My foot jiggled for what seemed like forever while Mr. Foster seriously contemplated his heart and conscience. “I wouldn’t break the law to protect him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I took that to mean he’d lend emotional support and maybe help with lawyers but wouldn’t help him hide or escape. Good news for me, and for him, because now he could learn about Willa.
“I’m glad you said that, because I’m pregnant with your grandchild. Coming up on seven months. It’s a girl. I’m planning to name her Willa for my late father.”
I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but I got silence.
“Mr. Foster?”
“Maybe you should call me Richard.”
I smiled. “Okay, Richard. Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m going to be a grandfather?” I recognized a familiar sound in his voice—awe mingled with a sort of terrified joy, as if letting the excitement in might somehow put it at risk. “Seven months, you say? Things between Lyle and me are bad, but I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.” He fell silent a moment. “He obviously took my warnings to heart after Deanna, but I meant it when I said I’d never lie for him like his mother did.”
I vaguely wondered what Lyle had done to Deanna, but that was pointless. “My daughter won’t be able to count on her father, but I’m hopeful you’ll be a man she can respect and love who will love her back. If you want to be that for her, then you’re welcome to come meet us in August, after she’s born.”
“Wow.” His voice broke apart a bit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect all this. From one extreme to another . . . I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
“I understand. I didn’t mention Willa the last time we spoke because I was reeling from all Lyle’s lies and needed to verify what we’d discussed. The PI checked into your background a bit, too. I’m not proud of that, but I needed to protect Willa. I hope you understand.”
“Of course.” He clucked. “I’ve gotten used to being alone—looking ahead and seeing myself getting old here in this living room all by myself. Never gave grandkids a thought. This is welcome news for sure.”
For the first time all day, a genuine smile split my face. Willa would have a man who could dote on her because he had no wife or other grandkids to divide his attention. That might help her to be confident like Erin. “I’m glad.”
A beat of silence passed. “Does Lyle know you’ve called me?”
“No. He still thinks I believe that he’s in Florida working on the business deal my mother lent him the money for. He’ll be unhappy that I contacted you, but I’m well past caring. He’s left me unable to afford to keep my house, yet unable to sell it without his signature. I’ll probably need to file for bankruptcy on top of finding a better-paying job as a single, working parent.”
I covered my mouth with my free hand, stunned by my flippant tone and careless confession. I’d been acting more like Erin than myself lately. Although I’d never admit it aloud, this bold streak made me feel the best I had in weeks.
“I’m sorry my son has caused you and your family so much pain and trouble. I’m not a rich man, but I can help with some of the childcare costs . . .”
My nose tingled. The amount didn’t matter; his kindness brought on fresh tears. “That’s very sweet, thank you, but that’s not why I called. Please don’t worry about me. One way or another, I’ll solve my own problems.”
I had to learn to stand on my own, for Willa’s sake.
“You’re giving me a chance to be a grandfather after what my son has done, and that’s priceless. Truly. I want to help, for both your sakes.”
“Let’s discuss that later. I’ve got more pressing things to address before Willa’s born.”
“Okay. I look forward to meeting you both. If Meggie were still alive, she would’ve been tickled to have had a baby girl to spoil.” And then, as if realizing the implications of what he’d said, he fell silent again. “May I ask . . . what kind of time is Lyle looking at?”
“I’m not sure. We haven’t gone to the cops yet. It’s complicated, especially with Lyle having fled the country. We’ve considered negotiating to get him to agree to return the money if we don’t press charges.”
“Sounds risky.”
“Yes.” My willingness to consider bending the law to suit my needs—or my mother’s needs—nagged. I’d never before believed in an “ends justifies the means” philosophy, but neither could I pretend that my innate sense of fairness was overly troubled by the alternative.
“If you need help, call me. Maybe I could finally make Lyle do the right thing.”
I tried to picture Lyle’s reaction to seeing his father and me, arm in arm, boarding his stupid yacht with the only deal that could keep him out of prison. How utterly magnificent it would be to wipe that smug look off his face, and to witness Ebba’s crestfallen expression when she learned she hadn’t won anything worth having. Better yet, I’d leave them reeling and penniless, the ultimate victory and justice. A delicious, vengeful giddiness bubbled inside.
“Thanks, but, again, I only called to tell you about Willa.”
“Will you keep in touch during the pregnancy?”
“Sure.” I gave my head a little shake at our surreal situation. “Listen, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got to run.”
“Okay. You take care.”
“You too.” I sat there with the phone in my hands, almost disbelieving what I’d done. He’d been thoughtful and kind and generous, which should make it easier on my mother when she found out.
I stood and surveyed Lyle’s things, which lay in garbage bags all around me. Time to take out the trash.
After I dropped Lyle’s belongings at the consignment store, I mulled the OIA over during the drive to my mother’s. The specter of public disgrace terrified me, as did the threat of mandatory visitation for Willa while Lyle remained in prison. But breaking the law wasn’t something I would’ve ever considered before my husband betrayed me, and I did not want him to fundamentally change who I was.
My life would be worse if, once I worked through my sorrow—and someday I would—I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. With each mile the answer became obvious. If only doing the right thing wouldn’t put me at serious odds with my mother for the first time in my life.
Once I pulled the car into the driveway, I sat in the front seat and stared at the place that, for better or worse, had molded me.
Being the middle child made me invisible for much of my childhood. Even when I’d proudly pedaled my tricycle on the driveway, Kevin would whiz past on his two-wheeler, drawing “attaboys” from my parents. After Erin was born, evenings entailed my mother helping Kev with his second-grade homework while my dad bathed Erin and read to her before putting her down. Each night I’d quietly played with my dolls and waited for someone to notice me, which typically occurred only after I’d gone out of my way to do something thoughtful for my parents.
For years, I’d told myself that doing good meant I was good. That doing better made me better. Yet looking back I can’t help but wonder if family dynamics, insecurities, and jealousies had warped me to the point where I no longer knew if I did things because I wanted to or because it was what pleased someone I loved. And if the latter, then what did that mean, and who was I, really? Was I someone with the courage to do what needed to be done when it wouldn’t please others—specifically my mother?