CHAPTER 6
He’d been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair for the past forty-five minutes. After the first ten minutes, Luke brought out a few of the latest letters. He’d stopped carrying the whole pile. Now every morning, he selected a few of his favorites from the shoebox by the side of his bed. Then, he would carefully place the newest one on top. He usually avoided reading them in public—too many questions—but in this case he’d rather read Natalie’s thoughts than another college brochure for Michigan State.
DAY 44
Dear Luke,
I’m writing this as I’m getting my third treatment. I remembered to bring a sweater today. Too bad they can’t warm the infusion before putting it in your port. Room temperature is definitely not 98.6 degrees. Brr.
I thought I’d write to you now since I’ll probably be sick later. This is what I get for wanting to lose ten pounds, isn’t it? I’d definitely take fifty extra pounds over this. Turns out skinny isn’t my best look. Maybe it’s the baldness, but I think I look like one of those aliens from your sci-fi movies—gray skin, no hair, and bulging eyes. Thank heavens for wigs, fake eyelashes, and drawn-on eyebrows. I think I do a good impression of human on most days.
I hate this. I want to feel better. Will I ever feel better? If you’re reading this, I guess the answer is no. I’ve been thinking about my prognosis lately. Why did I have to get some crazy rare type of soft tissue sarcoma? Why couldn’t I have found that lump on my shoulder blade before the cancer got into my lymph nodes? Stage III. Beatable? For sure. Scary? For sure.
Even if we get through the next two rounds of chemo, we still have surgery and radiation and then even more rounds of chemo. This time last year I was floating blissfully along, teaching double-digit subtraction, getting ready for spring break in a couple weeks. And next year or the year after, I could be dead. Gone. Forever, according to you.
I don’t know what I believe about death anymore. For a long time, I could see the logic of your beliefs even though I clung to the idea of God like a child with a teddy bear. But I don’t know how to face death like that.
So I have a plan. If I die and if there is life after death, I’m so coming back to haunt you. I mean, full-on “our house was built on an Indian burial ground” type of haunting. I’ll whisper things in your ear like, “I was riiiight. You were wroooong,” in an awesome ghost voice.
He laughed out loud as the office door in front of him swung open and people spilled out. Luke folded up the letter and quickly hid it in his pocket, hating that he didn’t get the chance to finish.
He recognized Will’s guidance counselor immediately. She was at least a head shorter than everyone in the group, even with her six-inch zebra-print heels on. She had long unruly curly hair, with the ends a light copper in contrast to the deep-brown roots.
Ms. Mason had come to the wake and the funeral. When Luke was in high school, all his counselors ever did was make sure he got all the credits he needed for graduation and nagged him about applying for colleges. He’d always thought that was the norm, but maybe they tried harder when you weren’t a foster kid who could move to a different school at any time.
The other two adults in the group exiting Ms. Mason’s office were clearly a married couple. Their two rings flashed in the light announcing “man and wife.” They quickly shook hands with Ms. Mason and made their nose-pierced, hair-dyed son do the same. Ken and Barbie got married and had an Emo child. Once they conducted another insufferable round of good-byes, Ms. Mason turned to face Luke.
“Mr. Richardson, thank you for coming. Sorry for the late notice. Please, come into my office.” Her voice was professional, but with her sparkly shirt, dangly earrings, and short stature, she could easily be mistaken for a student.
“Thanks again for coming in.” She picked up a silver pen and clutched it in her hand, long manicured nails catching his eye from across the table. “How are . . .” she paused awkwardly. His stomach was churning, already knowing what she was going to ask. “How are you all doing?”
Everyone asked this question. It must’ve been on a brochure at the funeral with the title “Things to Say after Someone Dies.” He was fairly certain no one wanted to know the real answer to that question. Luke always said the same thing.
“Oh, you know, there are good days and bad days.”
Ms. Mason’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. Hard times. Hard times.” She continued with some extended eye contact that made Luke uncomfortable. When he didn’t respond, she took a deep breath and continued, “How about Will? Have you noticed any drastic changes in his behavior lately?”
