Page 28 - WTP XII #3

The Last Child (continued from preceding page)
Outside the sky had darkened so much that someone had turned on the lights. Rain pelted the ground and bounced off the deck; wind bent the pines. A blast
of thunder followed a long streak of lightning. “She’s mine,” he whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
“She has my feet and my son’s nose.” Anger clogged his throat, and his hands were clammy. He and Gretel were so near each other he could have licked the beads of sweat on her upper lip.“You know it too. Only our fami- lies are in the dark.” He wanted to hurt her, to threaten her with his knowledge so that he could strip away
her power. If he went down, she was going with him. But more than anything, he wanted one person in the
“His farewell to Katie unleashed a wave of longing: This
child was his, and he wanted to know her.”
world to know what kind of man he really was.
Gretel’s mouth hardened into a narrow line; the corner of her right eye twitched. She looked ten years older than when she’d arrived. “I actually liked you,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “Or I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Bullshit. You had no fucking idea who I was.” He had an urge to slap her blotchy face. “Now you do.”
Before he could make things worse, he left.
He collected Catherine and said a rushed goodbye to Charlie and Katie, fearful that one of the three might suddenly notice a family resemblance. His farewell to Katie unleashed a wave of longing: This child was his, and he wanted to know her. Before he could say or
do something he would regret, he hurried Catherine toward Beth and Gene to say their goodbyes, then bor- rowed an umbrella from the stand, popped it open and held it over Catherine’s head as they ran to the car.
He drove through the thick, soaking rain, wipers whipping from side to side, the windshield clearing and blurring so that one moment he could see where he was going, the next he was blind. The air smelled of wet leaves and rain-soaked earth, of the possibility of green in the fields and geraniums with lifted heads, but there was no beginning for him, he thought, only a perilous, uncertain future.
“Are you ok?” Catherine asked. “You almost ran off the road.”
“I’m fine.”
The truth was, he felt like he was drowning, flailing about in his mind and divided by contradictory impulses: the craving to be the man he had been only a few hours before, steeped in denial and self- delusion, and the emerging desire to get to know his new daughter, who already, against his will, had carved out a place in his heart. Feeling trapped in the car, he rolled down the window and stuck out his head. Wind and rain blasted his face and stung his skin like needles. For an instant, he shut his eyes against the onslaught of water.
“Close the window, damnit. You’re soaking us both.”
“Sorry.” He rolled up the window and wiped his face with his sleeve.
Angry and wet, Catherine sat beside him, her long white hair glowing in the dark. He wanted her and knew he would do anything not to lose her, but with that knowledge came a wave of sadness and shame. What kind of man was willing to relinquish his own child for a woman?
Wind lashed the car as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, narrowed his eyes and focused on the road. In twenty minutes, they would be home. They would check on Luca, then lie in bed and listen to the drumming rain. Hank would gather Catherine into his arms—or would he, knowing what he did? A sense of foreboding ran through him. Was this how his marriage would end? Because even if Catherine never found out, he would always know.
He felt like a criminal running to save his life, aware that it was only a matter of time before he was caught.
Wadsworth is a writer and a practicing psychologist in Newton, MA. Her stories have been published in The Woven Tale Press. She is currently working on a collection of short stories.
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