Only Son (34 page)

Paul McMurray…Amy McMurray…P.M.…A.M.…

Sam read the article. His father's name wasn't mentioned. They suspected a black man who had been seen leaving the bank's parking lot with a white infant. At the end of the story, there was a description of the abducted baby. Sam didn't read beyond the first two lines:

His own birthday.

His father had told that story at least five times, and he'd always laugh when he told it. Sam would laugh, too. But thinking about it now, as he rode the bus downtown, he wanted to cry. He stared out the rain-beaded window, his head turned away from the old man with BO seated beside him. In the breast pocket of his jacket, Sam kept the newspaper clipping.

He'd feigned sleep when his father went off to work three hours ago. But in fact, Sam hadn't slept at all last night.

Even if he could fool himself into believing that the kidnapper had been the black man they'd suspected, Sam couldn't explain away how Eddie McMurray had the same birthday as him. He couldn't account for his missing birth certificate and medical records—or why a chance meeting with Amy McMurray had sent his father into such a panic that he'd even considered moving away from Seattle just to avoid her. He'd called Paul McMurray and tricked him to get information about epilepsy. And how could he explain the lies about his mother? Why else would his dad not want him to know that he'd lived in Portland?

Sam felt his throat tighten up, and tears stung his eyes. The only way any of it made sense was if he'd been the kidnapped baby in that newspaper photograph—and his dad, the kidnapper. Sam started to cry, and he couldn't stop—even though he felt everyone on the bus staring at him.

“Fifth and Pine,” the bus driver announced. “Nordstrom, the Bon Marche, and Westlake Center. This stop.”

Sam wiped his eyes and nose. Saying “excuse me,” to the old man, he got to his feet and moved toward the door. It whooshed open and he stepped off the bus. The store windows were full of Christmas scenes: Santa and Mrs. Claus; the elves at work in the toy factory; children around a Christmas tree. His father used to take him every year around Christmastime to look at the moving mannequins, the holiday scenes, and all the lights. He remembered holding on to his father's hand the whole time so he wouldn't get lost amid all the strangers.

“Frosty the Snowman” chirped over the Muzak system inside the crowded store. Sam got on the escalator. He hadn't eaten any breakfast, yet even with an empty stomach, he felt nauseous. He almost hoped for another dead end like his last visit to this store. Better yet, he'd meet Amy McMurray and she'd laugh at his story and tell him how wrong he was.

He pulled the folded news clipping from his pocket and stepped off the escalator at the fifth floor. His legs felt unsteady. As he neared the tables stacked with bath towels, he ducked behind a pillar and leaned against it. Sam studied the news photograph for what must have been the hundredth time. He was scared. He didn't want to see this dark-haired, frumpy woman in the picture behind a cash register now—the blurry photo coming to life. He didn't want to be her son.

Sam glanced over at the sales counter. The woman behind the register handed a shopping bag to a black man, then smiled. She had a nice smile. It wasn't the same saleslady as last time. Sam noticed a resemblance to Amy McMurray—only the saleswoman was prettier; slim with long, reddish brown hair. “
I hadn't counted on her turning out so lovely
,” his father had written.

She rang up some bathroom supplies for another customer, a middle-aged woman in a fur coat. Suddenly, she looked up for a moment. Her eyes met his.

Sam backed into the pillar and looked away. He wanted to run out of there. But he remained frozen where he was. After a few moments, he folded up the news clipping and tucked it inside his pocket. Then he peeked over his shoulder at the saleswoman again. She was talking to the lady in the fur coat. Amy McMurray wasn't looking at him anymore.

 

It had been a busy, hell-bent morning so far, and the last thing Amy needed was a teenage shoplifter. Let the kid over by the post steal whatever he wanted; she was too depressed to give a damn. The week Barry had originally been scheduled to arrive in town had come and gone without him. There had been no more calls or letters. The last one had given her such hope—not about Barry, but about tracking down Eddie.

