The Kindest Lie(95)

After collecting everyone’s phone numbers and addresses, Officer Griffin confiscated Midnight’s gun. “Patrick Boyd and Corey Cunningham. We’ve been on the lookout for you two.” Stepping away from them and putting his phone to his ear, he said, “I’m gonna have the station get in touch with your parents to let ’em know you’re safe so they can come pick you up.”

Ruth turned to face Officer Jenkins. “I’ll wait with them until their families get here.” He nodded, and both officers returned to their police car but didn’t pull away, obviously waiting until the parents arrived.

Corey rolled into a tight ball on the ground, the curl of his body a tumbleweed. Ruth knelt beside him in the cold, wet earth and pressed one hand against his back.

He recoiled at her touch. “Don’t touch me! Who are you? I’m not your freakin’ son.” He hurled the words at her like bricks, and they landed heavy on her heart.

Then he turned his anger on Midnight. “They could’ve killed me. You lie. You always lie.” Corey spat the words at his friend.

This was the first time Ruth had really heard her son’s voice. The deep yet soft timbre of it. He got to his feet and pushed Midnight’s chest. Midnight just stood there, drained of his earlier bitterness, as if waiting for a harder, more punishing blow. As if he deserved it. And he did.

Corey kept going. “That’s why your granny’s makin’ you move. Nobody likes you. Nobody wants you around. You play too much.” He turned to Ruth. “He’s a liar. I know who my mom and dad are.” He searched her eyes for confirmation, to make Midnight’s words from earlier untrue. Just as the one storm had settled, another gathered strength.

All that time she had spent agonizing over whether she wanted to be his mother, and she hadn’t stopped to consider that he might not want to be her son.

Ruth surrendered to the inevitability of the truth and whatever followed. Looking up at Corey, she said, “It’s true. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You were adopted, and . . . and I’m your mother.”





Thirty-Five

Ruth




A haunted look flickered in Corey’s eyes.

“You all lie. All of you.” Snot ran from his nose, mixing with tears.

Ruth studied the curve of his mouth, the slope of his nose, and recognized the Tuttle family resemblance. The burgundy birthmark remained, a smudge on his cheek. She resisted the strong urge to touch it. As if he could read her thoughts, Corey turned away from her and curled into a fetal position on the cold ground, resting his head on his backpack.

She moved closer to her son. She had no idea what to say, somehow, after all these years, totally unprepared for this moment. “I was seventeen when I had you. Not much older than you are now. I was afraid.”

“Just leave me alone, okay? I don’t know you, lady. I don’t want to know you.”

She had to make him understand. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she kept talking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do, and when you were born my grandmother made sure you went to a good family. Maybe I should have fought to keep you, to be a mother to you, but I didn’t. Now, I can’t change that. But you have an amazing life with wonderful people who love you, and I’m not sorry about that. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

Corey covered his ears. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re not my mom!”

“Hey, Corey.” Midnight reached for his friend’s arm.

“Get off!” Corey shouted.

Midnight’s chest caved as if he’d been struck. “Come on. Don’t be mad at me. Okay?”

Why had he done this? Part of her wanted to analyze what drove him to be so reckless with the gun, reckless with the police, and reckless with the truth. But her head ached, and she couldn’t process anything more.

Corey’s voice crackled like a bonfire, lifted by the wind. “I hate both of you.”

Ruth folded her gloved hands under her chin as if she were praying. For the past eleven years, she’d imagined this moment, meeting her son for the first time. Not once did she predict the raw pain she saw playing across Corey’s face.

Butch had been driving in the area searching for Midnight, so he showed up first. He surprised her by saying “Thank you,” but Midnight stayed silent and shuffled behind his father toward the truck. The police officers got out of the patrol car and came over to talk to Butch about what had happened.

Corey stayed motionless on the ground, but when he saw the Cunninghams’ car pulling up, he ran toward it. He stopped short before he reached the sedan. Ruth imagined he felt torn now, unsure of who he was and where he actually belonged. She blamed herself for the agony that rendered his body rigid with uncertainty.

The man and woman who emerged from the car seemed hesitant, too. Scrambling to her feet, Ruth stood erect, brushed dirt from her jeans, and tried to smooth her hair. She figured her eyes were red-rimmed from tears and lack of sleep, and she wondered what impression she was making on the adoptive parents of her son.

Mr. Cunningham had a deep brown complexion with a gray-speckled mustache. Worry lines creased his forehead. Mrs. Cunningham, who was a few shades lighter than her husband, had her hair pulled back in a tight French braid. She wore little if any makeup and a dress or skirt that hung below her houndstooth coat.