Brynn

 

“Brynn, sweetheart, do you need anything?” my mom asks through the bathroom door.

She’s hovering.

Not that I blame her, but I need a little bit of alone time after: 1.) Being abandoned by Cassidy, 2.) My disturbing, illuminating conversation with Officer Marty, and 3.) The intense reunion I just had with my parents.

“I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be out soon.”

“Your dad got back with the clothes. He found, uh, some shorts and a T-shirt at the gift shop.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Well, sweetheart, take your time. We’ll be right out here. Call out if you need something.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I’ve been soaking in their hotel tub for about twenty minutes, keeping my bandaged wrist out of the water. The rest of my tired, aching body feels like it could stay in the hot water for days.

Officer Marty called ahead to the Ferguson Lake Lodge as he drove me over, and my parents were waiting at the front door. I fell into their arms the moment I exited the police car, all of us crying and my mother leaning back again and again to cradle my face in her palms and assure herself that I was here and alive.

We feared the worst . . . back from the dead . . . what happened?

I returned the blanket to Officer Marty, who advised, again, that I make a stop at Millinocket General Hospital to have a checkup, but I don’t believe that’s necessary. My stab wounds are healing nicely, and I feel fine. I mean, my body feels fine. My heart is broken. And my mind? My God. My mind can’t stop spinning. I can’t seem to fit all the pieces together on one hand, but on the other, so many of my questions have suddenly been answered.

No matter who my Cassidy is, I know one thing for certain: he believes that he is Cassidy Porter, the son of convicted serial killer Paul Isaac Porter.

Perhaps he is a second son of Paul Porter? It’s possible, but it doesn’t feel right. Cassidy was the exact opposite of evil: he was all goodness, through and through. I can’t imagine even a cell of Paul Porter’s evil nature alive in Cass. More likely, I think he might be a second son of Rosemary Cleary Porter, the mother for whom he felt a real, strong, and genuine affection.

But why would she name two of her sons Cassidy? It doesn’t make any sense.

What does make sense, suddenly, is the way Cassidy refused to talk about his father, always changing the subject when I tried to mention him. That father-son picture was of my Cassidy standing beside his “father,” a serial killer. No wonder I sensed uneasiness in his posture. Did he know what his father was? My God, he lived for years with a monster. Did he sense it? When did he find out?

 I take a shaking breath, wondering what he has seen in his life, the horror he has possibly known. Because I can’t bear it, I switch gears and put together the pieces of his timeline that were missing.

He was born in 1990, and the picture at the cookout was taken in 1995, the same year as the portrait of him with his mother and grandfather. The newspaper photo from the Little League game was in 1997, and from the normal, everyday way it referred to his parents, I think it’s safe to assume that Paul Isaac Porter was keeping his crimes under wraps at that point.

He was arrested in 1998, convicted in 1999, and killed in a prison fight in 2000. But Cassidy moved to the cabin in 1999 without his father. My mother didn’t feel comfortable living alone in town. He and his mother likely never returned to civilization because his surname was feared and notorious.

So many things make sense now: how he changed the subject every time I asked about his father, why he doesn’t want to be around people, why he isolates himself from society. I can only imagine the weight of the name Porter on an innocent little boy’s shoulders.

Innocent.

A terrible thought occurs to me, and I let it take shape in my mind because it makes sense to me, though it also breaks my heart.

You are better off without me, I promise. For both our sakes, please don’t come looking for me.

Does Cassidy bear some guilt for his father’s choices?

Surely he knows that he is innocent of his father’s terrible crimes?

My mind segues to the dozens of books on DNA and genetics in his living room. I remember asking if one of his parents was a geneticist, but he said no. And since his father never lived at the homestead, those books belonged to someone else. His grandfather? His mother? One of them was obsessed with DNA and genetics. Why?

I whimper with growing understanding and profound, twisting sorrow as puzzle pieces snap together, giving me a more complete picture of Cassidy’s upbringing.

When your son/grandson has a serial killer for a father, you can’t help but wonder how he’s going to turn out.

I flip through different moments with Cassidy in my mind:

I trust you, I said to him on the first day I was fully conscious at his house. You probably shouldn’t, he grimly answered.

And in the beginning, he reassured me endlessly that he wouldn’t hurt me—it was almost a mantra. At one point he even said: I just like living out here, is all. I won’t hurt you, Brynn. I’m not some psycho. Not yet, anyway. I promise. That curious “not yet” has new meaning to me now.

Some stories have really bad endings, he said when I asked if he had a story to tell me. He meant his story. The story of him and his parents.

And the way he always said that he wished things were different makes sense now too.

He wouldn’t have sex with me without a condom. He was adamant about it, and when I asked why, he bluntly said, I’m not getting you pregnant.

And during our horrible, blistering fight in the kitchen, he practically screamed, We can’t be together. I can’t love you! I can’t be with anyone!

