PART 2: The Boy With Mismatched Eyes
Jenna looked about twenty-four. She was wearing the yellow sundress I’d bought her for her birthday, standing on a wooden dock beside a lake. The young man had his arm around her waist, and she was laughing so hard her eyes were squeezed shut. His were open. One was blue. One was green.
My hand shook so badly the photo trembled. "Where did you get this?"
"That’s my son, Michael," Catherine said softly. "He took it the summer he met your daughter."
I slid the chain loose but didn’t step aside. The man from the market came up the porch steps. "This is my younger son, Owen," Catherine said. "I believe you met yesterday."
"I’m sorry I ran off," Owen said. "When I saw her eyes, I couldn’t breathe. Those are Michael’s eyes. He was the only person in our family to have them in three generations."
Lily was still asleep upstairs. I lowered my voice. "Jenna never told me about anyone named Michael."
Catherine’s gloved fingers tightened around her handbag. "I know. That was partly my doing."
"Where is he?" I asked. "Your son?"
Nobody answered at first. Owen stared at the porch boards. Finally Catherine said, "Michael died six years ago. A car accident. A few months before your granddaughter was born, if I’ve done the arithmetic correctly."
I gripped the doorframe. Lily’s father had been real. He’d had a name and a laugh and a lake he liked to stand beside. And he’d been gone before she ever drew her first breath.
"Why now?" I managed. "Why are you here now?"
Owen explained. Three weeks earlier, sorting through Michael’s old files, he’d found Jenna’s name and searched for her online. He found her obituary instead. It listed one survivor besides me: a daughter, Lily. "I’ve been carrying my grandmother’s ring in my pocket ever since," he said. "Michael meant it for Jenna. I kept driving through your neighborhood, trying to work up the courage to find the right house. Yesterday I stopped at the market for coffee. It must have slipped out when I pulled out my keys."
"So you’ve been watching us," I said coldly. "I didn’t know which house was yours," he said. "Not until Lily told me her last name."
"And what exactly do you want?" Catherine lifted her chin, but her voice cracked. "To know my granddaughter."
I looked at the Mercedes, at her pearl earrings, at the expensive wool of her coat. People like this had lawyers. People like this won things. And I was a seventy-one-year-old widow with a leaking roof.
"And if I say no?" Catherine was quiet for a long moment. "Then I suppose I’ll have earned that."
"You said it was partly your doing," I pressed. "What did you mean?" Her eyes filled. "Not on a doorstep, Mrs. Hale. Please. Come to my house tomorrow at ten. I’ll tell you everything." She handed me a card with an address on Ridgeview Drive. Then they walked back to the car and drove away.
Twenty minutes later, Lily came downstairs in her unicorn pajamas, carrying a sheet of paper. "Grandma, I have to finish my family tree for school." She set it in front of me. The tree had two leaves. One said Lily. One said Grandma. A third, drawn at the top with a little halo, said Mommy. "Mrs. Patterson says everybody has lots of branches," she said. "Mine looks kind of lonely."
I pulled her into my lap and kissed the top of her head so she wouldn’t see my face. "It’s a beautiful tree, sweetheart." But my eyes kept drifting to the business card on the counter.
That night, after Lily fell asleep, I climbed into the attic and opened the cardboard box I hadn’t touched since the funeral. Jenna’s things. Her hospital bracelet. Lily’s first sock. A sketchbook full of lakes.
At the very bottom, beneath a folded scarf, lay a sealed envelope addressed in Jenna’s handwriting to one word: Michael. It had never been mailed. Tucked behind it was a slip of paper, folded in half.
It was a check for fifty thousand dollars, made out to Jenna Hale and signed by Catherine Whitmore. It was dated seven years ago, and it had never been cashed. On the memo line, in neat, cold handwriting, were four words: So you’ll disappear quietly.
