The Man She Once Knew by Jean Brashear

remembered as a smiling, laughing, all-powerful presence in his life, had spoken those words proudly. When he’d died, David’s mother had wept many a night in her bed. David had tried to be the man of the house, as much as a boy of eight could understand what that meant.
    He saw now that he’d been a child who’d grown up very fast. He’d known the love of a father, and he’d thought to provide the same to his own child, even though he’d had no idea if he could be any good at it.
    There was still, David discovered, a dark, empty place inside him where the father in him should have set roots.
    Was every parent stunted by the loss of a child? Did they all feel amputated? For him, there was also the shameful scrim of relief he’d felt that he could continue being a kid, that he could go to college—if not with the scholarship that had been promised—believing that a different world, a bright future awaited.
    But nothing had turned out that way. Callie’s mother had snatched her away without giving him the chance to say goodbye. He’d gotten lost inside his confusion and his grades had continued to plummet. He’d even gotten in some fights.
    Then his mother had married Ned Compton to give him a father figure, she’d said, but Compton’s brand of fatherhood bore no resemblance to that of the man David had adored. On top of everything, Compton moved them into his fancy house and turned David’s mother into someone David didn’t know anymore.
    David had been lost, so lost. He’d found himself visiting a baby’s grave, a baby he hadn’t really wanted, and many a night he had tried to speak to that little lost soul. I’m sorry. I would have done right by you, I swear. Although maybe it was more accurate to say he would have tried.
    In an act of contrition, he’d sought to ease his sense of failure by carving this angel to watch over the child he’d been so ill-prepared to protect.
    David squatted before the angel now, his fingers itching to touch it, to trace the lines of it like a blind man. To see if the contact could smooth away the burred edges on his heart.
    “It’s beautiful, David.”
    Callie’s voice startled him to standing. “What are you doing here?” he said more harshly than he should have.
    She retreated a step, looked away from him and into the distance, sadness a heavy veil over her features. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”
    “No.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I—” He swallowed hard. “It’s your right to be here.”
    She shifted and stumbled on the uneven ground. He grabbed her to steady her.
    At the contact, both of them went preternaturally still.
    It was an innocent touch, holding her upper arm, hispalm absorbing the warmth of her skin. Yet the feel of her was like a door opening to a room with a crackling fireplace and the heady scent of welcome.
    He’d been cold for a long, long time.
    This was the time of night called the gloaming, when shadows were purple and details disappeared, but she was as real to him, as vivid as at high noon.
    Safely shielded inside the violet and umber cocoon, he could focus on her wide eyes, the pupils dark and huge, and hope she didn’t notice. He felt the stir of a sense of possibility, the slightest tendril of hope.
    “Callie…” His voice wasn’t even a whisper, but her nostrils flared. Her lips parted a little, and he leaned toward her until her face blurred and it would be so easy to forget, to cast out doubts, to lose himself…
    “David…” Her voice soft and husky, her breath sweet on his face. Her hand rose, touched his side.
    Brushed a bruise and plummeted him into the present.
    He released her and backed away.
    “Please don’t.” But she, too, closed in, her shoulders rounding. “Don’t go yet. I won’t…” Her voice trailed off, but he knew what she had been going to say. Won’t touch you again.
    He hungered for the contact though, the humanity. For kindness, but anyone extending that would pay a