“He’s been fairly withdrawn since losing his mom.” There. He’d said “losing his mom” without flinching. It got easier every time. “He doesn’t talk to me much, but he has a pretty good relationship with a family friend. She seems to think he’s managing as well as can be expected.”
Ms. Mason tapped her pen on the table before clutching it under her chin.
“I’m afraid he’s not doing well at school,” she said, pushing the words out.
“What do you mean? Like his grades?” Luke leaned forward. “He has a tutor.”
“I know he does. His grades are going to be fine.”
“Going to be? What do you mean?”
“Well, he hasn’t been turning in his assignments, but yesterday we went through his locker together and they were all there.” She shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk, her reddish brown eyebrows crunching together. “I’m more worried about what he said when we sat down yesterday to talk.”
Luke felt like he’d swallowed a stone. “What did he say now?”
“Uh, it’s a bit difficult to explain, and I’m hoping you have more information for me . . . I brought Will in for a chat after finding all his missing assignments, and we got to talking.” She put her elbows on the table and crossed her arms, picking at the loose knit of her shimmering sweater nervously. “He told me he’d recently discovered he’s adopted.”
“He said what?” Luke couldn’t hold back a loud snort, sitting up straighter in his seat. That was the last thing he’d expected her to say.
“But . . .” she said, clearly relieved, “I’m guessing from your reaction, he made it up.”
“Yeah, he’s definitely not adopted.” Luke ran a hand through his unruly hair. There had to be more to this story. “What exactly did he say?”
“He said he was looking through a box of his mother’s things and found some adoption papers. It didn’t sound right; that’s why I called you.” She cleared her throat and reset her facial expression to serious. “Have you considered taking Will to talk to a professional?”
A box of his mother’s things. The phrase jumped out at him as her words ran through his mind one more time. He’d seen a box peeking out from under Will’s bed when he went in to wake him up for school a week ago, but didn’t think much of it. Why didn’t he look closer? Why was he always in a foggy tunnel of thought that only seemed to clear out when he was sitting and reading one of Natalie’s letters?
“Mr. Richardson? Did you hear me?” She waved her hand, dropping her silver pen on the desk with a loud thump. Luke shook his head to clear it. Focus. Focus on what Will’s counselor is saying.
“We went to a group for families when Natalie was first diagnosed,” he said, staring at one spot on her desk where some kind of graffiti had been buffed out and repainted. “But no, not since.”
Ms. Mason selected a single sheet of paper off the top of the pile she’d been fiddling with and held it out to Luke. “Here you go. This is a list of therapists I compiled, ones who specialize in grief counseling. Of course, it’s up to you whether you decide to send Will, but I don’t have to tell you how worrying this change in Will’s behavior is to us.”
“No. Of course not.” Luke shook his head, wondering who “us” was exactly. His kid was making up stories about being adopted. Even half-blind with grief, he couldn’t miss the gravity of the situation. He took the sheet of paper, folded it in half twice, and slid it in his shirt pocket.
After a few more minutes of small talk, Ms. Mason walked him to the door, and they shook hands. To meet his eyes, she had to tilt her head so far back it looked uncomfortable.
“Thank you for your concern for Will. He needs every bit of encouragement he can get,” he said.
“Please”—she squeezed his hand for a moment before letting go—“keep me in the loop. I really want to be there for Will. He’s a good kid.” She sounded like she sincerely cared for Will’s well-being.
As soon as Ms. Mason turned her attentions to the teenage girl who was silently pecking at a smartphone, Luke hurried out of the school and into the safety of his car. Flipping out the paper filled with names of therapists, he looked through them, closed his eyes, and pointed.
Perfect—the therapist was five minutes from home. Luke didn’t have much confidence in therapy; he’d gone to court-ordered therapy for the year after he was put in foster care. The man’s name was Mr. Tragenall, and he did not love his job or working with foster kids, and especially foster kids with attitude.
At that point in Luke’s life, Mr. Tragenall and all the rest of the adults who cared about him within the confines of their profession only served to highlight that he’d lost the only people in the world who actually cared for him. That’s why he hadn’t made the kids see someone sooner. Now that the school was involved, maybe he didn’t have a choice. Being stubborn and not sending him could lead to far more trouble than just employing some well-placed bribery to get Will into the therapist’s office.
