True Colors

“He’s a Grey, ain’t he?”

Vivi Ann smiled at that. A Grey. There were generations of strength behind that name. “Yeah,” she said quietly, feeling hopeful for the first time.

It meant so much to Vivi Ann that they were here, that even after all that had happened, they were a family. She talked for a while and then closed her eyes just for a minute. When she opened her eyes again, the room was dark and they were gone.

She hit the bed control and angled up to a seated position. Shadows darkened the room, but a shaft of moonlight came through the window, illuminating her husband, who lay slumped in an uncomfortable plastic chair. In the ethereal, uncertain light, it took her a moment to see his face.

“Oh, Dallas,” she said.

He got up slowly and walked toward her, pushing a hand through his long hair as he moved. “You should see the other guy.”

At her bedside, he stopped.

She was glad for the shadows suddenly, wished it were even darker in here. As it was, the contrast of pale light and shadow only highlighted the damage: his cheeks were pale and hollow but for the dark, bloody gash right above the bone; one eye was swollen shut and looked to be a sick, yellowing color. He lifted his right hand, showing her his battered knuckles, how caked they were by dried, black blood.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Cat’s.”

“Who started the fight?”

“I did.”

Vivi Ann looked in her husband’s eyes, and saw how damaged he’d been by his father, and how scared he was about being a father himself. There was so much about him she didn’t understand, like what you were left with after being beaten with electrical cords or locked in a dark closet or after watching your father murder your mother. But she knew about going on, and she knew about love. “Aurora tells me that from now on we’ll always be afraid. Apparently it’s part of parenting.”

Dallas said nothing to that, just stared down at her as if he were waiting for something.

“You can’t go beating people up every time you’re scared; I guess that’s my point.”

“What if I’m not up to this?”

“You are.”

“Lots of people . . . cops, judges, shrinks . . . they said I was like my dad. Ask Winona. She dug up my record, and she’s right about one thing: it isn’t pretty.”

It was the clearest picture of his past she’d ever gotten: she imagined him as a young boy, abused for a long time and then suddenly alone in the world, being told by adults that he was bad to the bone. Abuse can make an animal mean. Had they dared to say that to a little boy who’d been hurt?

She reached up, gently touched his wounded cheek. “You love me, Dallas. That’s how you’re different from him.”

It was a long time before he nodded, and even then, he didn’t smile.

“So no more beating up strangers because you’re scared, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now take me to see our son. I’ve been waiting all day for you.”

He helped her into a wheelchair and tucked a blanket around her, then rolled her down to the neonatal intensive care unit. There, they spoke to the night nurse, who made an exception to the rules and showed them to the tiny incubator where their son lay sleeping.

Emotions overwhelmed Vivi Ann. Love. Terror. Grief. Hope. Joy. Love most of all. She thought she was too full to feel anything else, but then she looked up at Dallas.

“My grandfather’s name was Noah,” he said quietly.

“Noah Grey Raintree,” she said, nodding at the sound of it.

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” Dallas whispered. “If anything happens to him . . .” He didn’t finish the thought and Vivi Ann didn’t try to help him.

There was nothing to say. She reached out for her husband’s hand, hoping together they could find the kind of hope that once she’d taken for granted.