He could not say where the idea came from, but, after looking at cribs that afternoon in August, Mark drove, easily and without very much fear, toward Victorian Village and the house on Locust Avenue.
Before he and Allison left for Denver, he thought, he owed one more goodbye. Mark had not come anywhere near the Village since that night in late January. Now, as he drove slowly along the cobbles, it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen the neighborhood like this—in daylight, under a blue summer sky—since Chloe had left him, all those years before.
The old streets, beautiful as always, seemed as alive as Mark felt. So few days in a Columbus year were blue and crisp like this. People were out on their porches, sitting in swings, kneeling in flower beds. Two women sunned themselves on a blanket in front of their house. Yesterday the Buckeyes had won their first game of the season. Everyone he saw seemed happy, expectant.
He’d meant only to swing past the house—but the beautiful day and the cool air sweeping through his open windows caught him up, and he parked the car where he’d used to, back in the winter: on the far side of the park, now full of children. Several were spinning on the merry-go-round, and others rocked back and forth on the squealing metal horses. A young couple sat watching on a nearby bench.
Mark looked up at his old house through the passenger window. Someone was home: The living room windows were open; the curtains on the other side billowed in the breeze. The windows upstairs were closed, their shades pulled.
Was Connie still living here? He’d seen no FOR SALE sign in the yard.
It seemed like such a happy house, now, such a safe house. He wished this to be true, for whoever lived inside it.
He was ready to pull away when he realized one of the children had stopped playing and was looking right at him: A gangly boy with a round stomach, astride a bicycle, a yellow plastic helmet perched mushroom-like on his head. Before Mark could roll up his window, Jacob Pelham had walked the bicycle down the sidewalk to the side of the car.
“Mr. Fife?”
Mark made himself smile. Jacob’s face was sweaty, wary, but he smiled back.
“Hi, Jacob,” Mark said. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Riding my bike.”
What on earth was he supposed to say to this boy? “I—I’m surprised to see you. I thought maybe you and your mom would have moved by now.”
“We are, in a couple of weeks.” He frowned. “I thought you knew.”
“I haven’t talked to your mother since—since this winter.” Mark glanced again at the park. “Is she here?”
“She’s inside.” Jacob wiped his lip, thickly beaded with sweat. “She’s packing.”
The young man and woman on the bench were watching them.
“Mr. Fife,” Jacob said, “I’m really, really sorry for what happened.”
“Please, Jacob—there’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“But I am,” Jacob said. “I really wish I could take it all back. I’ve been hoping you’d come by sometime. Mom took me”—he lowered his voice, walking the bike even closer to the car—“to confession, and Father McCormack told me I should apologize to you in a letter, but when I told Mom, she said not to. But I would have.”
Mark leaned toward the window. “Jacob. I forgive you. I’m not mad, and I never was. I promise. We got it figured out in time.”
Jacob glanced at the house again. Then back at Mark.
“But what about Miss Ross?”
Mark hadn’t wanted to hear her name. “I’m sure she forgives you, too.”
“No,” Jacob said. “It’s—I keep telling her I made it up, but she won’t believe me.”
Mark’s stomach clenched. “You still talk to her?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Chloe—Chloe and I don’t talk anymore.”
Jacob twisted his hand around the grip of his bicycle.
“Jacob, does she still come to your house?”
“Yeah.” Jacob turned again and looked at the front door. “She’s in there with Mom right now.”
Mark tried to keep his face neutral. He had to leave, put the car in gear and drive. But he heard himself ask: “What does she do? When she comes by?”
“She talks to Mom. And… she goes upstairs sometimes, by herself.”
Mark swallowed sickly.
Jacob said, “Maybe you could tell her again that I lied? She keeps saying I didn’t.”
Mark glanced at the house. “Jacob, I really have to go now.”
Jacob’s face fell. “Please? I could go get her.”
“I’m leaving, right now.” Mark added quickly: “I’m moving, too.”
“But… moving where?”
Jacob was still a little boy. He’d tell Chloe everything Mark said, no matter what promises he gave.
“Florida,” Mark said. “Tampa. With my wife.”
“Now you’re married again? To who?”
“Jacob. Just—please don’t tell Chloe I was here. Will you do that for me? Promise?”
Jacob’s face was pinched, sad. “I promise.”
Mark looked at the house. How easy it would be for someone to notice him here. He had to go. He had to go right now.
But he asked Jacob: “Is she—does she look happy?”
“I guess so,” Jacob said. “She’s buying the house from us. She seems really happy, when she talks about it.”
Mark said nothing.
“Do you think she’s doing it because of what I did?” Jacob asked.
The young woman on the bench stood up, and, after one backward glance at Mark, began walking toward the house.
“It’s not your fault,” Mark said to Jacob. “Nothing’s ever been your fault. Okay?”
“But—”
Mark glanced up at the house again. What he saw, this time, set his heart racing. Without saying goodbye to Jacob, Mark put the Volvo into gear, then guided it away from the curb, his eyes watering, his heart pulsing and pulsing, urging him on, like footsteps, like running.