She'd hired another private investigator. At her urging, he'd made the rounds at dozens of doctors' offices, asking about a twelve-year-old boy on epilepsy medication. He'd made several inquiries at Seattle junior high schools, searching for a blond boy with a scar on his chin and a widower father.

Milo Sharkey had been wrong: it wasn't a six-thousand-dollar dead end. Only thirty-two hundred was spent before the investigator gave up. For a while there, Amy had such high hopes.

Now she had nothing to look forward to—except a Christmas alone.

“Do you have any towels in this shade of green?” the woman asked, pointing to a leaf painted on a tissue dispenser.

“I'm sorry,” Amy said. “Sort of a jade green is the closest we have. But we'll get some new colors in next month, so try us again.” She piled everything into a shopping bag and handed it to the lady. “There you go,” she said, making an effort to sound cheery. “Thanks very much. Happy holidays.”

As the woman in the fur coat turned away, Amy's eyes strayed over to the boy again. He hadn't moved. He seemed nervous and scared. He didn't look like the shoplifter type after all; and something about him was vaguely familiar. Maybe he was lost. Maybe he was looking for his mother.

He stuck by the pillar as if it were holding him up. He caught her gazing, and he quickly looked away, then shrugged his shoulders.

He's staring at you
, Amy told herself.

Amy stepped out from behind the counter. Suddenly, she was trembling. For one breathless moment, she thought she was looking at the same sweet-faced boy she'd seen back in September. But the jacket was different—and this boy seemed older. Still, she couldn't take her eyes off him.
Don't do this to yourself
, she thought;
He's not the same one as last time…He's not Eddie. Don't set yourself up for another heartbreak….

He seemed to hesitate, then shuffled toward her. His eyes were downcast.

Amy couldn't move.
He's not Eddie
, she kept having to tell herself. A hand over her heart, she tried to smile at the boy.

“Are you Amy McMurray?” he whispered.

She was still holding herself back, even as she recognized the beautiful, serious eyes, the same tiny scar on his chin, and the golden color of his hair. He was a very handsome boy.
God, let this be him, please…

“Can I—help you?” she managed to say. Tears came to her eyes and she was shaking. The boy was almost as tall as her, yet Amy wanted to sink to her knees and embrace him.

“Do you know a man named Carl Jorgenson?” he asked.

“No, I don't. But I think I might know you.” Then she whispered, “
Eddie?
”

Biting his lip, he stepped back. “Are you my mother?”

“Oh, God,” she murmured. “Please…please, let me hold you…” Amy thought she would die if she didn't have her baby in her arms once again. “Oh, my sweet little guy-guy. Please, I know you're scared. So am I…”

He didn't move, but he didn't shrink back either. Amy let out a grateful cry as she embraced him. She cradled his head to her shoulder, kissed his golden hair, and brushed her tears against the soft curls. After twelve years, she finally had her Eddie back.

 

Sam became rigid in her arms. He wondered if she'd ever let go. It was all so strange. She was crying and almost laughing at the same time. He felt too awkward putting his arms around the stranger, so he just patted her back. He'd never had a lady hug him like this. It was odd to feel the bra strap beneath her blouse, stretched across her back. She smelled nice. Yet he wanted her to let go of him.

“Oh, I can't believe it,” she cried. “My sweet boy, my Eddie—”

“My name's Sam,” he murmured. Gently he tried to pull away.

She let him step back, but one hand firmly grasped his arm. “Look at you,” she gasped, smiling. She wiped the tears from her face. “Oh, you've grown up so handsome. You—you've got my mother's eyes. I still can't believe it. You don't know how many times I've pictured this…so many years.” She smoothed back his hair and started to cry all over again. Yet a smile still stretched across her tear-stained face. Sam glanced past her shoulder and noticed a couple of shoppers staring at her.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her grip easing on his arm. “This must be so confusing for you.”

Sam just nodded. He wanted to go home.

