I should be angry, but instead, I feel conflicted and relieved. What. The. Hell?
So then I think – maybe it’s biological. I’m a man and I’ve reproduced. Maybe there’s a sort of chest-beating satisfaction at the root of this. How fucking lame and archaic – I mean shit, seriously? On the heels of that thought is the knowledge that this same kid has turned Brooke Cameron into an ardent defender of motherhood – her own, of course – not the institution itself. But still. There must be some primitive impulse to blame.
Six hours later, I’m meeting with Dad to decide what to do next. Dropping into a seat across from him, I wait while he finishes a client email. His home office looks the same as it always has – a near-duplicate of his high-rise headquarters, but I haven’t given it a detailed survey in years.
He doesn’t meet with clients here, of course, so there’s no need for posturing – tasteful artwork, perfectly aligned legal books, smiling family photos. Accordingly, the only artwork hanging on the walls consists of a couple of repulsively gruesome war paintings he inherited from his parents, who died when I was too young to retain a memory of them. The built-ins behind him house a disordered arrangement of California and Federal criminal-law volumes, penal codes (the titles of which made me snigger as a ten-year-old), and thick tomes housing Supreme Court precedents. I thank fate once again for making me an actor, though at times I wonder how far apart my dad’s career and my own actually are.
On his cupboard is an array of framed photos – all turned to face his desk, as though he glances at them occasionally, or can if he decides to. The largest is my favourite of my parents on their wedding day. Next to it is Mom holding me the day I was born – she, fresh-faced and beautiful, and me, nothing but a cranky face the size of a grapefruit, encased in a tube of blue blankets. Another shows Mom and me on my first day of kindergarten, my backpack more like a giant shell on my back. She smiles down at me, her hand on my head, and I’m all teeth and big blue eyes, laughing straight into the camera.
While Dad taps at the keyboard, I rise and pick up the pewter frame. Looking closer, I mentally compare this photo to the one of River. Only a year older than he is now, I look much bigger. My clothes are new and expensive – a mirror image of what hip adolescents wore at the time, though at five, I couldn’t possibly have known or cared. My expression is far from solemn. Even so, I see him in my features. I see him, if he was cared for. And happier.
I didn’t want this, any of it, but it’s like I’m stuck on a track, and the train is coming, and there’s nothing I can do but accept the inevitable and try to mitigate the collateral damage.
‘All done,’ Dad says, and I set the photo back in its place and take a seat in front of his desk, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Mirroring the sensation I got walking between Brooke’s box towers a few days ago, the walls are closing in.
‘I don’t expect you to answer what I’m about to say right away, though we haven’t got the time to linger over decisions. You’ve said that Ms Cameron intends to adopt the child –’
‘River.’
‘River. Right.’ His pen scratches across the pad. ‘Do you know whether she intends to continue to live in LA? Or move back to Texas?’
‘She’s moving into a two-bedroom condo near the one she’s in now. I assume that means she plans to be here most of the time, if not all of the time.’
Pursing his lips, he taps his pen, staring at his handwritten notes. ‘My initial reaction was hope that I could extricate you from this situation, because this isn’t something for which you can serve a few weeks of community service or pay a fine, and then it’s all over.’
He leans up and our eyes lock – his dark, like Dori’s, and I wonder how long it’s been since he’s looked at me so directly. ‘I’m not going to lecture you about protection – I think you know these things, and you probably knew them then, but not well enough to be consistent. If anyone should be lectured, it’s me. Christ, you weren’t even fifteen when this happened.’ He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, his jaw locked. ‘The fact remains, you fathered a child, even if you were a child yourself at the time – and instead of living with settled adoptive parents, he’s presently in foster care, and it’s very likely he’ll be living with your unstable ex-girlfriend soon, minutes away.’
‘What are you saying, Dad?’
‘I’m saying … that if you relinquish your rights to him now, you may live to regret it.’
Okay. This day is full of unanticipated responses. I nod once and stare at my hands as he continues.
‘When you were born, I was petrified that I’d be a horrible father. Your grandfather was a hard man and he taught me nothing of paternal tenderness. I guess in many ways my fear came true – I made it true. But I never turned my back on you. I don’t have to look at you right now and try to explain why I signed away my rights to you. Giving up a baby for adoption is a good thing, almost always, in cases like yours and Brooke’s. What’s happened to the – to River – is virtually unheard of. It couldn’t have been foreseen, and there’s little use asking why or how it happened. All that matters is what we choose to do about it now. What you choose to do about it now – because I won’t make this choice for you. But I’ll stand by you, no matter what you decide.’
I close my eyes and will the walls to shift further apart so I can breathe. ‘Assuming I don’t sign the relinquishment, what happens?’
‘Three choices. One, you simply refuse to sign it, making the adoption more difficult for Brooke, but likely resulting in an eventual relinquishment by default. Two, join Brooke’s bid to adopt and request joint custody. Three, file for full custody. Considering the fact that you were fifteen when he was born, she knew you were the father, and no one saw fit to inform your legal guardians, a case could be made that you never legally relinquished your rights. She signed her rights away, with full parental consent. You signed nothing, and neither did we.’
Brooke will be furious no matter which of those I choose. I’m going to drive Dori away as soon as I spill this to her. And I could destroy my mother’s fragile sobriety.
‘What about Mom? What will this do to her?’
His mouth forms a grim line, and he’s silent for a moment. ‘I’ve grappled with that all day. I don’t know, Reid. She’s been going to meetings every day. She’s doing well. Better than I’ve seen her in a decade. But you and I know that upheavals like this …’