“No.”
He sighed in relief. “Thank God.”
“You said you dreamed about a little boy….”
“Dreams,” he said dully, staring up at the ceiling. He could feel himself going down the wrong path, doing the wrong thing, but as always, he couldn’t change it. Didn’t really want to. He felt empty inside, eviscerated by her revelation and his own fear. “I said I’d wondered about a baby, but…” For a second he couldn’t go on, his throat was so full. Finally he swallowed hard and looked at her. He could see the pain in her eyes, knew what he was doing to her right now, and though he regretted it, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change it. “A dying man’s talk, Mad. That’s not a real dream. It’s self-pity, regret. Pretend. It’s like turning Catholic at the end just in case. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She was pale. “What are you saying?”
God, it
hurt to let her down like this, to let himself down. But he wasn’t worthy of being a father. He didn’t deserve a gift like that. “Why did you tell me about her, Mad? Why?”
“I thought you needed a reason to live. I thought Lina might make a difference.”
“No,” he said, realizing midword that he was shouting. “What am I supposed to do, Mad, play daddy on a deathbed for some sixteen-year-old girl I’ve never met? Is that what you thought—that you could waltz some strange kid into my room and I’d hug and kiss her and die a happy man? That she could watch my last gasping breath and feel better for having known me?”
“No.” The word was a croak of sound, broken. “I thought…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“You were right not to contact me all those years.” He sighed, knowing suddenly the truth about himself, hating it. “She wouldn’t have made a difference, Mad. I would have walked from her just like I walked from you. It’s what I do.”
“But now—”
“I don’t want to meet her, Mad.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Don’t say that. She needs you.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to meet her.” His gaze pleaded with hers for understanding. “You know me, Mad. Even if I live—which I won’t—I have nothing to offer the kid. I’ll be infatuated with her for a few days, maybe a month, and then the glow will wear off. My feet’ll get itchy, I’ll start drinking again, and I’ll start resenting her for keeping me here.” Bitterness tightened his voice. “And then one day I’ll be gone.”
“But—”
He reached out, touched her. She leaned into his hand, let his fingers curl around her chin. He gave her the only thing of value, the only truth he knew. “I’ll break her heart, Mad. Whether I live or die, it doesn’t matter—either way, I’ll let her down. If you love her, protect her from me.”
She looked at him, and in the depths of her eyes he saw the pain he’d caused, and something else, something he couldn’t name. She kept staring at him, saying nothing, and as the clock ticked past the minutes, he began to feel uncomfortable. There was an expectancy in her gaze that nibbled at his self-confidence, confused him. “Don’t look at me that way,” he said.
“What way.”
“As if you know I’ll change my mind.”
“You will.” Her voice trembled just a bit, belied the conviction of her words. Then, softer, “You have to.”
Madelaine sat at her desk, staring at the photograph of Lina. The ornate crystal clock ticked past the minutes with a tiny click … click … click.
She closed her eyes and sighed. Even now, almost an hour after she’d seen Angel, she couldn’t believe she’d told him the truth about Lina.
Oh, Francis, she thought, where are you? I need you right now….
She swiveled around in her chair and stared at the window. The huddled row of plants smeared into a hazy green wash. It had surprised her so much, Angel’s quietly spoken dream of a young son to play baseball with. Part of her had been terrified by the turn in the conversation, but another part—a hidden, secret part she hadn’t known existed—was thrilled to hear that he’d thought of their baby, that maybe he’d even fantasized about her. And suddenly she’d wanted to tell him about Lina, wanted to rip the lid off the secret she’d kept for so long. She’d wanted to reach out for the young man she’d once loved and take his hand and walk with him … to laugh about the good times.
She found herself going over all of it in her mind, going back, back to the past she’d tried so hard to forget….
It was on a sultry August night when she’d realized she was pregnant. At first she’d been happy. She and Angel had spun so many cotton-candy dreams together in the moonlight, dreams in which they married and had children, and neither one of them was ever lonely or lost or afraid again.
But telling him about the baby hadn’t gone as she’d imagined. She remembered sitting in that horrible trailer, smelling his mother’s cigarette smoke as she whispered her secret.
Oh, he’d said the right things, said he loved her and he’d stand by her, but she saw the look in his eyes, the wildness, the fear. He didn’t want the baby, wasn’t ready for it, and after that look, that second when she stared into his soul and saw the truth, she never believed the words again.
She didn’t know what to do after that, and neither did he. She was sixteen, he was seventeen, and they’d thought they were immortal, thought their love could protect them from the ugliness of the world.