So Much More(73)

I don’t know whether that was a callous or a considerate thing for him to do. I’m still talking into my hands. “How long have you known? How long has Miranda known?”

“We’ve both known since she discovered she was pregnant. The paternity test was done at birth.” He sounds truly apologetic.

“What the f*ck?” I’m whispering. I’m talking to me. I’m talking to him. I’m talking to Miranda, even though she’s not here. I’m talking to a God I’m not sure I believe in because he wouldn’t let shit like this happen. Loren leaves me to wallow in my shock induced silence for several minutes. When I finally look at him, I ask him point blank, “What do you want? You must want something, what is it?”

“I want to die with a clear conscience. I’ve done so many things I regret. So many things I can’t change. So many things I can’t make right. This is one that I can. Kira deserves to be yours in every way possible. You are her father and a far better man than I. I never intended to bring a child into this world, Seamus, but she’s a beautiful child, and that is solely thanks to your hand in raising her. I want you to finish that job unhindered.”

So many questions, I have so many questions, but my mind can’t put the words together properly to articulate them. “Do you want Kira to know about you?”

He shakes his head. “No. She loves you. Not that her knowing about me would change that, but I don’t want anything to complicate your relationship with her.”

I look at the papers on the table. “So, I sign these, and you walk away, and we never hear from you again?” I ask.

He nods and the look in his eyes is sincere, a father talking to a father. “Yes.”

“What if Kira finds out someday? Miranda has a big mouth. What if she wants to get to know you? Or what if there’s a health issue and we need information from you?”

“You or Kira can always contact me if that sort of need arises. But, if the need never arises, I would prefer she never know.”

I want to call him a deadbeat father, because who does this? Who lets someone else raise their child and doesn’t get involved? But then I think about the kids I’ve counseled over the years; the kids who had parents who didn’t want them or mistreated them; or the kids who were raised by guardians other than their parents who loved them fiercely and guided them into adulthood successfully and gracefully. Parenthood isn’t genetic, it’s about commitment and love. Period. I look him in the eye before I sign the papers. “Kira’s always been mine in my heart. This paperwork doesn’t change that.”

He nods. “I know that, Seamus. And thank you.”

“I’d like to have my lawyer review these before I sign them.” I’m never signing anything again without my lawyer’s blessing.

“I expected that you would. Overnight them to my office when the review is complete.”

“I’ll have them back to you in a few days if he’s satisfied, or call with questions if he’s not.”

“Of course, I’m always available by cell phone. My number is in the documents.”

“Thank you.”

We shake hands.

And he leaves.

My mind is full of questions. How did I not know? Why did Miranda hide this? What would Kira think if she knew? But the one thing that rises above it all isn’t a question at all, it’s an absolute: I love Kira. Because more than anything else that’s what matters. Am I angry? Hell yes. Do I feel betrayed? Beyond belief. But, more than that I love my little girl.

The wait for them to return is long, not in a matter of minutes, but in heartbeats. Because each one reminds me of my anger. I feel it pulsing along in my bloodstream. Each time it constricts I tick off another thing about Miranda that disgusts me. It’s a cause and effect. One leads to the next, leads to the next, and before I know it I’m thinking about things I haven’t thought of in years. Things I’d put behind me are heat in my veins again.

When the door finally opens, I hug each of my kids to absorb some calm. And I vow someday very soon to get answers from Miranda, someday after the adoption is finalized and she can’t meddle.





That’s a stunner to open with





present





“Faith?” It’s accompanied by knocking on my bedroom door. It’s Benito’s voice.

I open the door to his smiling face. “I brought you a cup of coffee.”

I perk up at the sight of it. It’s become a ritual at my new home to have coffee with him on the nights I don’t work at the diner. I look forward to it. Our chats are short, but they always cover a wide range of topics. Benito knows a little bit about everything because he reads so much, but he’s not a know-it-all. He usually delves into something further only when I’ve prompted him or asked questions. And he’s always curious to hear what I have to say; I like that. Good listeners are rare. He’s like the dad I always wanted.

“What are your dreams, Faith?” Our conversations begin with a question like this, because we need a starting point. Usually, they go down bunny trails, in two minutes we could be talking about the relevance of hip-hop in modern culture or if the Dodgers are going to make the playoffs this year, you just never know.

“That’s a stunner to open with, Benito.” I’m thinking. Dreams are hard to put into words.