Page 26 of When I'm Gone
“I know, Dad.”
Luke patted his son’s cheek and held him an arm’s length in front of him. “Now get Clayton, and I’ll drop you at school on the way to work.”
“Okay.” Will nodded and then shouted,“Clay! Time to go!”
“Uh, I saidgoand get him. I could’ve yelled.” Luke pointed him toward the stairs.
“Fine.” He rolled his eyes and sulked up the stairs, back to his normal teenage-boy self.
Luke sped down I-94 past still-bare trees with tiny buds at the tips of each branch. Even though they were already a week into April, there was still a strong possibility it could snow. But the snow wouldn’t kill the leaf buds. Somehow they survived the late winter storms and premature springs. If only humans were more like trees.
A large green road sign readKALAMAZOO,EXIT 72. He’d been waiting for this moment all week. Flicking on his turn signal, he checked his mirrors, even though no one else had been on the road all morning. It had only taken two hours to get from his house to the western Michigan town, and with everything running through his mind, the time had flown by.
When Luke told Annie about his last-minute “business trip,” she offered to watch Clayton at his house so the handoff with Jessie would go smoothly. Despite Clayton’s immediate friendship with Jessie, Annie would always be first in his heart, and lately that meant big fits at three when it was time to go home. Luke was grateful for one less thing to worry about, even if it meant making sure the dishes were in the dishwasher and that Clayton flushed the toilet after his morning potty break.
Annie had been extra supportive since he’d tagged along with her and Brian to the bar. He didn’t know if it was because he’d helped her with Mick or because she was worried about his state of mind. Annie was one of the most loyal people he’d ever met; she reminded Luke of his mother a little, which was a good thing and a bad thing at the same time. His mother didn’t seem to be able to see the bad in people or even suspect it. This was doubly true of Annie with Natalie. She’d rather assume Luke was going bonkers than question if her deceased best friend had been living a secret life.
Off the highway, Luke focused on slowing down. Pressing gently on the brake, he checked the map on his GPS screen. Two rights, two lefts, one more right, then he’d be there. Maranatha House. He’d been working on his story and his “I need help” face. That morning he’d put on the suit he’d worn at Natalie’s funeral. So much for burning it. He needed it today. The sadness that clung to it like cologne would help him appear more convincing.
Luke followed the voice on his GPS to a narrow lane covered in crumbling blacktop. He took the turn cautiously, avoiding a large divot in the middle of the asphalt. Inching down the road he let his foot hover over the gas pedal, never allowing the speedometer to go above ten miles per hour. The driving instructions told him to go 1.2 miles. As he pushed closer to the red and black dot glowing on the navigation screen, Luke felt a growing urge to make a three-point turn and head home.
Unexpectedly the woman on the GPS told him he’d arrived at his destination. Luke slammed on his breaks far more forcefully than necessary, which tossed his body forward, shoulders nearly bumping the steering wheel. Glancing around, Luke was confused. There was nothing but half-bare branches on the trees and the tips of green bulbs peeking out of heavy blankets of half-rotted leaves on the ground. Shoot. He must have put the wrong address in his GPS.
Checking in the rearview mirror once, Luke pulled out the sheet of paper he’d written down the address on and carefully typed it in again. As the GPS recalculated, he took one more glance around. Thirty yards behind him, something stuck out from a hedge of budding bushes. A silver mailbox. Luke clicked the car into reverse and slowly backed up until he was parallel to the large silver mailbox at the end of an overgrown dirt road. The mailbox’s red flag was up, and the initialsMFSwere pasted across the side of the box in black letters.MFS. Maranatha Family Services.
So, it was real. He’d been so distracted he’d almost missed the entrance. The desire to leave without finding the Maranatha House had disappeared. Someone had put up the flag on that mailbox, which meant there was probably someone on the other end of the dirt road. Maybe that person would have answers. Luke held his breath as he left the road with a giant double bump as his tires settled into the soft dirt. He couldn’t turn back. He’d come too far. Will was waiting for answers. Damn it,hewas waiting for answers.
