Like Dandelion Dust (6 page)

Rip was taking another piece of toast from the serving plate. He took a bite and started to chew. “So what about it?” He chuckled. “Used to be I couldn’t shut ya up. Now what—cat got your tongue?”

Wendy pressed her fists against her middle. Anything to ease the tightness there. “A few weeks after you left, I was late.” She looked at him, waiting for him to understand.

“Late?” Rip slapped a forkful of eggs onto his toast, folded it over, and shoved half of it into his mouth. “Late for what?”

“Rip . . .” Her tone sounded painful now. He wasn’t making this any easier. “My period was late.”

Rip kept chewing, but his motions grew slower. “Meaning what?”

“Well . . .” She exhaled hard and covered her face with her hands. When she looked up, she shook her head. How could she have waited this long to tell him? “I took a test. . . . I was pregnant.”

For a moment, time seemed to stop. Rip stared at her, unblinking. “What?”

“I was pregnant, Rip.” She lifted her hands and let them fall to the table. “You got me pregnant right before you left. I had a baby boy.” Her voice fell off. “Eight months later.”

“A boy?” Again Rip released a sound that was part laugh, part confusion. “You’re keeping a kid from me?” He glanced around the kitchen and peered beneath the table. “So where is he?”

Wendy moaned. Her head fell back a few inches.
You can do this. . . . Finish, already.
She looked at Rip. “I gave him up. To a family in Florida.”

Rip dropped his piece of toast. The eggs that had balanced there splattered to the floor. “You
what
?”

The linoleum felt like liquid beneath her feet. “I . . . I gave him up, Rip.” She raised her voice without meaning to. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Wait . . .” He pushed his chair back. For a moment he didn’t move or breathe or speak. “You gave away . . .” His tone fell to a whisper, “You gave away my . . .
son
?”

“Rip!” Like a lead blanket, fear draped itself over Wendy and made it almost impossible to breathe. The rage was coming, she was sure of it. Like a barrage of bullets, like an air raid, he was about to unleash his anger, and this time maybe she wouldn’t survive. She stood and took small steps backwards. “I had no choice! You were in prison and I—”

“Stop.” He held up a single hand. This was the moment when he would normally explode, only instead of rage, his eyes held a strange mix of shock and anger and fear. He stared at his plate of half-eaten eggs and toast as if he were trying to put together pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t quite take shape. After a long time, he looked up, his eyes narrow. “Shouldn’t I have signed something?” His words were quick and clipped, like the ticking of a time bomb. “Don’t both parents have to sign when you give a kid away?”

Wendy took another few steps back until she hit the wall. She opened her mouth but no words came. This was the hardest part, the worst of it. She had to tell the truth, or Rip would find out for himself and then . . . then she’d never come out alive. She twisted her fingers together and looked down somewhere near her feet.
Why did I ever think I could pull this off?
She lifted her eyes to his. “I . . . I signed both our names.”

The statement was like a lit fuse, and all at once Rip was on his feet. “You can’t be serious.” He took quick, menacing steps toward her, his eyes dark and flinty. He was a foot from her now. She could see the greasy toast crumbs on his lip. When he spoke again, his words came through clenched teeth. “You signed my name? So you could give my son to some family . . . in
Florida
?”

She nodded fast. “Yes, Rip.” With every sentence he sounded angrier, more incredulous. Coffee percolated in the background, but the smell was too strong. It made her sick to her stomach. “I had no choice.”

“That’s it . . .” He raised his fist and she could feel it, feel his knuckles crashing down on her skull, feel herself being knocked to the floor. Except the blow never came. Instead he turned just enough and his fist smashed clean through the wall beside her, inches from her face.

She slid sideways, away from the damage, away from her husband. She was next, absolutely. She squinted, afraid to look. Her hands came up in front of her, shielding herself, creating a layer of defense between the two of them. But again the blow didn’t come. After a few seconds she opened her eyes and looked at him.

He worked his hand free of the crumbling drywall, shook off the dust and debris. Almost in slow motion his shoulders hunched forward and his arms fell slack to his sides. He hung his head and his voice slipped to a monotone. “What am I doing?” The question was geared to himself, not her.

