Seven Days of Us(49)

Jesse


THE DRIVE, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:32 A.M.

? ? ?

Weyfield Hall was different in daylight. Jesse stood at the turning in the drive looking up at it. The air felt swollen with impending rain, and pale light slanted through low, gray clouds. Against it, the house looked spectacular. Even the weeds on the drive struck him as romantic. He took the letter from its unsealed envelope for a final read.

December 27, 2016

Dear Andrew,

I am writing this letter because I believe you are my birth father. My late birth mother was a Lebanese woman named Leila Deeba, who I think you met as a reporter in Beirut, 1980. My mother had me adopted soon after giving birth, and I was raised by my adoptive parents in Iowa.

I sent you two e-mails reaching out before Christmas, as I have been working in Norfolk over the holiday season. I was hoping you might be curious to meet, but since I didn’t hear from you, I can’t be sure if you didn’t receive my e-mails, or if you would prefer not to make contact. I hope it is the former, but I understand if you don’t feel comfortable meeting me. I have no idea if you even knew my birth mother had gotten pregnant, so I appreciate that this letter may come as something of a shock. However, since I am in Norfolk, and I can’t be certain my e-mails made it, I am taking the liberty of delivering this letter by hand. I hope you will forgive my forwardness.

Some background on me: I now live in Los Angeles, where

I produce documentaries, primarily on health and well-being.

I am gay and currently single. Like you, I enjoy great food

and travel (I never miss your column!). My e-mail address

is [email protected], should you wish to

make contact.

With best regards,

Jesse

It would have to do. He’d gotten so late, writing and rewriting it this morning, that he’d wound up stopping at Weyfield on his way to catch the train. He still wasn’t sure of the final paragraph, which read like a dating profile, but he needed Andrew to know something about him, in case this was the end. A speck of rain blotted the paper, and he stuffed it into the envelope as the drops quickened. He walked up the drive, feeling naked. There was only one light on, but the same cars were parked in the drive as on Christmas Day. Perhaps they were sleeping in.

Out of nowhere sheet lightning lit up the house, followed by a shudder of thunder. Jesse was used to storms in Iowa, but the torrent that fell next took him by surprise. He dashed the last twenty yards to Weyfield’s front door, pulling his coat over his head, and pushed the envelope through the letterbox, eye to eye with the lion knocker. It was done. Gone. He turned to shelter under the shallow porch for a moment. The pediment barely covered him—rain was blowing sideways, soaking his hair and clothes. He pressed his back harder against the door and, as he did so, felt it shift under his weight, so that he half fell into the house. Grabbing for the door frame to steady himself, he straightened up. He knew he ought to walk back out into the rain, pulling the door to, as it had been left. His letter lay on the mat. He had done what he came here to do. But something made him pick the envelope up, instead, and look round into the shadows of the hall.





Olivia


THE ORCHARD, WEYFIELD HALL, 9:40 A.M.

? ? ?

The four of them hurried up the garden toward the house, Olivia in the lead. The rain was different to the fat, warm drops in Liberia, lashing down in icy rods. The front door was open, as usual, and she rushed straight through into the hall. Her scream of surprise at the tall man standing inside sounded uncharacteristically girlish. “Sorry! I’m sorry—I startled you,” he said in an American accent. He was holding an envelope and looked about her age. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw his face properly. There was something disconcertingly even about it, so that he didn’t look quite real. He had large, dark eyes, like a manga cartoon.

“Hey,” he said. “Is this—are you Olivia?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Uh, is Andrew home? I was hoping to speak with him.”

“Look, you shouldn’t be here. How did you get in?”

“I, the door was, like, open.”

She was about to answer when her father appeared. The color left his face. He and the man stood staring at each other, as if they were alone. Andrew opened his mouth, but just made a kind of croaking “ah” noise as Emma walked in.

“Golly, I’m drenched!” she said, shaking out her sleeves, and then saw the man.

“Hull-o!” she said, sounding shocked but delighted, as if they’d met before. “How did you—?”

“Oh, shi-it,” he said, dark eyebrows shooting up his forehead, and his eyes bulging like headlamps. “Oh my god, this is crazy. This is insane. I didn’t realize, I mean, I had literally no idea—”

“What’s going on?” said Olivia. “We’re in quarantine, we can’t—”

“Shh,” said her father. “This is—” He hesitated. “This is—”

“Jesse,” said the man.

“I know,” said Andrew.

“Oh—wait—oh my god,” said Emma, her face falling. “Oh Christ, Andrew!” She looked at Andrew beseechingly.

“What’s happening?” said Phoebe, from the doorway. “Hi,” she said, seeing the man and switching on her strangers smile. She pulled off her hat, reaching up to smooth her hair.