Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,98
thrilled him when Daria told him that Natalie looked like him. He tried to envision a two-year-old female version of himself, but the only pictures that came to his mind were the tiny brown-skinned Timoné children. And he was also strangely frightened by the prospect of meeting her. What if she’s afraid of me? What if my scars repulse her?
He looked over at his father, who was concentrating on the heavy, noon-hour traffic.
“Dad, what time did you say Daria was planning to get here?”
Jack checked his watch. “I think she said one o’clock. She should be at the house by the time we get there. I’m sure Mom and Betsy will keep her and Natalie entertained. You nervous?” Jack asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
“A little.”
Nathan pulled down the visor on the passenger side and looked into the undersized mirror. After nearly three years without seeing more than his reflection in a river stream, it still startled him whenever he caught a glimpse of his own face. His eyes were more crinkled at the corners than he remembered, and his cheeks were even thinner than they had been, but other than that, his face was unmarred by his ordeal. His hands and arms were another story. The long-sleeved shirt and jacket his mother had brought to the hospital for him covered the ugliest burn scars, but striations of scar tissue marred his hands as well. He had been deeply relieved to discover that he could still maneuver a pen, could still handle a razor without nicking himself, could still hold a woman in his arms.
He shook the thought off. He wouldn’t dwell on that now. What was important was that he could still practice medicine, could still provide for his family. In every way that mattered, he was whole.
His father turned onto a side street, and suddenly everything was familiar to him again. He was going home to the house he’d grown up in. A lump formed in his throat, but he was hard-pressed to identify the emotion it signified.
He swallowed hard. “Do the Milbrandts still live there?” he asked, pointing to a stately Georgian revival, attempting small talk.
“John Jr. moved in a couple of years ago. Berta died, you know, and they put John in a home.”
He didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. They were just blocks away from the Camfield house, just a minute away from Daria and Natalie.
Jack reached for a remote control Velcroed to the dash. By the time they pulled into the driveway, the garage door had opened to allow them entry. The huge door slid closed slowly behind them, leaving them in the dim light of the garage.
The door that led to the large laundry room off the kitchen opened, and Vera appeared, her arms outstretched, her face crumpled by emotion. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re finally home. I can hardly believe it.”
His sister, Betsy, stood beside their mother, beaming. “Welcome home, bro.”
He reached out to return Betsy’s warm embrace and rumple her hair in a way that at one time would have made her furious, but now only made her cry with joy.
“Hurry, Nathan, come in. Natalie is waiting,” Vera urged, ushering them through the kitchen.
His heart started pounding, and his palms began to perspire. He followed his mother through the formal dining room and into the living room. Daria sat on the edge of a sofa across the room, as though she might spring up at any moment. But she remained seated, smiling sadly at him. “Hello, Nate. Welcome home.”
At her feet sat the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her cherubic face was framed in wisps of white-blond hair, and she gazed at him with curious, hazel eyes. He saw Daria in the high cheekbones and the tiny, slightly pug nose, but they were undeniably—as Daria had told him—his own eyes that peered at him from beneath pale lashes.
Daria stood now, picked up the child, and walked toward him. He stepped forward to meet them.
Though her eyes were dry, Daria’s voice quavered, and Nate knew that she was struggling to maintain her composure. “Nattie, this is your Daddy Nate. This is Dwama-Dwampa’s son.” She spoke it like a line rehearsed for an important business meeting.
He smiled. “Dwama-Dwampa?”
Daria laughed and opened her mouth, but Vera jumped in with an explanation before Daria could respond. “It’s what she called us when she first started talking. We liked it so much we made it official. I’m Dwama,” she said unnecessarily.