Even the reason he finally flipped out, yelling at me and raising his shaking fist between us . . . I was talking about having kids. That’s what made him snap.

Oh, my God.

It’s all connected, I realize in a startling burst of clarity: the DNA books, his promises not to hurt me, wishing things were different, not risking impregnating me, the conviction that he couldn’t be with anyone, and the fierce and furious panic at the notion of having children.

“Oh, Cass,” I murmur as my tired eyes blur with tears. “Who told you that you had to stay unloved? Who made you believe that you would make the same choices your father did? And who told you that any children you had would be poisoned too?”

The answer? Someone traumatized by the true nature of her husband or his son-in-law had taken it upon themselves to inject this venom into Cassidy’s mind, to make him believe that the son of a serial killer had no right to happiness and barely any right to life.

The stark, cruel, brutal unfairness of it makes my heart stutter.

“Cass,” I sob, understanding why he fought his feelings for me, knowing why he pushed me away. I think—my God, this is so sad, I can’t keep from crying—but I think he did it to keep me safe. From himself. The one man who I know, in the depths of my heart, would never hurt me.

You asked if I love you, and the answer is yes. So much that I have to let you go . . . you are better off without me, I promise. For both our sakes, please don’t come looking for me.

I wipe away my tears, lift my chin, and lean forward to drain the bath.

Except I know things about my Cassidy now that he doesn’t even know.

The first is that I am not better off without him.

And the second is that I am damn well going to start looking for him as soon as I figure out who he really is.

***

“So you’re saying that the man who attacked you and the man who saved you are the same person?” asks my mother, her eyebrows deeply furrowed, her voice terse and confused.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. I am sitting on their king-size hotel bed cross-legged in a bathrobe, facing my parents, to whom I’ve been trying to explain this crazy story for about an hour. “No. Follow me, Mom. The man who attacked me was born Cassidy Porter, but we’re going to call him Wayne, okay? Wayne was the biological son of a serial killer.”

“. . . which makes a certain amount of sense, considering he tried to kill you, bug.”

“That’s right, Dad.”

“What about Jem?” my mother asks, her voice perturbed. “You say you love this mountain man . . . this s-serial killer’s son, but you’ve been grieving Jem for two years, worrying us sick! I can’t keep up with—”

“Mom,” I say gently, “I know it’s a lot to process. Of course I loved Jem. And part of me always will. But Jem’s been gone for years. Meeting Cassidy and falling in love with him . . .” I sigh, trying to organize my thoughts so I can catch her up to where I am. “In a weird way, I feel like Jem was part of the journey to Cass. If I hadn’t loved him so much, I never would have come here. I never would have met Cassidy. He saved my life. He made me want to live. He . . . he is such a good man, and he understands me in ways that are so deep and unexpected, I’m scared of losing him. I’m terrified I’ll never find anyone else who will complete me like he does. I love him. I want to be with him, and if he knew who he really was, I think he’d want to be with me too.”

My dad pats my leg. “I’m following, bug. And I have to say, I haven’t seen you this fired up, this alive, since, well, since before you lost Jem. Whoever this Cassidy is, I want to meet him. I want to thank the man who saved my girl.”

My father has always gotten me, and I give him a grateful smile, then turn to my mom. “I’m sorry I worried you, but the way Jem died was so shocking, so violent, it took years for me to process it. And I had to do that my own way. The thing is, though, by the time I finally said goodbye to Jem, I realized I’d already said goodbye to him in my heart a while ago. It just took coming here to realize that . . . to realize that my heart was ready for someone new. For Cassidy.”

“Sweetheart,” says my mom after a long dismissive sigh, “this is just all so sad and upsetting. Listen, how about we order some room service and catch up a little? Your cousin Bel’s boyfriend didn’t work out. She’s got a new one now. Keith or . . . no, that’s not it. Anyway, I could catch you up . . . and, oh! We could watch an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians maybe! We love them! Sweetheart, we were so worried about you, and then we got that strange phone message. And now you’re here, safe and sound. Can we just—”

“No, Mom,” I say, reaching out to put my hand on her arm and curling my fingers gently around her wrist. “I have to get to the bottom of this. I want—no, I need your help. But if you can’t give it, I understand. Either way, I need to figure this out. Now. Today.”

She yanks her wrist away. “We traveled here all the way from Scottsdale, Brynn. We have been worried sick for three weeks, wondering if you were dead or alive! I am not outdoorsy, as you well know, but I have climbed that goddamned, god-awful mountain six times in three weeks! Is it so much to ask that we take a moment or two to catch our breath and enjoy one another before we have to hear stories about stabbing attacks and serial killers and this . . . this Cassidy person?” She jumps off the bed, standing at the foot with her arms crossed. “I don’t think I’m being unreasonable!”

