Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“She’s sick,” I say with a cautious undertone. “Barbara’s sick. Isn’t she?”
Nathan’s forehead wrinkles. “No. Well, I don’t believe so.” When he leans forward, bringing a slight tobacco stench with him, I sit back in my chair.
Something feels heavy. It’s just a feeling that I can’t shake.
“Jamie, after Dwight was committed, his sister took custody of Barbara.”
I shake my head. “Did he have more than one sister?”
“No.”
“Well . . .” My head spins. “I don’t know—I don’t understand. That would have been my mom. How long did she have custody?”
He slides a stack of papers from the envelope. “Samantha Grace Keane changed her name to Lauren Samantha Mendes. She married Karl Hayden Andrews.”
“My dad.”
Nathan glances up at me. “After Samantha married, a judge also granted her request to change Barbara’s name.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Barbara Keane is now Jaymes Lanette Andrews.”
My lips part to speak.
Nothing.
“Samantha, or Lauren, was your aunt. Karl was the man she married. But they weren’t your biological parents. You are the only child of Dwight and Annie Keane.”
I stare at copies of birth certificates, social security cards, and court documents. It makes no sense. He missed something. He messed up.
Every time I open my mouth to speak, the words die. I’m too numb to think, let alone say anything. This isn’t real. I’m not hearing him correctly. He’s wrong.
“Annie’s parents died before the accident. She has two brothers. Kalen is fifty-two. He lives in Idaho with his wife. They have three adult children. Ryan is the other brother. He’s forty-seven and lives in Wyoming—no wife or kids. Dwight’s parents are still alive. Waylon and Aubrey live in Flagstaff, Arizona.”
No. My mom said her parents were dead.
She said a lot of things that weren’t true.
Nathan hands me a tissue. I stare at it for several seconds before I realize my face is wet with tears. I’m silently bleeding out in front of a stranger, but it doesn’t hurt. I feel nothing.
“What happened to your family was a horrific tragedy. But from everything I’ve pieced together, I can only guess your well-being was a priority. Your aunt gave you the life you deserved. She took on a huge responsibility. Living a lie is a painful existence.”
Stripped of confidence, all coherent thought, and my identity, I find my legs. His words carry measurable weight, and it’s hard to stand beneath such a heavy reality.
Nathans stands, too, sliding the papers back into the envelope. “Do you have any questions?”
Everything feels lethargic; even my gaze takes forever to find his face. “I have many questions.” I blink several times. “But the person who can answer them is dead.”
His expression wilts. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Sorry. I let the word bounce around in my head. Sorry for what?
A bear eating my mother?
My father starting a fire that killed people, including Fitz’s family?
Living a lie?
Falling in love with a man I can never have?
Losing the woman who I thought was my mother?
He hands me the envelope. It takes me a few seconds to reach for it. I don’t want it. But what I want doesn’t matter anymore. My life is simply what is.
Chapter Forty-One
We don’t choose our family.
I conjure a dozen ways to make sense of this and another dozen excuses to let the past go and pretend it’s not real.
The previous shift said Dwight was agitated during the night. This morning, he’s medicated and barely responsive. I pull up a chair next to his bed. He cracks open his eyes, and they’re lifeless. My heart climbs up my throat, swelling, aching, suffocating.
Maybe yesterday’s revelation shouldn’t matter. I’d reconciled with the idea that he was my uncle. Somehow, I’d managed to distance myself from him.
Uncles rarely nurture or raise their nieces. Memories made with uncles might include holiday gatherings, perhaps a shared vacation with cousins.
But fathers, at least in my dreams, they create life. They blow raspberries on little tummies because they love the sound of giggling. They hold tiny hands when they cross the street. They carry miniature versions of themselves on their shoulders—with love and pride.
Fathers read bedtime stories and chase away monsters.
They dry tears and kiss boo-boos.
Fathers are guardians of hearts and protectors of innocence.
I rest my hand on my father’s cheek.
“Barbara,” he murmurs while his eyes drift shut.
Tears spill down my face, and I choke on a sob.
“Watch out . . . f-for bears.” His froggy voice carries so much agony that my heart can barely take it.
I imagine the intense level of mad love he possessed for my mom to have lost his mind, all sense of self-preservation, and all touch with reality to do something so egregious.
“I will,” I breathe, stroking my thumb along his cheek. My head rests on the edge of his bed. “I w-will.” Everything blurs behind unrelenting tears as I shake with silent sobs.