Navigating his way home by mere muscle memory, Luke’s thoughts turned from therapy to the box. What could Will have found that would make him tell such a ridiculous story? This is one time he wasn’t going to look the other way. He had to admit he’d been doing that about Will’s sudden outbursts or the hours of time spent alone in his room.
Reaching home in record time, Luke sped past Jessie’s burgundy Kia parked in the driveway. When he rushed through the entry, Luke could hear Jessie’s voice echoing out to welcome him, and he noticed the air smelled of vanilla and cinnamon again. It was nice coming home to activity. The house felt warm and alive. But today he couldn’t enjoy that feeling. He needed to talk to Will.
“Is Will in there with you?” he shouted into the kitchen.
Jessie walked out as Luke was slipping his shoes off.
“Hey, Mr. Richardson, Welcome home.” She was wearing one of Natalie’s old aprons, the one with the teal and black paisleys and ruffles. A trail of flour streaked through her bangs. “Will finished his homework already, so he’s in his room doing . . . who knows what.”
“I need to talk to him. I know it’s almost five.” Luke checked his watch. Okay, it was after five. “Do you mind staying a bit late?” He hung up his wool winter coat in the front closet and turned around.
Jessie had her hands on her hips, biting her lip like she was worried.
“Everything okay?” she asked, and he was sure she really wanted to know.
There was something about this girl that made Luke sad. She had an eagerness to please that reminded him of May when she wanted a new app on her tablet. No doubt she was one of those students who sat in the front row in every class and cried over a B. How could he tell someone so weighted down with her own insecurities about his very real concerns that Will was failing to thrive after Natalie’s death, like an infant refusing to nurse? How he worried her death might be the pivotal moment in Will’s childhood that would permanently change the course of his life? Or how Luke was sure he was a complete failure as a parent and the only reason the kids were decent human beings was because Natalie had always been there to pick up his slack?
“Yeah.” He hung his keys on the small white hook drilled into the wall. They bounced against Natalie’s keys with their big jangly key chain. “Just some school stuff. His counselor called me today. Will hasn’t been turning in his assignments. She found them all stuffed in his locker. I need to find out what’s going on.”
“You’re kidding me!” Jessie almost squealed, crossing her arms. “He’s been working so hard on his homework every day. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t turn them in. He’s such a smart kid. I’m sorry. I should’ve double-checked. I should’ve . . .”
“No,” Luke cut in, trying to calm her before a full-on panic attack, “this isn’t your fault.” He placed his shoes on the drying mat next to the shoe baskets. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to find out.”
“Jessie, I think it’s done!” May called from the kitchen, interrupting Jessie before she could speak. “Should I take it out of the oven?”
Her eyes went wide. “No! I’m coming!” She gave a little smile to Luke. “I’d better go check on her. Take as long as you need.” She jogged toward the kitchen and shouted, “Good luck!” over her shoulder.
“Thanks,” he muttered under his breath before heading for the stairs.
Outside Will’s room Luke considered knocking, but that might give him time to hide something. He tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open wide with one big shove, which was made extra difficult by the large clump of clothes piled behind it.
The room was a disaster. Clothes everywhere. Dirty plates and forks and bowls and spoons sat in piles on various surfaces. So this was why they were always searching for utensils. Luke had bought a bulk box of plastic ones the week before, giving up on the idea of ever finding the whole set again. Apparently the right place to look was Will’s room.
Will lay on his bed with his headphones on, phone in hand texting. Luke was a little disappointed his son didn’t even notice the dramatic entrance, but he wasn’t about to be ignored. With a quick tug he pulled out Will’s earbuds, letting a deep bass pump out.
“What the . . . ?” Will sat up on his twin bed, folding his legs into a pretzel. When did he get so big? He had his mom’s dark hair and Luke’s crystal-blue eyes, blotchy brown freckles on the top of his cheeks, but he had Luke’s body type. A cross-country runner, his body was lean and muscled, and all his clothes hung off him like hand-me-downs. “Dad, what are you doing?”
No small talk, he had to dive right in.