“How did you find me?” she asked. “All these years, I've been looking for you, and here, you find me. How did you?”

Sam dug into the pocket of his jacket, then handed her the news clipping. “I found this in my father's desk.”

Finally, she let go of him and looked at the clipping.

Another saleslady approached them. It was the same beady-eyed woman from the last time Sam had come to the store. “Are you okay, Amy?”

Without looking at her, she nodded. “Yes. Oh, yes, fine…wonderful. Can you take over for a while, Ronnie?” Then she took hold of Sam's arm again. “Come on,” she said, and the smile she gave him was almost reassuring. “Let's—let's go back here so we can talk. Okay, honey? I know how strange all this is for you. Don't worry. Everything's all right now.”

Sam let her lead him behind a curtain into a storage room. Amid the shelves of boxes and items wrapped in plastic, there were a couple of folding chairs and a stepladder. Amy McMurray laughed nervously and said something about how she must look a mess, then she asked him to sit down. She looked at the newspaper clipping again. A sad smile came to her face. “Your dad took this picture of us when you were five months old,” she said. Then she glanced at him. “You're still not sure, are you? But I'm your mother. I know I am.

“That scar on your chin. The man who took you, he used to write me little updates about you on postcards. One of the last ones I got was when you were four. You fell on the playground and cut your chin. Four stitches, right? He said you didn't cry at all in the doctor's office.”

Sam stared at her and nodded.

She grinned, but her eyes were still watery. “Did you take your medication today?”

“How did you know about that?” he murmured.

“You were here three months ago, and the man you were with asked you the same thing. I heard—”

“That was my father,” Sam said.

She shook her head. “No. Your
real
father lives in Portland. You have the same color hair he has. And he's an epileptic. The medication you take is for epilepsy, isn't it?”

Sam couldn't answer her.

She took hold of his hands. “I know how you must feel,” she said. “I can hardly believe it myself. Tell me how I can prove it to you, and I will. I'm your mother.” She brought his hands up to her face and kissed them. “You must have thought so, too. Why else would you come to me?”

He shrugged. “I just wasn't sure. I'm still not. I'm sorry.”

Her red-rimmed eyes were full of pain. “I'm just a stranger, aren't I?” she asked. Letting go of his hands, Amy stood up. She scooped the news clipping off the floor and folded it up. She wasn't quite looking at him. “You said your name is Sam?”

“Sam Jorgenson,” he said.

“You haven't got someone else who's—supposed to be your mother, do you?”

“No. It's just my dad and me.”

“But he isn't your—” She stopped herself, then smiled awkwardly, as if it hurt to swallow the words. “Does he treat you well?”

“Yes.”

“He seemed nice when I met him—back in September, I mean.”

“He is nice,” Sam said.

“And you love him, don't you?”

Sam looked at her steadily. “Yes, I do.”

“You love him, and you don't even know me,” she said. “I guess right now, I hate him for that more than anything else.” She was silent for a moment, then gave Sam back the news clipping. She touched his shoulder. “You hungry?”

He shrugged.

“I'll take you to my apartment. I've got dozens of your baby pictures there, pictures you've never seen. I'll fix you some lunch. Will that be okay?”

 

“Is that his handwriting?” she asked.

Sam stared at the postcards she'd saved. “I think so,” he murmured. But he didn't just think, he
knew
.

She'd shown him his baby pictures and fixed him a grilled cheese sandwich. They sat at her dinner table. Her apartment was bigger than theirs, with a terrific view of the city, and furniture that looked very expensive—the type he wouldn't dare put his feet on. Her Christmas tree seemed stolen from the department store, perfect; all white lights, blue ribbons, and blue ornaments. Sam still liked their tree at home better.

She was trying hard to make him feel like her son. But he only felt sorry for her. She was still a stranger. He wanted to be in his own room at home. The only things he felt close to in this place were the postcards, because they were from his dad.