Fatherless: A Novel (32 page)

Angie did
her best to keep the kids quiet so Kevin could continue sleeping. Friday had been a long, eventful day. He had remained at
the office until well past midnight putting finishing touches on the austerity proposal. He had promised Senator Franklin
would receive a draft to review over the weekend in case the revised budget forecast went public on Monday. Franklin would
want to call a press conference in response to the ensuing panic to gain support for a sensible plan by a decisive leader.

Angie didn’t sleep well despite turning in early. That’s why she nearly accepted Kevin’s offer to handle Leah’s early-morning
whimper. But he looked even more exhausted than she. Besides, morning sickness would prevent her from drifting back into slumber.
So she kissed his hand and insisted he get some well-deserved rest.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room, Angie watched Leah reach for one of Joy’s plastic bowling pins while Tommy and Joy
grinned at their favorite cartoon. Her mind picked up where it had left off while she tossed and turned during the night.
How to tell Kevin about the pregnancy?

With Tommy she had taped a small love note to her positive pregnancy test and buried it in Kevin’s sack lunch. She remembered
holding her breath for much of the noon hour waiting for the phone to ring, waiting to hear his euphoric shout in her ear.
The call never came. He instead showed up at the front door holding a bundle of flowers. They had never kissed more deeply.

For Joy she sent a cryptic text for Kevin to discover while checking messages between flights.

Two hours later she finally got her euphoric shout.

Leah had been less dramatic. They hadn’t been trying to conceive, so assumed the morning nausea to be a flu bug just as they
had this time. She bought a pregnancy test at the drugstore “just in case” on their way to Kevin’s parents’ house for a Thanksgiving
meal a queasy tummy wouldn’t let her enjoy. They sat beside one another in the car unable to believe their eyes while both
children napped peacefully in the back. The momentary panic over the demands that would come with a third child vanished in
the warmth of Kevin’s virile embrace.

“Look Mommy,” Tommy whispered, finally remembering Angie’s shushing commands. “Baby Weah got the bowling pin!”

A clear stream of slobber had already begun dripping down the side of the toy, the hard plastic offering just the right friction
to relieve Leah’s teething gums.

“She sure did!” Angie said, joining the mini-celebration with faint enthusiasm.

As Tommy turned back toward the television, Angie mentally reviewed her imperfect options.

Should she wait to tell Kevin about the pregnancy until after he got past the austerity-proposal presentation? The tempest
promised to get crazier before settling down, especially if Franklin made Kevin the face and voice of the plan. She knew her
husband could handle the spotlight in high-stress situations. But he had never been thrown into anything of this magnitude
before. Besides, waiting a few weeks would mean she would have results from the genetic profile. Wouldn’t it be best to have
all the information first?

Or should she tell him right away? That’s what she wanted to do. She wanted to share her unease, possibly draw confidence
from his reaction. But his response could just as easily have the opposite effect. The slightest hesitation on Kevin’s part
would carry enormous, perhaps unintended, meaning. What if he searched her eyes for hints of her feelings before revealing
his own? Could she make them glimmer with enthusiasm? Or would they betray her fears? And if so, would his eyes summon her
away from those fears or reflect them back like a mirror confirming an unsightly blemish?

Don’t be absurd
! Angie chastised herself. She knew how hurt she would feel if Kevin withheld such a weighty revelation from her.
Of course he deserves to know right away
. She should tell him by the end of the day.

Whether due to resolving her dilemma or the grace of passing minutes, Angie sensed her nausea diminish enough for her to finally
move Tommy’s and Joy’s cereal boxes from the table to the pantry. She noticed an unopened package of Saltine Classics. They
might just settle the waves in her stomach. While swallowing her first cracker Angie searched the room for something to ward
off another internal debate over whether and how to share the news. Her eyes settled on Kevin’s tablet resting on the kitchen
counter. It woke as she placed it in front of her chair at the table.

She tapped the daily news folder, where half a dozen options appeared. Passing over both the
Washington Times
and
Wall Street Journal
icons Angie selected RAP, hoping to find something of interest in the lifestyle section of the
Weekend Journal
. Aptly, an image of what must have been hundreds of newborn babies populated the screen.

She immediately noticed the byline.

Julia
? She smiled, pleased to see her friend’s work receive such prominent placement.

Glancing toward the living room to confirm that the children remained sufficiently occupied, Angie settled in to enjoy the
rare luxury of reading a lengthy feature while chomping a salty treat.

But the moment quickly soured as she read the article’s title.