“I had a nice chat with Ms. Mason today.” Luke sat down on the edge of the bed next to Will and started to put an arm around his shoulders. At his father’s touch, Will pulled away, leaning back against the wall, with his knees drawn up to his chest. When Will didn’t speak, Luke continued.
“I’m sure you are aware of what she called me about. Correct?” He made his voice stern, fatherly.
“Uh, yeah.”
Luke thought for sure he could hear remorse in Will’s voice. The hint of regret was almost enough to make Luke willing to drop the whole thing. Almost.
“Will.” Luke had to pause to take a breath, frustration stacking up inside him like blocks in a tower. “What possessed you to tell her you are adopted?” Will didn’t respond; instead, he shrugged and picked at his thumbnail. “No.” Luke slapped the unmade bed. “I know I’ve let you get away with a lot of things lately, but I’m not letting this one go. You answer me. Now.”
“Fine.” Will hit his crumpled bedding and threw his head back against the old-school Metallica poster on his wall before pushing himself off the bed and on the floor. Digging around under the bed he finally slid a medium-size cardboard box out from under the overhang of his covers. It had the word “Memories” written across the side in Natalie’s handwriting.
Luke knew this box. She brought it with her when they got married. At least once a year he’d find her curled up in a corner examining its entrails. Sometimes she shared a scrap of paper or a memento, but most of the time she kept its contents private. He’d never been tempted to look inside, understanding the desire to keep some memories to herself. Natalie had always respected his boundaries, so he’d always tried to return the favor. Knowing Will had broken that trust made Luke angry and jealous at the same time.
“That’s your mom’s box. You shouldn’t be rummaging through it.”
Will already had half his arm buried inside the box, shifting objects around, searching.
“She’s dead, Dad. Nothing belongs to her anymore, remember? You taught me that a long time ago.” He whipped out a business-size envelope with black lines of writing on the back. “Here. This is what got me thinking. You tell me what this means.” He shoved the hair out of his eyes, settling back on his knees.
Luke took the envelope reluctantly. On the one hand, he hated the idea of breaking Natalie’s confidence in him by snooping. On the other hand, he was eager to know what Will had found that made him so suspicious. Curiosity and a desire to figure out what his son was going through won out over loyalty.
The back of the envelope was filled with names and phone numbers. Some were first names only, others the names of companies or hospitals in several different colors of ink. Some were crossed out and others underlined. There was no way to know when the names and numbers were written or what they were for. This random list couldn’t possibly be the catalyst for Will’s lie.
“I don’t get it. Is this supposed to explain something?”
“You’re holding it wrong.” Will took the envelope and flipped it over. The front was addressed to “Mrs. Natalie Richardson,” and up in the corner a return address emblem read: “Maranatha Adoptions, Chicago, Illinois.” Postmarked the month Will was born. Luke peeked inside the roughly opened envelope, but it was empty.
“What did the letter say?”
“It was empty when I found it,” Will mumbled.
“So let me get this right,” Luke said, trying to keep his voice steady and his blood pressure from skyrocketing. The large vein in his neck pounded against his collar. “You decided to make up some extravagant story about how your whole life’s been a lie off an empty envelope with random names written on the back?” Luke was almost yelling. He took a breath before continuing, remembering how distinctly he and Jessie had heard Clayton through the ceiling during her first visit. “You’ve seen all the pictures of Mom pregnant with you, of you lying in her arms at the hospital, the videos of you coming home. You really think we staged all those?”
Will went back to picking at his thumb. Luke couldn’t see his eyes, but when his son started sniffing, he knew Will was crying. He put the envelope in his shirt pocket behind the folded list of grief counselors. Once his hands were free, he slid an arm around Will’s shoulders and touched his forehead to his son’s.
They hadn’t cried in front of each other since the day Natalie died. Sometimes Luke thought he could hear Will crying in his room as he walked by, but he’d always assumed Will needed his privacy. Now that Will was in his arms, Luke knew he’d been wrong. What he needed was for his dad to tell him everything was going to be okay.
“No,” Will sobbed, “I guess I knew it wasn’t possible.”
“Why did you say all those things to Ms. Mason?” Luke asked calmly, kissing the top of his son’s head like he used to do when he was little.
“Because I wanted it to be true,” Will choked out.