She moved a few more feet away from him.

“Wendy”—he twisted his brow and stared at her, deep at her—“I was never going to do that again. Never.”

“I’m sorry.” A good three feet separated them now. “I . . . you were in prison, Rip.” She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. “I didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t handle raising a baby by myself, and I looked into adoption, and—”

Again he held up one hand. “I get it.” The knuckles on his right hand were bloodied. He pulled his fist close and cradled it against his waist. She heard him exhale. He was trembling, the rage trying to find a peaceable way to leave his body. His face was pale and little drops of sweat dotted his forehead. His eyes found hers. “I’m so sorry. . .” He held up his bloodied hand. “I didn’t mean it.” He hid his face with his good hand and groaned. “I shouldn’t have . . . I’m sorry.”

Wendy felt herself relax. Maybe he wasn’t going to hit her or knock her to the floor. She straightened some. Truth was
she’d
done wrong by Rip. She should’ve taken the paperwork to the prison and convinced him fair and square to give up the boy. But then . . . “I never should’ve signed your name.”

“Wait . . .” Slowly, hope seemed to grab Rip by the shoulders and his expression changed. “You know what?” This time his eyes flashed with new life, new excitement. “Maybe it’s not too late.”

Not too late? Was he crazy? The child would be four now. Five in the fall. He’d been with the nice couple from Florida since he was a few days old. She and Rip couldn’t just call up and say, “Hey, we changed our minds. We’re back together and we want our boy.”

She thought hard.
Could they?

No, they couldn’t. Of course not. She had to tell her husband before he got his hopes up. “Rip, they don’t just give ’em back. The boy thinks
they’re
his family now.”

Rip pierced the air in front of himself with one finger. The rage was gone, but the intensity of his tone, his words, was still enough to take her breath away. “I never signed the paper.” He walked to the phone and picked up the receiver. “You went through child welfare, right?” He looked at the keypad. “If I call information, who do I ask for?”

“Rip!” Suddenly it dawned on her what he was doing. “You can’t call and tell them I forged your name. They’ll have police down here in ten minutes, and then it’ll be my turn in the slammer!”

He didn’t say it would serve her right, but his eyes spoke loud and clear. He put the receiver back on the base and stroked his chin. “There has to be a way.” He took a few steps toward her and then turned and walked to the phone again. “We need a plan . . . a story. Something they’ll believe.”

In all her years knowing Rip, Wendy had seen only two sides of the man: loving kindness and blazing rage. But now he was almost frenzied with determination, looking for a way to bring home his son. Like a person driven, the way a drowning man is driven to get his next breath. She moved a little closer. “You’re serious about this.” She gripped the counter.

Just for an instant, the rage flashed again. Then it was gone, his tone almost matter-of-fact. “Yes. I’m serious.” He brought his face closer to hers. “My only son is somewhere out there.” He pointed sharply at the kitchen window. “You gave him away without asking me, so yes . . . I’m serious about this.”

He eased back and pulled out a tired smile. “I’m willing to forgive you.” He strained his neck forward some, as if the task of forgiving was as easy as swallowing a turkey leg. He pointed at the telephone. “But I’m making the call, and yes, I want him back.” He slumped against the kitchen counter, their elbows touching. “The sooner the better.”

Rip raked his fingers through his hair, something he did when he was frustrated. What he’d never done, though, is back down from a fight—the way he’d just done with her. He looked at her, half grinned, and patted her arm. “I’m going for a walk.” He winked. “Anger management.”

Wendy watched him go. Her knees stopped knocking even before he shut the door. Tigger the cat brushed up against her ankles, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were still on the door, her mouth still open, unsure of what to do or say. Was he serious? Had he really just gotten what must’ve been the worst news of his life, smiled at her, and made the decision to take a walk?

A walk,
of all things?

Rip Porter had made promises to her since she was a seventeen-year-old high school junior. Never once had he made good on his word, never stayed away from the easy girls, never quit the bottle for more than a few months, and never—never once—had he been able to keep his hands off her when he was mad.

