With This Child...

“It’s me, sweetheart.” Though it was better than she’d expected, nevertheless, Marcie cringed as her mother’s overly bright voice grated along her nerves, prickling like a thousand tiny daggers. “Just checking in to say hi and see if you’ve found out when I’m going to get to meet my granddaughter.”

All the tension from the day returned, and anger Marcie hadn’t known she possessed burst from its hiding place. It was all well and good for her mother to be so interested in her granddaughter since Marcie had confronted her with the letter. But if she’d been a little more interested thirteen years ago, this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. If she hadn’t schemed and conspired and lied to get rid of that granddaughter, she’d have her today. Marcie wouldn’t have had to go through the grief of thinking her child had died. Kyla wouldn’t have spent the past thirteen years living a lie with a stranger who thought he was her father. Marcie wouldn’t now be faced with battling that stranger, hurting him and her daughter and herself.

She jabbed at the button to forward to the next message, to rid herself of her mother’s voice, her interference.

“End of messages,” the machine’s computerized voice announced.

Sam hadn’t called. The police hadn’t called.

The next move was hers.

She sank onto one of the stools. It had only been a short time ago that she sat at that bar, poring over pictures of a blonde girl, afraid to hope, afraid to let herself be happy, afraid to believe this could really be her child. Now it would seem she’d found her child and lost her in a remarkably short space of time, shorter than before. She’d had nine months before she lost her last time.

Briefly she wondered whether she should take Sam’s advice, leave her daughter alone, knowing she was happy. Would that be the loving thing to do? She and her child both had lives...good lives...without each other. For almost thirteen years, each of them had been unaware of the other’s existence.

Moving woodenly, she rose and went to the refrigerator to get a glass of iced tea.

When she lifted it to her lips, the taste recalled the glass of tea Kyla had given her, the thrill of sitting on the porch, looking at and listening to the child she’d thought dead.

She sipped the drink slowly, wanting to draw out the taste, the flavor of the memories it evoked.

There was no going back. Now she knew her daughter was out there. She’d seen her, talked to her, drunk tea with her. Maybe Sam would do whatever it took to keep her from her daughter, but she’d do whatever it took to get to her. Kyla had the right to know the truth, and only Kyla had the right to order her to stay away.

She stood silently in the kitchen, running her fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the breakfast bar, looking around, trying to find the secure, content feeling her home usually gave her.

Soft silvery carpet stretched across the living room, interrupted by the muted pastels of her sofa and chairs and the rich wood of her coffee and lamp tables. When she moved in four years ago, she’d decorated with comfort and serenity in mind. Since that time, she hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t added a picture or moved a piece of furniture.

Every time she opened the door, she knew exactly what to expect.

She’d organized her entire life that way—dependable and safe.

Except suddenly that safety was slipping away.

Her home looked different, somehow. Or maybe it only felt different.

On Monday she’d go to work in the same office with the same people she saw five days a week...seven during tax season. She’d dress the same way she always dressed. She’d tie her hair back the way she always did. She’d get a cup of coffee and go to her desk and turn on her computer... and nobody would know that her whole world had changed.

Marcie crossed her living room to her bedroom, then stopped and looked back at the faint footprints in her carpet. Just walking through the room had changed it. How much more of an effect would her daughter and Sam have on her life?

It was too late. She wouldn’t go back even if she could.

But going forward was damn scary.

Sam sat in his van, elbow on the open window, directly in front of the entrance to the Little Dixie Cinema. His gaze darted back and forth as he alternately checked the door for his daughter, and every car that went past, every movement in the shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.

He’d arrived half an hour early to wait for the movie to end, for Kyla and Rachel to come out.

That woman had him on his guard, edgy, afraid to take any chances that the girls might leave early and she or someone she’d hired might kidnap them. He’d been lucky when she returned for her pictures and letter. Kyla and Rachel had been off somewhere riding their bikes.

But he couldn’t count on that kind of luck every time.

He drummed his fingers nervously on the side of his van. Man, the crazies were everywhere, even here in this town he’d always thought of as a refuge from such things. That woman, Marcie Turner—if that was really her name—must be a loony. At first, she’d seemed normal, except for being a little shaken up over the accident. He’d even liked her—been attracted to her, as a matter of fact.

But it wasn’t normal to fixate on a kid to the point where she probably really believed that kid—his kid—was her daughter.

The whole damned thing scared him.

Losing somebody you loved could happen so fast, like a giant sword suddenly flashing down and cutting away part of your soul. Like Lisa. One day she was alive and happy, and then she was gone.

He wasn’t going to lose Kyla, certainly not to some sick woman, not after his daughter had overcome such gigantic odds to be with him in the first place. After the initial fatal diagnosis on the night she was born, subsequent tests had shown Kyla’s heart to be strong and healthy. She was a miracle.

A miracle he’d never questioned.

Before tonight.

He shivered, even as the hot, muggy evening squeezed against him. With a hand that shook slightly, he wiped perspiration from his upper lip.

Of course, miracles weren’t logical, he assured himself. That was why they were called miracles. You didn’t question them; you just accepted them and gave thanks.

The doors of the theater opened, and the Saturday-night crowd of couples and kids burst out.

When he finally spotted Kyla and Rachel, he realized he had lifted himself off the seat in his anxiety to locate them. One hand clutched the steering wheel, the other arm pressed painfully on the open window.

He forced himself to relax. He couldn’t let Kyla or Rachel see him this stressed.

Giggling and talking, the girls dashed over. Kyla yanked open the side door, and they climbed into the back.

And Sam’s heart stopped. An Oklahoma panhandle dust storm seemed to pound through his brain, obscuring reason, turning ordinary objects and people into unrecognizable, nightmare figures.

Kyla had loosened her hair from her usual ponytail, and for just a moment he saw Marcie Turner’s hair, Marcie Turner’s face, superimposed over Kyla’s. For a stark, terrifying moment, he knew why Marcie had looked so familiar. She was an older version of Kyla, right down to the small, almost unnoticeable dimple in her chin.

He faced forward, refusing to look at the frightening phenomenon, focusing instead on Kyla’s familiar voice, her familiar laughter.

“Dad, are you listening to me?”

“What? Of course I am.”

Kyla heaved a dramatic sigh. “No, you’re not. You’re still thinking about that blond babe I crashed into this afternoon, aren’t you?”

She’d called that one right.

“I guess I’m going to have to find him a girlfriend. I mean, it’s like the man’s a monk.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pick my own girlfriends.” Preferably someone sane. “At the moment, you’re the only woman I have room in my life for.” “Well, okay, but you’re not getting any younger, and I don’t know how much longer I can be responsible for taking care of you.” She and Rachel giggled at that comment.

Smiling to himself, Sam turned the key and started the van. Of course Kyla was his and Lisa’s daughter.

What was the matter with him, letting himself buy into Marcie Turner’s fantasy?