to start a reconciliation. Cheryl insisted she’d been faithful. But, given what happened with my dad, I suppose you could say I’m not the most trusting person in the world.”
“Did you ever…”
“Get a paternity test?” he finished for her. “Yes. Even though I knew the minute I held Birdie that she was mine. I didn’t want some stranger from Cheryl’s past to show up one day and make claims that I’d be forced to disprove.”
“You’re a smart man, Jonas. And a good dad. I’m proud of you.”
He seemed bemused by her comment, but before he could say anything, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Oh, crap. I have to take this. And I need privacy. Would you mind?” He looked apologetic.
“No problem. I’ll be outside, soaking up some sun in that beautiful yard.”
He flipped open his phone. “Thanks,” he mouthed before his expression turned stormy. “Goddamn it, Greg, what’s taking so long? How can a caravan of freaking motor homes suddenly disappear off the face of the earth?”
Remy hurried out the sliding door from the kitchen to the covered patio. She made a slow circumnavigation of the perimeter, pausing to admire the brilliant color of a bird of paradise.
When the heat started to get to her, she moved to a padded chaise and sat, letting her head rest against the cushion. For the past hour or so, Remy had felt a memory hovering at the edge of her conscious mind. As she became more familiar with Birdie through her father’s pictures and videos, Remy realized she’d had a second dream.
Last night.
She closed her eyes and the image came rushing back to her.
The child’s hand was icy cold, pale and very small. Fragile-looking, like an old woman’s.
Remy had held the hands of many elderly patients as they prepared for their journeys onward and beyond. But the little girl who had appeared with no warning was young, pretty and very much alive. Only her eyes were dead.
Remy swung her new companion’s hand, back and forth as they walked—the way Remy and Jessie had when they were children. They’d sung made-up songs and chattered the way children who felt safe in their skin often did.
The girl was like a puppet whose strings had come loose. Remy’s heart twisted in her chest. Poor little kid, she thought. This isn’t right.
She stopped moving and looked around. They appeared to be in a shadowy jungle of naked trees with exposed roots and a miles-tall canopy of some dubious color that blocked the sun like gauze. A skinny silo of smoke drifted upward from a dying fire. The ring of rocks encircling the smoldering embers was haphazardly placed, small and irregularly sized, as though a child had arranged them.
“Did you build this fire?” she asked the youngster.
The girl’s dull red-orange braids bobbed ever so slightly against the bodice of her old-fashioned dress—the sort a friend of Tom Sawyer’s might wear. Her skinny legs were bare and her shoes didn’t match.
“Are you a ghost?”
“Not yet,” the child answered, then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the maze of dead-looking trees.
“Wait,” Remy pleaded, her own feet welded to the earth apparently. “Come back. Do I know you? Can I help you? Please…”
But her calls and questions went unanswered.
She opened her eyes and looked around. She felt chilled even though the day was hot and humid. Her pulse still raced a little. She didn’t know what it meant, but the overall sense she had was that Birdie was close to giving up.
The dream was legit, but was the child Birdie? If it was, how had Remy come to see this kid hours before she ever saw a photo of her? Was it possible Miss Charlotte had a picture of Birdie in her apartment at Shadybrook and Remy’s mind somehow squirreled away the image?
She rubbed her knuckle across the pain in her temple. Right, she thought, and I fabricate a dream about the kid on the very eve of her father’s reappearance in my life. Sure. Why not?
Jonas
“Did you ever…”
“Get a paternity test?” he finished for her. “Yes. Even though I knew the minute I held Birdie that she was mine. I didn’t want some stranger from Cheryl’s past to show up one day and make claims that I’d be forced to disprove.”
“You’re a smart man, Jonas. And a good dad. I’m proud of you.”
He seemed bemused by her comment, but before he could say anything, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Oh, crap. I have to take this. And I need privacy. Would you mind?” He looked apologetic.
“No problem. I’ll be outside, soaking up some sun in that beautiful yard.”
He flipped open his phone. “Thanks,” he mouthed before his expression turned stormy. “Goddamn it, Greg, what’s taking so long? How can a caravan of freaking motor homes suddenly disappear off the face of the earth?”
Remy hurried out the sliding door from the kitchen to the covered patio. She made a slow circumnavigation of the perimeter, pausing to admire the brilliant color of a bird of paradise.
When the heat started to get to her, she moved to a padded chaise and sat, letting her head rest against the cushion. For the past hour or so, Remy had felt a memory hovering at the edge of her conscious mind. As she became more familiar with Birdie through her father’s pictures and videos, Remy realized she’d had a second dream.
Last night.
She closed her eyes and the image came rushing back to her.
The child’s hand was icy cold, pale and very small. Fragile-looking, like an old woman’s.
Remy had held the hands of many elderly patients as they prepared for their journeys onward and beyond. But the little girl who had appeared with no warning was young, pretty and very much alive. Only her eyes were dead.
Remy swung her new companion’s hand, back and forth as they walked—the way Remy and Jessie had when they were children. They’d sung made-up songs and chattered the way children who felt safe in their skin often did.
The girl was like a puppet whose strings had come loose. Remy’s heart twisted in her chest. Poor little kid, she thought. This isn’t right.
She stopped moving and looked around. They appeared to be in a shadowy jungle of naked trees with exposed roots and a miles-tall canopy of some dubious color that blocked the sun like gauze. A skinny silo of smoke drifted upward from a dying fire. The ring of rocks encircling the smoldering embers was haphazardly placed, small and irregularly sized, as though a child had arranged them.
“Did you build this fire?” she asked the youngster.
The girl’s dull red-orange braids bobbed ever so slightly against the bodice of her old-fashioned dress—the sort a friend of Tom Sawyer’s might wear. Her skinny legs were bare and her shoes didn’t match.
“Are you a ghost?”
“Not yet,” the child answered, then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the maze of dead-looking trees.
“Wait,” Remy pleaded, her own feet welded to the earth apparently. “Come back. Do I know you? Can I help you? Please…”
But her calls and questions went unanswered.
She opened her eyes and looked around. She felt chilled even though the day was hot and humid. Her pulse still raced a little. She didn’t know what it meant, but the overall sense she had was that Birdie was close to giving up.
The dream was legit, but was the child Birdie? If it was, how had Remy come to see this kid hours before she ever saw a photo of her? Was it possible Miss Charlotte had a picture of Birdie in her apartment at Shadybrook and Remy’s mind somehow squirreled away the image?
She rubbed her knuckle across the pain in her temple. Right, she thought, and I fabricate a dream about the kid on the very eve of her father’s reappearance in my life. Sure. Why not?
Jonas
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