Page 9 of The Roads We Follow

“Jumanji needed water.” A half truth told by a half sibling. “I’ve been coming out every couple of days.”

A knock sounds in the background of our call, and a female voice interrupts a moment later with news that Dr. Garrett’s next patient has been checked in and is waiting for him in exam room number five.

“Listen, Micah, as far as Dad’s concerned—” his sigh is heavy—“I think it would be best if we waited until after he comes home to—”

“I’m not going to interrupt his fishing trip. It would be nearly impossible to get a message to Dad out at sea anyway.” How strange that such a simple word likedadcan inflict so much pain each time I say it. “This can wait until he’s back.”

Garrett’s voice dips low. “I’d bet my medical license he doesn’t know about this, Micah.”

It’s the same conclusion I’ve come to in the dead of night, as well, but a second opinion from a reliable source is always appreciated when dealing with life-altering information.

“So your working theory is that Mom managed to keep her pregnancy with me a secret from him until after they eloped?” I ask.

“That’s what makes the most sense to me, considering the timeline involved.”

So Garrett had been up at night thinking, too.

On the one hand, this explanation makes the pain slightly more bearable. But on the other hand, if Dad knew my mother had become pregnant with me by another man before they married, then I’d have someone to direct my questions to, a full story instead of the tiny crumb I’ve been handed at the age of twenty-nine. But while Frank Davenport is many things to many people, a secret-keeper he is not. The man can’t hold an ace in his hand without biting his lower lip or breaking out into an anticipatory sweat. There’s not a chance in this world he could have been hiding something this large from me or my brother.

Before Garrett married Kacy, the three of us Davenport men spent time outdoors together nearly every weekend. If we weren’t out hiking a trail near Camp Selkirk or singing our hearts out on the open road, then we were fishing on the Saint Joe River and prepping our catches for Mom to grill. Dad gave Garrett and me his passion for nature, but really what he gave us was himself.

He wouldn’t have hidden something like this from me. Nor would he have allowed my mother to. He loved his family too much to hide the truth.

“I’ll talk to him when he gets back,” I confirm for a second time. “He deserves this time away to clear his head. Thanks again for funding his charter passage.”

“My part was easy,” he offers. “You’re the one who had to convince him we’d be okay if he actually left.”

To some, spending a month on a deep-sea fishing excursion with an old friend in Alaska while grieving the love of your life might sound detrimental, but I can’t fathom a better activity for my dad to be doing in this time. His mind and heart work best when he has a fishing rod in his hands.

“You’ll be okay, too,” Garrett adds quietly. “Just please don’t do anything ... impulsive.”

Like quitting your job without securing a new one, is what we both know he doesn’t add.

I make no promises as I flick on the light in my parents’ kitchen. “You should get to your patient, doc. I’ll call you later.”

As soon as we hang up, I go in search of the real reason I came over today. It wasn’t only to water Mom’s beloved houseplant—that thing could survive a year outside in the Sahara. I came for the old-school answering machine I used to make fun of when I was a know-it-all kid in middle school. My parents were never fans of the ever-changing technology of cell phones. Dad kept his old flip phone until it drowned in the river one glorious day a handful of summers back, but he refused to give up their landline or the answering machine that still sits atop their counter. Last week was the first time I appreciated the thing in my life.

I tap the faded Play button and lean my back against the fridge door to relisten to a recording that has puzzled me for the past five days. The instant Luella Farrow’s voice fills the room, the image of her waiting on my parents’ front porch with sorrow-rimmed eyes and an overnight bag clutched in her hands pushes all else aside.

When working with my students at school, I encourage them to find alternative terminology when speaking of the villains in their stories for the same reason I don’t encourage the label of victim, either. It’s too easy to slip into the mindset of either extreme. Both are equal in their danger. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of Luella Farrow as the villain in my mom’s story for most my life, which is precisely why I’m still struggling to reconcile the woman I met three months ago with the version of her I grew up secretly despising whenever I saw her picture in supermarket magazines or heard her name whispered behind closed doors. And yet, a deathbed summons from an estranged best friend is hardly the time to be psychoanalyzing someone’s true character.

“Hi, Frank ... it’sLuella. I’ve been wanting to check in on you. I knowyou have your boys nearby, but if you ever need to talk, I’d answer day or night. I know how hard these first few months can be. After Russell died, I couldn’t sleep more than twohours at a time. Sometimes I still have trouble stayingasleep in an empty bed.”

I’ve memorized the Southern cadence of her phrasing and the way she pauses for breath right before she launches into the reason for her call.

“Anyway, I’m calling because I found somethingof Lynn’s I think you should have. It didn’t feel right to send something of hers to your doorstep unannounced. So I’ll keep it safe until Ihear from you. I pray for you and your boysdaily. I wish ... I wish...”

The line goes quiet for so long one would think the call had disconnected. Only, when Luella’s husky voice returns, her raw words prick my eyes.

“I wish I wouldn’t have waiteduntil good-bye was all we had left. She deservedbetter than that. Maybe we both did. I loved her, too.”

This time, when she drawls out her unlisted phone number, I jot it down. And before I can talk myself out of it, I punch in the numbers and make the call. The superstar herself answers on the third ring.

“Hello?” she asks, her accent bright and full.

“Hello, is this Ms. Farrow?”

“I suppose that depends on who’s asking, sugar.”

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