Until now.

Sure, he’d punched the wall. But a lifetime of rage was bound to take some time to fix. Theirs wasn’t a house with patched-up walls. She’d taken every one of the blows in the past. She blinked and her eyes found the hole, the one he’d just made. Yes, there it was. So, maybe Rip was right, maybe the prison classes had worked and now he could handle getting angry without hurting her.

His words played again—
I want him back . . . the sooner the better.

For the first time, Wendy considered the possibility. Rip had a point. Since his name was forged, the paperwork was a lie. Fraudulent, right? Wasn’t that the word? She gripped the countertop behind her. Could they really do it? Could they think up a story, a reason why Rip’s name was forged, and keep her from getting handcuffed in the process?

She thought of the baby, the way he’d looked and felt and smelled in her arms all those years ago. And suddenly, in a rush of loss and regret and a love deeper than the ocean, it all came back. Every moment, every memory. She was no longer standing in the kitchen of their small two-bedroom ranch, smelling the mix of cooked sausage and thick coffee. She was in the hospital, doing the one thing the social worker had advised her not to do.

She was holding her newborn son.

Chapter Five

W
ith Rip gone for a walk, the memories swirled in Wendy’s head, drawing her back with a power she couldn’t fight. In as many seconds, four and a half years disappeared and she was lying in a hospital bed, the day she delivered her baby.

He had the palest peach-fuzz hair and a perfectly round face. But it was his eyes she remembered most, the eyes she would never forget. They were light blue, almost transparent. And as she held him, as she snuggled his warm little body against her chest and stared at him, his eyes seemed to see straight into her heart.

If he could talk he would’ve said,
Mommy, don’t give me away. I don’t care if it’s just me and you.

She held her finger out to her son and he grabbed it, held tight as if he would do everything in his power to stay with her. But she had to give him up, didn’t she? What sort of life could she offer a little boy? She was working two jobs to make ends meet. She’d almost never see him. And Rip? He was rotting away in prison.

Still . . .

A wild and reckless love began to take root in her heart, working its way deep, to the outer layers of her very soul. It was a love so strong it took her breath away and brought tears to her eyes. Maybe love would be enough. If he could stir up these sorts of feelings in just one day, then there was no limit to how much she might love him. She could love him more in the few hours a day she might have with him than other mothers could love in twenty-four straight, right?

For three crazy hours, her feelings waged war within her. Several times a nurse came in to see if she wanted a break, but each time she only held up her hand and shook her head. She was with her son. No one would disturb them until she was ready.

Finally, just as the third hour came to a close, she remembered what had driven her to the social services office in the first place. Rip Porter’s fists. She could still feel his knuckles crashing down on her, breaking her collarbone one time and fracturing her eye socket another. Rip hadn’t even served time for those beatings. “Bad spells,” Rip called them.

So what if he got out of prison and had a
bad spell
with the precious baby in her arms? Newspapers were full of stories about guys like Rip and babies like this one. They were the sorts of stories that took up just a few inches in a news column on the fifth page:
Baby Dies after Beating.
Nausea welled up in Wendy, and her tears came harder. If she kept Rip’s baby, one day Rip would come home and she would take him back, because she always did. She didn’t know how to not love Rip Porter. And then the baby would be just one more person to rage at. One more person at the wrong end of Rip’s bad spells.

She clutched the baby more tightly and rocked him close. His eyes told her how he felt. He was hers; he wanted her to take him home and love him forever. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t. Not with Rip in her life. Her tears became sobs, deep and silent. “My little son, I’m sorry. I have to . . . have to let you go.”

Then, before she could change her mind, she rang for the nurse. When the uniformed woman approached her, she gave her son one last kiss and held him out. “Take him. Please. The social worker is waiting down the hall.”

The nurse hesitated, but Wendy waved her off. “Please. I have to do this.”

Later that afternoon the social worker stepped into her hospital room with the paperwork. Allyson Bower was her name, a woman with deep eyes and a story she hinted at but never shared with Wendy. Like every other detail of that time in her life, the social worker’s name was never more than a heartbeat away.