It took a few accelerations for Luke’s tires to finally get enough traction to head down the dusty road; he was thankful he’d gone with an SUV with four-wheel drive. Otherwise, he probably would be walking now, and his funeral suit would be getting dusty. Thankfully he wasn’t walking, because the road was much longer than he’d expected.
Luke turned in to an empty spot next to a dark-brown Chrysler that had seen better days. The windows were brazenly rolled down, as if the owner was daring the sky to turn dark and rain. Luke patted his coat pocket to make sure the envelope was still there. Inside was an old picture of Natalie, a picture of Will as a baby, and a copy of Will’s birth certificate, just in case. He’d planned out at least a dozen lies he could tell to get information out of the agency, but finally he decided he might as well tell the truth. They probably wouldn’t give him any information either way—far too many legal issues with all the confidentiality agreements he was sure they signed on adoptions.
The large white house had a wraparound porch and sat in the middle of a green meadow, an incongruous site given the godforsaken road he’d just driven down. The battered Chrysler was one in a cluster of dusty cars parked by a barn several yards from the house. A wooden sign that saidOFFICEhung off the white fence, the only hint the house wasn’t a private residence. Luke stomped up the steps to the glossy green door at the top. A fluorescent yellow piece of paper, half-bleached from the sun, was taped inside the glass of the storm door. A crude drawing of hands holding a baby was at the top.
“Safe Haven for Babies. Desperate? Need help? You can leave your baby, up to a year old, inside with our staff. No questions asked. Use bell if after hours.” A white button glowed beside the door.
Up to a year old. How could someone leave their one-year-old here, all those feedings, sleepless nights, smiles and giggles? Plus, what girl would want to drive down that dilapidated road to get here? He shook his head and walked through the door, a bell dinging to announce his entrance.
Inside was a surprisingly large lobby for what seemed like such a small organization. The chairs, covered in a rough maroon fabric, were placed in a semicircle facing an L-shaped desk. When the door shut, a woman called out from behind a computer screen. The only thing visible was her bright-pink acrylic nails waving him toward the sitting area.
“Be there in one sec. Take a seat.”
Luke unbuttoned his suit coat and took the seat closest to the desk in case she forgot he was there.
After a few minutes of clacking, the computer woman stood and put a clipboard on the counter. Only she wasn’t a woman; she was a teenager, no older than seventeen or eighteen. She was also very, very pregnant.
“Oh, hey there.” She smiled when she saw Luke sitting alone and pointed to a large wooden door with a sign of a man and woman on it. “Your daughter going to the bathroom?” Luke opened his mouth to talk, but the girl interrupted. “Well, my name is Lacey. When your daughter gets out, you can have her fill all this out. I’ll call Ms. Stephani so we can get right to orientation.”
She put a tan headset to her ear and pressed several buttons, her nails tapping loudly against each one. Luke snagged up the clipboard and scanned the page.
Maranatha Family Services Maternity House Manual (Applicant Edition)
This Crisis Pregnancy Center is a nonprofit organization providing physical, emotional, and spiritual support services to women and families during pregnancy and provides residential services to women ages 12–19, regardless of income, who are pregnant and have chosen adoption.
Replacing the receiver on the phone, the girl called out to him, “Go ahead and read that, and then Ms. Stephani will take you into the office to do the rest of the paperwork. I’m not allowed in there, confidentiality and all.” She whispered the last part, cupping her hand around her mouth. She looked at the bathroom door, eyebrows raised. “You sure she’s okay in there? Maybe she’s carsick?”
“No, I don’t think that’s the problem ...”
A tall woman with bleached-blonde spiral curls and dark roots came through the open door. She had a giant smile, a light-blue shirt buttoned to the top, and bigger gums than Luke had ever seen. This must be Ms. Stephani.