From the opening page Angie felt belittled. The most meaningful decisions she had ever made, even the decision that lay before
her now, appeared part of a radical conspiracy against common sense.

People like Angie, the feature explained, clung to what they call “the marital covenant,” a pious relic long since replaced
by more inclusive and less rigid domestic partnership agreements. How quaint. How odd.

Those who embraced the benefits of medical science had learned to separate sex from babies, to eliminate the remote possibility
of an unplanned conception. When sensible people considered parenthood they prescreened fertilized eggs before deciding whether
and which they should carry to term. Religious radicals, by contrast, took a leap of faith every time they made love. Not
that they did it very often since, in their view, sex was a necessary evil to be done in a manner that kept erogenous pleasure
to a minimum.

Angie’s brow creased at the description, knowing how much she and Kevin enjoyed intimacy. She in no way resembled the caricature,
but felt indicted nonetheless.

Breeders, the feature continued, even opposed personal autonomy, as evidenced by their common hostility toward the popular
Youth Initiative. If this radical group had their way, seniors and others would lose the freedom to transition wealth to younger,
healthier citizens, leaving them no choice but to continue draining personal, state, and federal assets just when the economy
needed them most.

And so it went, one stroke after another painting Angie’s kind as either ignorant, reckless, or both. Even the ob-gyn highlighted
in the story, Dr. Bryce Richert, came across as less appealing than his apparently noble life deserved. Angie found herself
nodding in agreement with most of his comments, even as she blushed at his allegedly antiquated assumptions.
Her
antiquated assumptions.

About two-thirds into the article Angie swiped the screen to turn the page to where, to her surprise, she saw a large image
of Kevin above text describing him as “the mastermind behind what several Washington insiders call an extreme proposal” presented
during “closed-door meetings led by Senator Joshua Franklin” in which he advocated “so-called ‘bright spot’ economic policies
that would put the government in the business of giving preferential treatment to those who choose parenthood.”

A bit farther down Julia found a long quotation from Kevin. A rush of pride accompanied Angie’s reading of the same words
she had heard her husband craft in the car, at the kitchen table, in her bed, and in front of his mirror. Unlike Dr. Richert,
Kevin came off as well-spoken and balanced. His argument in favor of bright spot strategies made complete sense, despite the
hostile bookends to his comments, compliments of Nicole Florea and Trisha Sayers.

“Good morning, Daddy!” Angie heard Tommy and Joy leap to attention before rushing toward Kevin’s slippers. He winked at Angie
while relishing the attack.

She took another bite of cracker and offered a pinky wave.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Looks delicious!” he lied. “But I think I’ll just pour myself a glass of juice.”

Her eyes followed Kevin into the kitchen, her hand gently touching his arm as he passed. She began to mention the article,
but stopped short. It could wait until after he accepted Joy’s wordless invitation to join her sitting Indian-style in front
of the television. While Leah gnawed on Kevin’s extended thumb Tommy made his way to the kitchen to refill his empty bowl
of dry Fruity Pebbles.

Angie turned the page: speculation about Franklin’s intentions and quotes from the usual opposing voices.

She swiped again, this time encountering images that stole her breath.

The first showed Kevin seated beside a gorgeous woman in a ritzy restaurant, her hand resting affectionately on his wrist.

Angie struggled to read the text, something about speculation of a romantic relationship between Congressman Tolbert and a
Franklin aide.

The second photo showed the same woman standing on Angie’s front porch accepting Kevin’s help with her coat.

While trying to imagine any explanation but the obvious, she felt Tommy’s body lean against her side.

“See, Mommy,” he said proudly. “I told you she was a pretty lady.”

Julia was
livid. Paul hadn’t merely tweaked her story. He’d sullied it with every ounce of mud Monica Garcia had managed to find and
throw.

She spent most of the morning crafting and deleting notes to Angie. What to say?

The speculation about Kevin hadn’t been her doing. It had been her editor’s idea.

As if that would ease the pain of seeing those incriminating pictures.

The demeaning tone and scathing jabs didn’t reflect Julia’s feelings. They came from her younger, less refined coauthor.

Coauthor
! she remembered angrily.
Paul had no business melding my story with Monica’s drivel
!

But he had. Millions of readers had spent that morning nodding their heads in collective contempt finally given voice by a
noted journalist. They would gratefully associate justification for their disdain with Julia Davidson: the same writer who
had scoffed at the Peter Pan world of Guyland now granted permission to elevate the derisive label
breeder
from the gutter of sniggering whispers to the pinnacle of reputable condescension. A new leper had been ousted from suitable
society. Good riddance to another small-minded subculture. Long live the civilized elite!

