Beauty in the Broken

Russell’s voice carries to me through the chirp of birds and the croak of a frog. “Lina?”

I haven’t noticed he’s opened the window. His eyes are warm and welcoming. I look away from the invitation in his gaze because I don’t want to hurt him.

He sighs. “Maybe it’s too soon.”

“I love him, Russell.”

He’s silent for a while. When he speaks again, his voice has lost its hopeful edge. “I know.”

“Are you angry?”

“I used to be, but I don’t think Damian is as bad as I thought.”

I laugh. “He’s worse.”

He joins me with a chuckle. “Damn right.”

“Is that why you’re here? Damian thought you’re a better man?”

“It doesn’t matter why I’m here. What matters is why you are.” He motions at the papers I clutch against my chest. “Finish it.”

This isn’t just about reading a stack of papers. It’s about moving on. Lifting the last document from the pile, I hold it to the light. It’s a birth certificate. Joshua Clarke. My heartbeat slows to a thump that falls loud in my ears. I check the date. It can’t be, and yet, deep in my soul I know the truth.

Covering my mouth with a hand, I suppress a sob. It takes a moment to regain my composure. I can only stare at the official words on the yellow piece of paper, a clinical record that reflects nothing of the devastation that shreds my heart.

Where is he? Damian’s words run painfully through my mind.

“Damian found the grave,” I say when I can speak again.

“Not the grave,” Russell replies gently.

I look at him quickly. “What?”

“He isn’t dead.”

I blink fast, trying to make sense of a meaning that refuses to sink in. “What?”

“The boy. Your son. He’s not dead.”

“What?” I shake my head. It doesn’t make sense.

“Go inside, Lina.”

“But… No. I don’t understand.”

He gets out and comes around the car to open my door. “Come on.”

“Russell.”

He takes my hand when I don’t move, pulling me out and turning me to face the cottage. An elderly lady and a boy stand in the door. I vaguely register her gray hair and homely face, but I can only focus on the child. He must be around two years old. He has my lips and eyes.

“It can’t be,” I whisper.

“They’re waiting for you,” Russell says behind me. “Go on.”

He encourages me with a hand on my lower back, but I’m stuck in fear. What if it’s a mistake? What if he’s not mine? He doesn’t know me. What if he doesn’t understand? What if he doesn’t like me? What if I screw this up?

Russell’s voice is patient. “She calls him Josh.”

Joshua Daniels. My maternal grandfather.

My heart leaps with a crazy beat. I take one step, and then another. That’s how we’ll do this. One step at a time. I walk until I’m in front of them, aware of their curious gazes.

Extending a hand, I introduce myself to the woman who I presume to be Josh’s caretaker. “I’m Lina. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her handshake is strong. “Same here, Mrs. Hart. You can call me Susan.”

Going down on my haunches, I offer Josh a smile. “Hi, there.”

He sticks his finger in his mouth and drills his big toe into the ground.

“I’m Lina.”

“Are you better, now?”

“Yes,” I say, fighting my overpowering emotions. “Much better.”

“We have tea and cake waiting,” Susan says.

I hold my hand out to Josh. “Shall we go inside, then?”

He hesitates for a moment, but then folds his fingers around mine. They’re warm and sticky, just like I always imagined a child’s to be. Gulping down a sob, I straighten my spine. We have much to work through, and many answers I’d like. I want to know everything I missed, from his first tooth to his first step. I want to know when he smiled for the first time, and what his favorite food is. Yes, there’s much to learn, but we have time.

On the step, I look back to see if Russell is coming inside with us. He’s leaning on the car, arms crossed. He wears a thoughtful smile, the kind that says goodbye. I give him a small nod, offering my gratitude, before stepping over the threshold of a new life.

Two momentous things happen during the following weeks. I receive a newspaper clipping in the mail about a South African born woman who’d been found dead in her house in Switzerland. The cause of death was an overdose of sleeping pills. I don’t have to look at the name. I recognize her photo. I still don’t know what made her push the key under my door. Would she have done it if she’d known I’d kill Jack? The rage in me was too great. There was no other course of action I could’ve taken. If given another chance, I’d do it all over again. Despite the fact that Dora freed me, the torture had been going on for too long to find more than fleeting compassion in my heart for her passing. We never communicated. I never knew the woman who’d fed me an egg and slice of bread a day with a cup of water. When I’ve read the article, I flush the clipping down the toilet. Damian has been to Switzerland around the date of her death. You don’t have to be Einstein to connect the dots.