 "Surrogate
Father"
(Excerpt)
by David M. Fitzpatrick
Daddy came home one day, but he wasn’t
really Daddy. The kids tried telling Sandy, but of course she knew they
were just playing.
She was on the phone with her sister,
trying vainly to convince Maggie she was fine, everything was all right,
she didn’t need anything, and so on. Mags was such a worrywart, always
creating strife and trouble where there wasn’t any. She meant well, of
course; but Sandy didn’t need any help.
The Mercedes pulling into the driveway
was a good excuse to end the phone call, so she did. Dan whistled some
nameless tune as he ambled up the walkway and came through the door with
his typical “Honey, I’m home!” in his overacted sitcom voice. She kissed
him hello, just as she had for twelve blissful years.
He went to his office to check email and
stocks, she back upstairs to her sewing room to work on the kids’
Halloween costumes. They had to be ready by the following week when
trick-or-treaters would descend on their neighborhood like locusts over
Egypt. Miranda was going to be a princess, Nick a silver-suited space
warrior.
She was pinning some bright pink taffeta
to the pattern when she had the feeling she was being watched. She turned
to find seven-year-old Miranda standing in the doorway, arms dead at her
sides, her face a mask of childlike worry.
“What’s up, honey?” Sandy asked.
Miranda said simply, “That isn’t Daddy.”
“What are you talking about?”
Miranda never batted an eyelash. “That
man in the computer room isn’t Daddy.”
Sandy suppressed a grin at Miranda’s
in-overdrive imagination. “So he’s really a terrible monster with a Daddy
suit on?”
She thought about it for a moment and
said, “No, not a monster. Just not Daddy. I know it isn’t. You can’t fool
me.” Then she turned and shuffled down the hallway and out of sight.
Sandy shook her head with a smile. The
kid sure had an imagination.
#
On her way to make supper, she stopped at
the computer room where Dan was engrossed in his work. She sneaked up
behind him and ran her fingers lightly over his shoulders. He shivered a
bit and stopped typing.
“You like that?” she said playfully.
“It’s very nice,” he said softly. He
tipped his head back and looked up at her, smiling. “Having the most
beautiful woman in the world doing it makes it that much better.”
He’d always known the perfect things to
say. She leaned in and kissed him. The feel of his lips was every bit as
good as their first kiss, underneath that big evergreen tree in
Massachusetts. It was sheer chance they’d met in the little Revolutionary
War town of Barre, in the midst of the village square—he passing through
on his way to Worcester, she having picked the town as one of a half dozen
for her history thesis at the university. They had struck up a
conversation, and it had truly been love at first sight. She’d never
before kissed on a first date, but she’d kissed him. He’d leaned in,
nervously, to peck her on the cheek, and somehow their lips had met.
They’d married a year later.
And here, now, the kiss was every bit as
stimulating. He pulled his lips away, looking up at her inquisitively.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I was just
thinking about our first kiss.”
He grinned. “Do I still live up to it?”
“Every day, with every kiss,” she
whispered. “I love you. There could be no better husband to me, no better
father to our children.”
He smiled wider. “I love you, too.”
#
He headed out to clean up the back yard.
Mags called back, concerned about their previous conversation and wanting
to help and all the usual stuff she’d been spouting recently. Mags was
just trying to be a good sister, but Sandy was starting to get annoyed.
Luckily, she was getting used to tuning Mags out lately; it was like half
of Mags’ words were garbled and nonsensical.
Eleven-year-old Nick came looking for her
while she was making supper, looking troubled. “In fifteen minutes,” she
said, forecasting his upcoming dinner question. “Go outside and play until
then. You can help Daddy pick up the yard.”
He said nothing as she returned to
supper. He didn’t leave, though, and when she looked back he regarded her
with mournful eyes. “Nick, I said go see if Daddy needs some help.”
“Daddy isn’t out there,” he said.
She looked up, craned her neck to see out
the window. There was Dan, all right, hauling a big wagon around the back
yard, stopping occasionally to pick up wayward toys. “Silly, he’s right
there,” she said, pointing. Nick turned, his eyes following her
outstretched finger, to the clear view of Dan out the kitchen window.
Nick turned slowly back, forlorn eyes
peering up at his mother. “That isn’t Daddy,” he said quietly.
She stared at him. The silence was like
deep, underwater pressure. “Nick... why are you saying that? Has your
sister been getting you to play this game, too?”
“No,” he said softly. “It just isn’t him.
Why do you keep saying it is?”
Her heart beat too slow and too hard.
“This isn’t funny. You kids need to stop this game now—do you
understand?”
Perhaps she had been a little firmer than
she had intended. He seemed surprised at her tone. He nodded, backing
away. “Okay, Mom,” he said meekly.
“Now go on outside and help Daddy.”
