sat in her car for a moment looking at it, because some part of her needed to confirm that this was real — that she was parked in front of an actual address on an actual street, and not inside the specific kind of dream that sometimes sent her down Route 9 in her sleep.
She got out of the car. She was still holding the Polaroid, gripping it so hard the edges had bent.
The front door opened before she reached the porch.
A woman stood in the doorway. Thirties. Dark hair. The expression of someone who has been expecting something and is now not sure she’s ready for it to arrive.
A small boy appeared behind her in the hallway, clutching a toy dinosaur. He looked about four or five.
“Grandpa?” he called.
Margaret’s knees went uncertain.
The woman looked at Margaret. Then she looked at the Polaroid in
her hand.
“Oh God,” she said.Margaret stepped inside before the woman could decide whether to stop her.
“That is my son,” she said. She held up the photograph. “That child is my son Daniel.”
The woman stared at the Polaroid. “That’s my husband.”
Margaret could not speak for a moment.
“Where is he?”
The woman pulled the little boy gently behind her. “At work. Lumber yard, about thirty minutes from here.”
“His name is Daniel.”
The woman’s eyes filled. “His name is Danny.”
“No,” Margaret said. “It isn’t.”
The little boy peered around from behind his mother’s leg. He had something in his face that Margaret could not look at directly — something specific and painful that she recognized, that she had last seen in a school photograph on her own nightstand.
The woman said, “My name is Kate.”
“I know you didn’t do this,” Margaret said, because she could
see from the way Kate was holding herself — the way a person holds themselves when they have been carrying knowledge that they know doesn’t belong to them — that this was true. “Tell me what you know.”
Kate sat her at the kitchen table. There were crayons on the surface. A lunch box. A half-finished spelling worksheet with a child’s name at the top.
Kate stood across from her and said: “Roy was my uncle. He’s been gone three weeks now. He raised Danny from when Danny was small. Told him his father was an old friend from another county who couldn’t keep him. Moved around a lot when Danny was little — I didn’t meet Danny until he was twelve, thirteen maybe. Roy never talked about Danny’s first years. He enrolled him in school late, with paperwork that wasn’t complete, with a different version of his first name.”