By noon Julia had left seven angry messages for Paul, none of them returned. She declined Jared and Maria’s invitation to
go out for pizza. No appetite. She opted instead to try settling her fidgety mind and dulling her throbbing head by soaking
in a warm bath before lying down for a nap.

“Its OK!” Julia heard Maria’s shout at the same moment she noticed her own violently flailing arms. “You’re home, in your
bed. Calm down, sweetie!”

The pace of her racing heart gradually slowed as Julia gulped oxygen into lungs that had been ready to burst. Her mind finally
caught up with her waking body.

The nightmare had not retired. It had merely missed a shift.

“Are you all right?” Maria asked with concerned eyes. “I’ve never seen it that bad before. I’m worried about you.”

“I went under again,” Julia explained breathlessly. “But I couldn’t resurface.”

The memory prompted a shiver of dread.

Maria sat on the bed rubbing her sister’s settling arm. Julia noticed Jared standing in the bedroom doorway anxiously looking
on.

“You OK, Aunt Julia?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Just give me a few minutes.”

They did.

Julia retrieved the notepad from her nightstand but immediately put it back. She closed her eyes, hoping for one last look
at the frightening images before they faded entirely from her mind.

As before, she saw the fixed, shadowy image of a man extending his hand toward her as she drifted farther and farther away.
She screamed toward him futilely. She felt the downward pull. Desperate for breath, she tried swimming away from the sadistic
laughter bellowing upward from beneath.

Her eyes jolted open in reaction to something she had never noticed before. She closed them again, confirming what couldn’t
be.

Just when Julia had felt herself drowning she turned her eyes downward, away from the vanishing shadow and toward whatever
dark destiny summoned below. That’s when she saw the face. A boy. Someone she recognized but couldn’t place, his expression
fluctuating between stubborn anger and frantic terror at the same time his hands closed from beseeching grasp to defiant clench.

The snapshot of the face distinctly preserved, Julia scoured her mind for clues.

Where had she seen the boy before? A friend of Jared’s? No. Too old.

What did he have to do with her haunting dreams? Anything? Nothing?

Had he also called out to the mysterious man?

Had Julia tried to save him before falling victim to his desperate grasp?

Why the looks of defiance and terror? Why the reaching and clenching?

And then it struck her. She
had
seen his face before.

She walked to the dresser and retrieved her tablet to hastily open the folder sent by Jeremy Santos. Two clicks later she
stared intently at the picture of Jeremy sitting beside his mother and brother on the night before Antonio’s transition.

Antonio Santos!

She opened Antonio’s journal and began scrolling through pages before locating the final, unread entry. Antonio’s final recorded
words.

Julia sat staring at the page, trying to make sense of what seemed beyond comprehension. Antonio Santos had been haunted by
the same dream!

She looked in the mirror to invite an explanation. Nothing came. She looked back, this time noticing the day of Antonio’s
final entry. It was a date that held significance beyond inclusion in legal documents describing the wrongful death incident. Something
more personal.

Julia closed the file and opened her calendar to find any clues, perhaps an appointment record or a journal note suggesting
something unique about August 17, 2041. Nothing of importance appeared.

A knocking sound interrupted her thoughts.

“Still doing all right?” Maria asked, poking her head inside the door.

“I think so,” Julia began. “But I’m not sure.”

She wanted to share details with her sister. But she hesitated, still trying to decide whether she had been yanked into a
profound mystery or was simply losing her mind.

“Does the date August 17, 2041, mean anything to you?” Julia asked.

“Should it?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure something out. Something that might link to my nightmares.”

The comment seemed to trigger a reaction, as if prompting a hunch. “Just a second.” Maria rushed out of the room, leaving
Julia alone with her thoughts.

Do I need to see a psychiatrist
? Julia wondered.
Or should I call a priest
?

She remembered Angie’s pastor. She wondered if he might have any experience unraveling the spiritual meaning of dreams.

Don’t be ridiculous
, she told herself.
There has to be a rational explanation. Maybe we both saw the same scary movie. Read the same horror novel
.

“I’ve got it,” Maria said, bouncing back into the bedroom. “August 17, 2041.”

“What about it?” Julia asked.

“I wrote a note in my diary on that date that might help. ‘Julia woke up last night shouting. She had a pretty bad nightmare.’
I think it was your first. At least the first one that ever woke me.”

Julia felt the stun of realization.
I inherited the nightmare from a dying boy
?

“Does that help any?” Maria asked casually.

Julia’s head bobbed up and down in dazed silence.