Read Online Like Dandelion Dust by Karen Kingsbury - Free Book Online
Authors: Karen Kingsbury
Tags: FIC045000
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understanding filled her face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Wendy lifted her hands as the tears splashed onto her cheeks. “He’s in prison for domestic violence. What’d you think?”
“You said he pushed you in the Kroger parking lot.” Allyson looked defeated. “Have you reported him?”
Wendy’s voice cracked. “I can’t.” She bit her lip and shook her head. “I never could. I love him.” In a distant room she could hear a baby crying and she wondered if it was hers. “But I can’t . . . have my baby around that.”
Concern added to the emotions on the social worker’s face. “What about your husband?” She picked up her briefcase. “What if he won’t sign?”
“He’ll sign.” Wendy’s heart beat harder than before.
Rip would kill me if he knew what I was doing,
she thought.
He wouldn’t sign the papers for a million dollars. He’s always wanted a son, as long as I’ve known him.
She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “He hates kids. I’ll have the papers to you in a week.”
Allyson filled her cheeks with air and released it slowly. She stood, righteous anger written in the lines on her forehead. “It’s wrong, what he’s done to you. I can get you counseling, someone to meet with every day. Whatever it takes to get him out of your life.”
The ticks from the clock on the wall seemed to get louder. The right answer was obvious. Wendy would agree, of course. She would get help and she would put Rip Porter out of her mind forever. But as long as she’d known Rip, he’d always found his way back into her life.
“Well . . . ?” Allyson touched her shoulder. “Can I make the call?”
Wendy looked down at her hands, at the way they had clenched into fists. She shook her head without looking up. “It’s no use. I’ll never be rid of him.”
The social worker tried for a while longer, but Wendy wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t expose her baby to Rip, and she couldn’t get counseling for a problem she would keep going back to. Finally there was nothing else Allyson could say. “I’m sorry, Wendy.” She gathered her briefcase and gave a nod to the paperwork. “Get it signed and back to me as soon as possible. The couple will be here at the end of the week. We’ll keep the baby in short-term foster care until the papers are in order.”
The couple. Her son’s new parents.
Wendy had picked them from a nationwide data bank. Their bios were the only ones that grabbed her heart.
She still had them now, on the top shelf in the linen closet. She crossed the kitchen to the front door and looked out the living-room window. Rip wasn’t in sight. Still, she needed to find the file. Now, so she’d have it ready when he got home. The folder held everything—pictures, the information on the couple, details about her baby’s birth.
Even a copy of the forged paperwork.
She went to the linen closet and opened the door. Every September 22—her son’s birthday—she’d pull the file from the top shelf and remind herself that she’d made the right choice. Once in a while she’d take a look on a random day in March or June or just before Christmas. When she missed Rip or when she wondered whether her little boy was walking or running or reciting his alphabet.
Now she reached up and carefully pulled down the file. It smelled like cigarette smoke, proof that she usually couldn’t get through the papers inside without chain smoking over every page. The top of the folder read, “Porter Adoption File.” Wendy read the words three times. Her mouth was dry, and her heart stuttered into an uncomfortable beat. She dropped to the floor cross-legged and opened the file.
And there they were. The faces of all three of them.
Clipped to the inside of the folder was a photo of her son, the only photo she had. Gently she slipped the picture from beneath the paper clip and held it closer. She could still hear his baby sounds, still feel the way he held tight to her finger.
Wendy lifted her hands as the tears splashed onto her cheeks. “He’s in prison for domestic violence. What’d you think?”
“You said he pushed you in the Kroger parking lot.” Allyson looked defeated. “Have you reported him?”
Wendy’s voice cracked. “I can’t.” She bit her lip and shook her head. “I never could. I love him.” In a distant room she could hear a baby crying and she wondered if it was hers. “But I can’t . . . have my baby around that.”
Concern added to the emotions on the social worker’s face. “What about your husband?” She picked up her briefcase. “What if he won’t sign?”
“He’ll sign.” Wendy’s heart beat harder than before.
Rip would kill me if he knew what I was doing,
she thought.
He wouldn’t sign the papers for a million dollars. He’s always wanted a son, as long as I’ve known him.
She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “He hates kids. I’ll have the papers to you in a week.”
Allyson filled her cheeks with air and released it slowly. She stood, righteous anger written in the lines on her forehead. “It’s wrong, what he’s done to you. I can get you counseling, someone to meet with every day. Whatever it takes to get him out of your life.”
The ticks from the clock on the wall seemed to get louder. The right answer was obvious. Wendy would agree, of course. She would get help and she would put Rip Porter out of her mind forever. But as long as she’d known Rip, he’d always found his way back into her life.
“Well . . . ?” Allyson touched her shoulder. “Can I make the call?”
Wendy looked down at her hands, at the way they had clenched into fists. She shook her head without looking up. “It’s no use. I’ll never be rid of him.”
The social worker tried for a while longer, but Wendy wouldn’t budge. She couldn’t expose her baby to Rip, and she couldn’t get counseling for a problem she would keep going back to. Finally there was nothing else Allyson could say. “I’m sorry, Wendy.” She gathered her briefcase and gave a nod to the paperwork. “Get it signed and back to me as soon as possible. The couple will be here at the end of the week. We’ll keep the baby in short-term foster care until the papers are in order.”
The couple. Her son’s new parents.
Wendy had picked them from a nationwide data bank. Their bios were the only ones that grabbed her heart.
She still had them now, on the top shelf in the linen closet. She crossed the kitchen to the front door and looked out the living-room window. Rip wasn’t in sight. Still, she needed to find the file. Now, so she’d have it ready when he got home. The folder held everything—pictures, the information on the couple, details about her baby’s birth.
Even a copy of the forged paperwork.
She went to the linen closet and opened the door. Every September 22—her son’s birthday—she’d pull the file from the top shelf and remind herself that she’d made the right choice. Once in a while she’d take a look on a random day in March or June or just before Christmas. When she missed Rip or when she wondered whether her little boy was walking or running or reciting his alphabet.
Now she reached up and carefully pulled down the file. It smelled like cigarette smoke, proof that she usually couldn’t get through the papers inside without chain smoking over every page. The top of the folder read, “Porter Adoption File.” Wendy read the words three times. Her mouth was dry, and her heart stuttered into an uncomfortable beat. She dropped to the floor cross-legged and opened the file.
And there they were. The faces of all three of them.
Clipped to the inside of the folder was a photo of her son, the only photo she had. Gently she slipped the picture from beneath the paper clip and held it closer. She could still hear his baby sounds, still feel the way he held tight to her finger.
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