The admission stabbed Luke in the heart. Will wished he didn’t belong to their family.
“You don’t feel like you fit in?”
Will sat up and pulled away from Luke’s arms. Thick trails of tears traced down his cheeks.
“No, it’s not that.” Will shook his head. “When I saw the adoption agency and the date, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. You weren’t there when I was born.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, catching his breath. “You guys always talked about how you were in China for most of Mom’s pregnancy and how hard it was to get pregnant. How I came a month early and you weren’t back yet. I thought, maybe, there was a chance.”
Luke put a firm hand on Will’s shoulder. “But Grandma was here, and I got home the day you came home. Your mom was tired and sore. The nurses had taken those Polaroid pictures for me right after you were born. Plus, no adoption agency would give a baby to someone without the father being there.”
Will nodded repeatedly. “I guess I know that, but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted it to be true. I kept thinking: if I was adopted, if that letter was about me, my mom’s not dead. She’s out there somewhere, waiting for me.” When Will choked on the last words, Luke knew why people wanted to believe in heaven so badly. If only he could pretend he believed. He’d say: “Don’t worry. Your mom is waiting for you. You will see her again.” Now he didn’t know what to say.
“You still have a mom; she’s real, she existed, and you have all your memories of her.”
“Lucky me.” Will placed the box back under the bed and yanked up his sagging jeans.
Luke ran a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp in thought. “Um, about the adoption, if you are still worried, I can look into that Maranatha place. Maybe find out why they were writing to your mom.” Luke told himself it was to placate Will, but he couldn’t deny the embers of curiosity stirring in his mind. Will was his child, he didn’t doubt that, even with all of Will’s convoluted points. But an adoption agency and a list of hospitals—what did it all mean?
“Really?” Will looked at him suspiciously. “You’d do that? Even though you’re so sure?”
“Hey, if you tell Ms. Mason that story one more time, she’s going to lose it. If this will put your mind at rest, I’m happy to.”
Will seemed to consider the idea carefully, like he was trying to balance two sides of a scale. “Yeah, I think that’d help.”
“Okay. I’ll do some research and make some phone calls. In the meantime, Ms. Mason said we need to take you to a therapist.”
“No way.” Will rolled his eyes and leaned away from Luke. “I do not want to talk to some stranger about Mom.”
Luke wasn’t ready for another fight so he settled for a few firm pats on Will’s back.
“I know, but when you start making up stories about your life, there are consequences. You go to this doctor for six weeks, you start turning in all your homework, and if your grades are okay and you want to stop, you can. Deal?”
Will grunted but couldn’t seem to figure out a rebuttal. Instead, he said, “Deal.” They shared a quick hug.
“Oh, and all these dishes need to make their way downstairs and into the dishwasher. No more eating in your room. Meals with us every night. Homework turned in. Got it?”
“Fine. I got it. I got it.” Will rolled his eyes and grabbed a plate coated in some kind of dried-on film.
Luke left Will’s room feeling like a qualified parent for the first time in a while. He glanced at his watch. He was already half an hour late relieving Jessie. Picking up the pace, he took the stairs two at a time. Jumping off the last step, something fell out of his pocket. He half expected to see one of Natalie’s letters, but they were still in his coat pocket. No, this was the mystery envelope from Will’s room.
He examined it one more time. Nothing new on the front—adoption agency, Chicago, postmarked near Will’s birthday. Knowing Natalie, she was trying to help a friend or a student, right? After a little research and a few phone calls, he’d have a simple explanation to bring to his son and settle the anxious thoughts that kept creeping to the fore.
Luke shook his head. Will was too young to understand—Luke and Natalie were best friends. Over their life together, they’d always told each other everything. Natalie knew his secrets and he knew hers. All of them. Well, except for whatever was in the box . . . and the letters and . . .
He turned the paper over to look at the list of hospitals and names. Something caught his eye. One name in particular stood out to him. He’d seen it before: Dr. Neal. He’d seen that name before on the contact list on Natalie’s phone. At the time he’d assumed it was one of Natalie’s doctors. Now he wasn’t so sure. He ran his finger over the name again.
“Dr. Neal,” Luke whispered. “Who are you?”