He turned and shuffled reluctantly to the
door.
She returned to dinner but watched out
the window. Nick took his sweet time crossing the big back yard. His
course toward his father zigzagged, comprised of plodding baby steps—like
if moved slowly enough, his father would be done before he reached the
work zone. That was typical for young boys, but like his sister, he was as
good as a mother could ask of a child. He’d grow up to be strong and kind,
loving and responsible, just like his father.
She left dinner to get a better look out
the window. It worked out just as she’d thought: Dan was just finishing
picking up the yard and was heading back with the full wagon. He greeted
Nick with a smile and the two exchanged words for a moment.
Clearly, he needed some bonding time with
his father. “Play with him, honey,” Sandy whispered to the window. “He
loves to spend time playing with his Daddy.”
Dan asked him something; she couldn’t
tell what. Then Nick turned his head to look back at her at the window. He
looked helpless, but when he turned back to his father, he nodded. Dan
ruffled his hair with a big hand and grabbed a baseball and two gloves
from the Wagon O’ Stuff. They were going to play catch. Nick loved to play
catch, and Dan loved to have a son with whom he could do so.
She returned happily to dinner.
#
She called them in ten minutes later. Her
first shout had barely bounced off the trees in the back yard and Nick was
off and running for the house.
She loaded up the table with steaming
bowls of potatoes, corn on the cob, boiled baby onions, and a baked ham.
Dan talked while they ate, as was typical of their family time around the
dinner table. He talked about his day at the law office, how his stocks
were doing, an amusing email hoax going around, and cleaning up the yard.
All the while, Nick and Miranda sat in gloomy silence, picking sullenly at
their food, never looking up except for an occasional peek at each other.
Dan finished his diatribe with a recap of
his and Nick’s game of catch. “Nick’s arm keeps getting stronger,” he told
her, “and his control is better ever day. I think we have the makings of a
star pitcher. Right, son?”
Nick said nothing. He nibbled on a roll.
“Your father is talking to you,” Sandy
said.
Nick looked up at her almost accusingly,
then shot an annoyed glance at Dan. “What?” he said, in that indignant way
only nine-year-old boys could master.
“I think you have the makings of a star
pitcher, son,” Dan repeated.
“I’m not your son,” Nick said coolly.
Sandy froze in astonishment and looked up
at her son with wide eyes. He was glaring at her husband. Dan smiled,
seeming not to care. “See, hon? Headstrong, powerful… and with a fastball
to boot. I bet he’s a future Cy Young Award winner.”
“Nicholas James,” she said, nearly
breathless. “You apologize to your father right now.”
“No,” he said.
“I’m sure any coach will have a heck of a
time with you, son!” Dan said with a grin.
“I’m not your son!” Nick exploded,
slamming his fork down to his plate and jumping to his feet. “You look and
sound just like my father, but any dumb fool can see you’re not him!”
Then it was over, and Nick ran through
the kitchen and up to his room.
Sandy sat in shocked silence. Dan smiled
as he watched his son go, and presently said, “He’s a good boy. Our family
is strong. We’ve worked through the worst and we’ll work through some
more.” Then he went back to eating.
Miranda spoke up quietly, “Mommy, can I
go to my room?”
Sandy swallowed a lump in her throat.
“You need to finish your supper.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well… you’re going to eat anyway.”
Miranda looked up at her helplessly. “I
don’t wanna be here.”
Sandy’s head spun. She was losing control
of her family—maybe losing her family. She had to take charge. “Why not,
honey? Are you… sick or something?” She knew this wasn’t the case, but
hoped against hope the little girl wouldn’t say…
“Because I don’t want to be near him,”
she said, nodding toward Dan.
“My little girl’s tired,” Dan said
jovially as Miranda pushed back her chair and followed her brother. Dan
went back to attacking his dinner. “Honey, you’ve outdone yourself with
this ham. I mean, you’re the most fantastic cook a man could ask for, but
this is the best.”
Sandy looked at him uneasily. His strong,
angular face with his powerful, square jaw was all too familiar to her.
His nose, slightly pointed and angled down, and his handsome brown eyes
with those characteristic laugh lines at the corners, were as normal as
ever. His hair, thin and fine, parted to the right, was the same as that
day twelve years ago—albeit a bit disheveled after his bout with the yard
and his son.
But is it his son?
The thought leaped in like an unwanted
frog in the bathtub, and she wanted to slap herself for it. She couldn’t
help it, though. The kids, whatever their reasons, had gone about this
façade in deadly serious form. Either this was beyond a game or they
really believed what they were saying. And Dan was such a proud father, so
very happy to have children who loved him, it seemed he should have had a
stronger reaction to the kids’ words and behaviors than he had. Hell,
any reaction at all would have been something. It was like he hadn’t
noticed his children had vehemently insisted he wasn’t their Daddy.
