Chapter 3 - The Answer My Mother Gave Him
Eleanor came downstairs alone.
That was my first question.
“Where are the girls?”
“In my room watching a movie.”
“Door closed?”
“Yes.”
Good.
I pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
My mother did not like being ordered around in her own house.
She sat anyway.
Grant remained near the window.
Vanessa stood against the wall.
Nobody looked comfortable enough to lie well.
I asked Eleanor:
“What did Grant ask you?”
She looked at Vanessa.
“No.”
I snapped my fingers once.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“Six years ago. What did Grant ask you?”
Her voice trembled.
“Whether Vanessa might be pregnant.”
“And?”
“I told him the timing didn’t work.”
Grant laughed once.
“No. You told me she had already taken a test.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
That was worse.
I looked at Vanessa.
“Were you pregnant when he asked?”
“Yes.”
Grant’s face turned gray.
“Did you know?”
Vanessa nodded.
No one moved.
I expected Grant to shout.
Instead he sat down.
That frightened me more.
“Why?” he asked.
Vanessa whispered:
“Because Michael came back.”
Michael Palmer.
Vanessa’s husband.
Sophie’s father.
At least the man all of us had always called her father.
Michael had died in a car accident two years earlier.
I had loved him.
Grant had loved him.
Sophie still slept in one of his old T-shirts when she missed him.
Vanessa continued.
“Michael and I had been apart too. We got back together before I knew I was pregnant.”
Grant looked at her.
“And you decided it was his?”
“I hoped.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I didn’t know.”
Eleanor stepped in.
“Vanessa was falling apart. Rachel had just come home to you. Your father had died four months earlier. Michael wanted to marry her. Everything was finally—”
“Stable?”
I said it.
My mother stopped.
That word had organized our family for years.
Stable.
Keep birthdays normal.
Keep Sunday dinner.
Don’t tell Dad until after his blood pressure appointment.
Don’t tell Vanessa until after her wedding.
Don’t tell Rachel until the pregnancy is safe.
We were always waiting for a better time to tell the truth.
The better time had a remarkable habit of never arriving.
Grant looked at me.
“I asked once.”
“You should have asked her.”
“I did.”
Vanessa shook her head.
“You asked Mom while I was in the room.”
Grant frowned.
“I asked both of you.”
“And she answered before I could.”
“You could have corrected her.”
“Yes.”
That mattered.
No rescue by technicality.
Vanessa had chosen silence.
Grant had accepted it.
Eleanor had supplied the lie.
And I had chosen not to know the identity of the woman in the first place.
Four adults.
Four different forms of avoidance.
I asked:
“Did Michael know there was a possibility?”
Vanessa’s eyes lifted.
“Yes.”
That changed the room again.
Grant stared at her.
“You told Michael?”
“Yes.”
“But not me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vanessa’s voice cracked.
“Because Michael wanted the baby.”
Grant stood.
“I would have wanted to know.”
“I know.”
“Did he?”
“What?”
“Know who the other possibility was?”
Vanessa looked at me.
Then at Grant.
“Yes.”
I felt dizzy.
Michael had known.
He sat at Christmas dinners beside Grant.
Held Sophie on his lap.
Asked Grant to be one of Sophie’s emergency contacts.
For four years before he died, he knew Grant might be Sophie’s biological father.
“How sure was he?” I asked.
Vanessa’s face changed again.
That was when I knew there was another layer.
“Vanessa.”
She sat down.
“Michael wasn’t comfortable with ‘might.’”
No one spoke.
“He wanted certainty before we got married.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed.
“What did you do?”
Vanessa started crying.
“We tested.”
My mother whispered:
“Vanessa.”
Too late again.
I asked the only question left.
“What did Michael’s test say?”
May you like
Vanessa looked at Grant.
“He wasn’t Sophie’s biological father.”
