Alistair looms in the doorway, speaking. Ethan steps forward, raises his hand, wags the phone.
For a moment they stand still.
Then Alistair strides toward his son. Takes the phone from him. Looks at it.
Looks at Ethan.
Moves past him, to the window, glaring. I withdraw farther into my bedroom.
He spreads his arms, folds a shutter over either half of the glass. Presses them tight.
The room is sealed shut.
Checkmate.
92
I turn from the curtains and stare into my bedroom.
I can’t imagine what’s happening over there. Because of me.
I drag my feet to the stairwell. With each step I think of Ethan, behind those windows, alone with his father.
Down, down, down.
I reach the kitchen. As I rinse a glass at the sink, a low burr of thunder sounds, and I peep through the blinds. The clouds are scudding faster now, the tree branches flailing. The wind is picking up. The storm is coming.
I sit at the table, nursing a merlot. silver bay, new zealand, the label reads, below a little etching of a sea-tossed ship. Maybe I can move to New Zealand, start fresh there. I like the sound of Silver Bay. I’d love to sail again.
If I ever leave this house.
I walk to the window and lift a slat; rain is prickling the glass. I look across the park. His shutters are still closed.
As soon as I return to the table, the doorbell rings.
It rips through the silence like an alarm. My hand jolts; wine slops over the brim of the glass. I look at the door.
It’s him. It’s Alistair.
Panic ambushes me. My fingers dive into my pocket, clutch the phone. And with the other hand I reach for the box cutter.
I stand and cross the kitchen slowly. Approach the intercom. Brace myself, look at the screen.
Ethan.
My lungs relax.
Ethan, rocking on his heels, arms wrapped around himself. I press the buzzer and turn the lock. An instant later he’s inside, his hair sparkling with raindrops.
“What are you doing here?”
He stares. “You told me to come.”
“I thought your father . . .”
He closes the door, moves past me into the living room. “I said it was a friend from swimming.”
“Didn’t he check your phone?” I ask, following him.
“I saved your number under a different name.”
“What if he’d called me back?”
Ethan shrugs. “He didn’t. What’s that?” He’s looking at the box cutter.
“Nothing.” I drop it into my pocket.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
I nod.
While he’s in the red room, I tap at my phone, ready my move.
The toilet flushes, the faucet gushes, and he’s walking toward me again. “Where’s Punch?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’s his paw?”
“Fine.” Right now, I don’t care. “I want to show you something.” I press the phone into his hand. “Hit the Photos app.”
He looks at me, brow furrowed.
“Just open the app,” I repeat.
As he does, I watch his face. The grandfather clock starts to toll ten o’clock. I’m holding my breath.
For a moment, nothing. He’s impassive. “Our street. At sunrise,” he says. “Or—wait, that’s west. So it’s sunse—”
He stops.
There it is.
A moment passes.
He lifts his wide eyes to me.
Six tolls, seven.
He opens his mouth.
Eight. Nine.
“What—” he begins.
Ten.
“I think it’s time for the truth,” I tell him.
93
As the last deep bell rings, he stands before me, barely breathing, until I grasp his shoulder and steer him toward the sofa. We sit, Ethan still holding the phone in his hand.
I say nothing, merely gaze at him. My heart is going wild, like a trapped fly. I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling.
He whispers.
“What?”
Clears his throat. “When did you find that?”
“Tonight, right before I called you.”
A nod.
“Who is she?”
He’s still looking at the phone. For a moment I think he hasn’t heard me.
“Who is—”
“She’s my mother.”
I frown. “No, the detective said that your mother—”
“My real mother. Biological.”
I stare. “You’re adopted?”
He says nothing, just nods again, eyes cast low.
“So . . .” I lean forward, rake my hands through my hair. “So . . .”
“She— I don’t even know how to begin.”
I close my eyes, push my confusion aside. He needs to be guided. This I can do.
I angle my body toward him, smooth the robe along my thighs, look at him. “When were you adopted?” I ask.
He sighs, sits back, the cushions exhaling beneath his weight. “When I was five.”
“Why so late?”
“Because she was an—she was on drugs.” Halting, like a foal taking its first steps. I wonder how many times he’s said it before. “She was on drugs and really young.”