He must have sensed her studying him,
because he suddenly looked up from his supper and as if she had called his
name. “What’s wrong, honey?”
She shook her head, perhaps too quickly.
“Nothing. Just… you’re behaving kind of funny. The kids… the things they
said… didn’t upset you?”
“Upset me?” he echoed. “Why should they
upset me? Kids are kids; they say things they don’t mean. Even our family
will hit a few bumps in the road.”
That pearl of wisdom related, he returned
to his meal. Sandy couldn’t eat hers.
#
The kids were in bed when she went
upstairs, waiting for her to kiss them good-night. She did so quickly, not
wanting to discuss the subject with them. Nick let her go without a word.
Miranda wasn’t as kind.
“Are you sleeping with that man, mommy?”
she asked.
“Of course,” she said. “And that man
is my husband. Your father.”
“He’s not,” she said.
“I’m getting very upset with you and your
brother saying that,” Sandy said. “You’re hurting Daddy’s feelings. You’re
hurting my feelings.”
“We’re not trying to hurt your feelings,”
she said almost sorrowfully. “It’s just the truth. He isn’t Daddy. You
know he isn’t.”
#
She kept busy sewing until quite late.
She knew he’d channel surf awhile and then watch the eleven o’clock news
before heading to bed. Sandy wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to bed and be
asleep by the time he got there or wait until he was asleep before going.
She finally decided on the former, so he wouldn’t seek her out in her
sewing room on his way to bed to kiss her good night.
There was no hope of falling asleep. Her
nerves were electrified. He was downstairs, the father of children who
didn’t believe he was such. She admitted it to herself as she lay there in
bed, tossing and fretting and uncomfortable: she was beginning to have
doubts about his authenticity.
But that’s absurd! Completely, totally
absurd!
Isn’t it?
She rolled onto her right side, away from
the bedroom door and his side of the bed, and forced herself to be still.
She closed her eyes. The darkness wasn’t settling, and it brought no
dreams.
She was unable to control the bizarre
ideas that began running through her head: long-lost evil twins, alternate
realities, monsters, possessions, aliens, androids, clones, doppelgängers,
and so on. All the science fiction and fantasy she could imagine flashed
through her mind. They were insane ideas; she knew it, but she couldn’t
help thinking of them.
Presently, she heard the tune his
computer played when it shut down. It was followed by the click of the
light being switched off, then by soft footfalls on the hallway carpet.
She listened, breathless. Her heart tried to fight its way out and she
tried to ignore the thick, roaring sound of blood rushing in her ears. She
heard the snap of the hall light and then his soft footsteps were on the
dark stairway.
Why am I afraid? There’s no need
for it, he’s my husband—
He was in the bedroom, coming toward her,
moving almost silently. She heard his breathing, heard the rustling as he
disrobed and dropped his clothing in a pile on the floor.
She was trembling. She could feel the bed
shaking slightly with her.
He sank gently onto the mattress, leaned
back, kicked his legs up. Pulled the covers over his body. Moved a bit as
he got comfortable.
She knew that in the morning she’d feel
differently, think clearly. But for now, she just wanted him to go to
sleep. She knew she wouldn’t be able to deal with him tonight, not in any
way. His just being there was bad enough; if he were in a cuddly mood, she
wasn’t sure she could handle it.
Yet, a part of her wanted him to
be cuddly and sensual.
Yet again, the very idea scared her—she
was suddenly terrified. Senselessly, she was scared to death.
He moved, shifted, and she felt his arm
slide over her hip, his hand snaking low across her abdomen. She froze in
place, feeling his hot breath on her neck.
“Good night, honey,” he whispered, but
the way his hand was stroking her belly told her he wasn’t ready to sleep.
“Good night,” she said breathlessly.
His hand moved lower.
“Please don’t,” she said, and he stopped.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he said
innocently. “You’ve been acting funny today. Are you angry with me?”
“No,” she said, tendrils of ice freezing
their way up her spine. “I’m just—I’m having a bad day. I just… want to
be…”
“I understand,” he said soothingly, and his hand moved away, his arm
pulled back, and he rolled over to his side of the bed. “It’s okay, honey.
You know I love you.”
She swallowed, trembling. “I love you,
too,” she said, but felt wrong doing so...
* *
* * * * * *
*
That's just over half the story, and
Sandy is beginning to worry. What's up with her husband... or is it her
husband?
To read the whole story, stay tuned for
Aoife's Kiss. You'll be able to find the issue when it's published in
September 2007 at:
http://www.samsdotpublishing.com/aoife/cover.htm |
Sandy's kids
insist that the man that looks like Daddy isn't really him. Of course,
it's ridiculous... or is it?