I share a look with my dad, silently begging him for help. I love my parents, and truly, I am so grateful that they’re here. But I feel like the clock is ticking down on figuring out who Cassidy is and finding him, which is going to be a challenge of its own. But I definitely don’t want to sit around watching The Kardashians and eating chicken salad croissants when the love of my life has based his entire existence on lies, and has probably pushed me away because he is convinced that he isn’t worthy of my love.

“Muffin,” says my dad, standing up and pulling my mother’s stiff body awkwardly into his arms. “You go on down to the dining room and have a nice lunch now. Maybe a cold Chardonnay too. Come back when you’re ready. I’m going to stay here and listen to what Brynn-bug’s got to say.”

“I’m not letting her out of my sight!” my mother screeches.

“Then, muffin,” he says gently as he plops a kiss on her forehead, “I think you’re going to have to get on board with solving this mystery because our girl seems determined.”

My mother takes a deep breath and huffs. “Well, may I at least order us some room service?”

“I’d love it, Mom. Thank you.” I smile at her back as she heads into the living room of the suite, then turn to my father. “Thanks, Dad.”

He waves away my thanks. “So let me make sure I understand: Wayne attacked you and is dead. Cassidy saved you and is alive.”

“Yes.” Thank God.

“Further, Wayne was the biological son of this Paul Porter, but Cassidy . . . is? Is not?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t know if Paul Porter and my Cassidy were blood related, but I do know that Cassidy believed that Paul, the serial killer, was his father. I saw a picture of them together at a cookout back in 1995. Plus, Cassidy was really cagey about his father. Didn’t want to discuss him. Changed the subject every time I tried.”

“Bug,” says my dad, his eyes worried, “you sure you want to go digging around in this? Could be you find something you don’t want to.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . .” He takes a deep breath, his lips grim. “What if he is the son of a serial killer?”

It’s a good question. And maybe, for another woman, the answer wouldn’t come easily. But I know my heart. I don’t skip a beat before answering.

“I don’t care,” I say, the words rushed and breathless because I want my dad to hear them. “He’s still the man who saved me. He’s still the man who took care of me. He’s still the man I love. I don’t care who his father was. Dad, if you knew him, how selfless he is, how smart and capable, how he makes me feel—”

“I get it, bug. I just . . . I want the best for you,” he says, his eyes worried as he runs a hand through his still-dashing silver hair.

“I love him, Dad,” I murmur again, staring into green eyes so similar to my own as I finger the bracelet on my wrist.

“Your mom made a good point,” he says, the eagle-eyed gaze that has served him so well in the courtroom pinning me now. “You loved Jem the last time we talked to you. How do you know this isn’t some . . . infatuation?”

I try not to feel defensive, because I know that my feelings for Cassidy are real, but my parents deserve a little bit of time to catch up with how drastically my heart has changed in a matter of weeks.

I keep my voice measured and gentle. “Like I said, I’ll always love Jem. He was a good man and we . . .” Hope’s musings about the relative happiness of Jem’s and my union come rushing back. “I think we would have been happy. But Jem is gone.” I pause for a moment to let my words sink in before I continue. “But Dad, I’m a thirty-year-old woman. I know myself. I’m in love with Cassidy. I’ve got to give us a real chance. I’ll never be able to move on from this if I don’t. I’ll be stuck here, wondering about him for the rest of my life.”

“Okay.” My dad nods, and I can see in his eyes that I’ve won him over. “I hear you, bug. I’m in. Tell me more.”

“Three pancake platters and a pot of coffee on the way,” says my mom, rejoining us in the bedroom.

“That’s just fine, muffin,” says my dad as she sits back down beside him on the bed. “Now, Jenny, you read all those mystery stories. What do you make of all this?”

She shrugs, then purses her lips. “Why did your attacker call himself Wayne?”

I stare at her for a moment, blinking, feeling annoyed. With all the questions that could be asked, she’s focusing on Wayne’s alias?

“Mom, I really think there are more—”

“I mean,” she continues, deep in thought, “your Cassidy really believes he’s Cassidy, right? Did Wayne really believe he was Wayne?”

All of the wind in my sails of indignation flits away.

She’s right.

It’s a damn good question.

“Where did that officer say that Cassidy Porter was born?” Dad asks.

“Here. In Millinocket.”

“I wonder . . . hmm,” hums my mother.

“What?”

“Well, if there’s a birth record on file for Cassidy Porter, you might stop in and see if there’s a birth record for someone named Wayne,” she says. “After breakfast, of course.”

I lean forward and kiss her cheek, feeling hopeful for the first time since waking up this morning at the Millinocket Police Department. “You’re brilliant, Mom.”

“Nice work, muffin,” adds my dad, squeezing her shoulders.

She blushes, happy to have helped, then tells me to go get dressed.

“And while we’re having breakfast, I want to hear more about this man who saved you,” she calls as I head into the bathroom. “I’m uneasy about his parentage, of course. But no matter who they were, he did save your life.”

“Yes, indeed,” says my father. “We want to know everything about your Cassidy.”