He drove for a long time, in circles. He kept his hands firm and steady on the wheel.
As he drove, he made himself think, not of the old house, but of Molly: his little girl who would soon be born. In the rare moments of panic that still overtook him sometimes, he used her as a reminder of the life he had yet to live.
He could picture her, clearly—but not the infant she would be, in mere weeks; not that tiny, squalling bean. More and more, these days, it pleased him to see Molly as a young girl. Six, seven. Brendan’s age. A little older.
He liked to imagine her, strapped into her car seat behind him, just visible in the rearview mirror. Her thick black hair, her dark eyes, like Allie’s. Her chubby, heart-shaped face. Sometimes, like now, he’d imagine her expression as stormy as her mother’s: her mouth pulled into a tight distrustful bow. She would do this whenever he displeased her.
Daddy, she’d ask, if she were here, now. Who was that little boy?
And what would he tell her?
Well, he’d say, That’s a story, little bean.
Once upon a time, he might say, Daddy had another family.
Once, he might say, Daddy was married to a woman named Chloe. Together they had a little boy, named Brendan. He was your brother. They’re gone now.
He pictured telling Molly this as she sat up in bed, too agitated by his story to lay her head down and sleep.
Chloe, his girl would say, rolling the strange name around on her tongue. Brendan.
I don’t want you to worry, he could say—because wouldn’t his daughter be tempted to worry, hearing this story? Learning that her daddy was not always the man she knew? That he had once belonged, heart and soul, to someone else?
He’d stroke her hair; he could say, Daddy’s here with you now.
No.
I don’t want you to worry, he could say. Daddy’s learned a lot. He’ll be a better Daddy this time around.
No.
Daddy loves you and Brendan the same, he would say. He misses Brendan and Brendan’s mommy, but he loves you, now. He loves you so very much.
But no matter what he said, his daughter would be insatiably curious, about this other family. She would ask if Mark had pictures of Brendan, and Brendan’s mommy. He couldn’t possibly lie and tell her he didn’t.
I want to see them, she’d say.
He imagined them at home—some new home, like the townhouse and the Locust house combined, a place where Mark lived with both his daughter and her mother. In this place Mark would leave Molly—I’ll be right back, he’d say—and walk upstairs to his office closet. He would retrieve his photographs, and then he would return and hand them to her, one by one.
His daughter would lay them flat on the covers, amazed by these strangers, and by him, too—her younger daddy, happy and smiling, proud.
What happened to them? she would ask.
He would explain that his first family had been a wonderful family, but that a terrible thing had happened. He would tell her, carefully, that her brother Brendan had had an accident, and had died. He would tell her that after the accident, her daddy and Chloe just couldn’t stay together, no matter how hard they tried.
This would be a terrible thing to explain. For a child to hear.
It was very bad luck, he would tell her. It was an accident. It just happened. Then he would hug her and whisper, But it won’t happen to us, I promise.
Daddy? she’d ask. Would I have liked them? Would they have liked me?
Yes, he’d say. Brendan was a wonderful little boy, and he would have been a great brother. He was smart and kind and curious, and he would have loved you and looked out for you.
And Chloe? his daughter would say. What was she like?
Is, Mark would say. She’s still alive.
But would this be true?
Mark drove under the highway, entering German Village, and no matter how hard he tried not to, he saw what had sent him fleeing the old house:
The window of Brendan’s old room. A flicker of movement there: the curtains being pulled aside. A shape, indistinct, behind the glass.
Someone looking out.
Maybe she was saying, Daddy left us.
Maybe she was opening herself to a world she could not see with her eyes.
Or maybe she was imagining herself at one end of a long tunnel. At its far end was a glowing light. A little boy crouched somewhere in between. A shadow: wary, afraid.
Maybe right now she was closing her eyes and breathing deep; maybe she was saying, Tell me how to find you—
No.
Mark imagined, instead, his daughter’s room. It would be in Colorado; the mountains outside the window would glow, pink and orange, in the summer sunset. The wind would be clean and sharp with the smell of pine.
What’s Chloe like? his daughter would ask.
He would bend close enough that Allie, downstairs, could not hear, and he would tell her:
Chloe is a wonderful woman, and she was a great mommy. She’s tall and blond and pretty, and if she met you, she’d play games with you, and tickle you, and make you feel special.
His daughter’s eyes—Allison’s, big and dark—staring at the photos in her hands.
Brendan at his birthday party. Brendan with Grandpa’s hand making a starfish on his head. Mark and Chloe, in their wedding clothes. Mark and Chloe and Brendan in his bassinet, sitting on the porch of the house on Locust in the green, dappled summer light.
Molly’s finger, reaching out to trace Chloe’s hair, so unlike her mother’s and her own.
She sounds nice, she might say.
Mark, then, might smile and touch his daughter’s nose. He might lean close and whisper to her his last, most precious lie:
Well. Maybe someday you’ll meet her.