the spitting image of his father. He had been from the day he was born. But I was the only one who knew it.
Parker was a nonentity in our home. Once, just once, I had slipped and mentioned his name, but I couldn’t be sure that Grandma had caught it or that she even realized what I was saying. She never pressed me for information, and I never offered any. The father of my baby was a ghost, as nameless and anonymous as a stranger. Yet I lived with a piece of him every day.
Now what? Did he want to meet Daniel? be a part of our lives? After all this time he had no claim over me, over my son. And yet his very likeness stood before me, a gorgeous little boy with piercing blue eyes, features that were chiseled and distinct even at the age of five, and hair the color of wet sand.
I tried not to
Anyway, you have every right to hate me, and I understand if you do. I don’t expect anything from you. But if you still use this e-mail address, and if you can bring yourself to write back, will you answer one question for me?
Do I have a child?
Parker
By the time we left for church, I felt drugged, detached, like the first hour after Daniel was born, when exhaustion and hormones and shock and love all mingled together to make the entire experience feel out-of-body. I went through the motions with admirable composure, but I was sure that no one in my little family was much fooled. Grandma knew me as well as she knew herself, and Simon had always been perceptive. As for Daniel, we were connected; what else was there to say?
My son sat curled against me during church, his head beneath my arm and his fingers laced through mine as if he couldn’t quite get close enough. It was a rare experience—he normally squirmed, wiggled, and whispered his way through church, but it wasn’t hard for me to overlook his uncharacteristic behavior. I loved him snuggled close. Especially since I felt so unhinged. Daniel grounded me through songs that I didn’t sing and a long-winded sermon that I didn’t hear.
I have thought about you every day for the past five and a half years. . . . I’m sorry. . . . Do I have a child?
What did he expect me to say? Me too. You should be. Yes.
What I wanted to say was: You’re a jerk. A loser. A bum. You don’t deserve to know what happened to me or that you have a perfect, beautiful son. Your pathetic e-mail is too little, too late.
Or maybe I could just pretend that I never got his message. His words could be forever lost in cyberspace.
It was when the service was over and we were all turning to file out of the pews that I realized I couldn’t simply ignore Parker’s long-overdue plea. Daniel had finally unraveled himself from my arms, and he was several feet ahead of me, excited to find his friends in the fellowship hall behind our quaint sanctuary. Church services were still held in the old part of the building, a modest-size room with wooden floors and benches and stained glass windows that were lovely to the point of distraction. But a new addition had recently been tacked on to the antiquated chapel, a modern hall with a kitchen full of stainless steel and more than enough room for the under-ten set to run themselves into a froth.
Usually, the first words out of my mouth when the morning service was over were No running, Daniel. You’re going to knock someone over. But today I was distracted, and when he was nearly free of the benches and poised to race down the aisle, my five-year-old tossed a quick glance over his shoulder.
His chin was tilted away from me, and he looked up through faintly narrowed eyes. There was a smirk on his lips, a grin that he tried to hide because it was obvious that he was convinced he was about to get away with murder. It was that look, that mischievous I-have-the-world-by-the-tail expression that reminded me the most of Parker. Daniel was indisputably the spitting image of his father. He had been from the day he was born. But I was the only one who knew it.
Parker was a nonentity in our home. Once, just once, I had slipped and mentioned his name, but I couldn’t be sure that Grandma had caught it or that she even realized what I was saying. She never pressed me for information, and I never offered any. The father of my baby was a ghost, as nameless and anonymous as a stranger. Yet I lived with a piece of him every day.
Now what? Did he want to meet Daniel? be a part of our lives? After all this time he had no claim over me, over my son. And yet his very likeness stood before me, a gorgeous little boy with piercing blue eyes, features that were chiseled and distinct even at the age of five, and hair the color of wet sand.
I tried not to
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