Chapter 2: The Son She Was Told to Forget
Marcus stared at his mother.
The word dead seemed to hang between them, heavier than the autumn sky above the storefronts.
“What did you just say?””
The old woman swallowed, trying to steady her breathing. Her hands remained on his cheeks, but now they trembled so violently that Marcus reached up to hold them.
“Somebody told me you were dead,” she repeated.
“That doesn't make any sense. I'm standing right here.””
“I know, baby. I know.””
“Who told you that?””
She glanced toward the people passing along the sidewalk. A man was slowing down to watch. A woman near the bus stop had begun whispering to her companion.
The old woman drew her coat tighter around herself.
“Please,” she said.
“Not here.””
Marcus looked around as though he had only just remembered the world existed.
He helped her gather the last of her belongings. Caleb carried the oranges, and Marcus picked up the old handbag. The silver locket remained in his palm.
When he offered it back, his mother closed his fingers around it.
“Keep it for a minute,” she said.
“I need to see that face again.””
He stared at her.
“You carried this all these years?””
“Every day.””
“Why?””
Her lower lip trembled.
“Because it was the last picture I had of my son.””
Marcus lowered his head.
He had spent years believing that the woman who gave birth to him had simply disappeared. He had been told she left when he was young, that she had chosen another life, and that searching for her would only reopen wounds that were better left alone.
But she had carried his photograph.
She had kept it through years that had apparently taken almost everything else from her.
He looked at the worn handbag, the thin coat, and the shoes with cracked soles.
“Mama, where are you staying?””
She hesitated.
“I'm all right.””
“That's not what I asked.””
“I have a place.””
“What kind of place?””
She looked away.
Marcus felt a flash of anger, but it was not directed at her. It was aimed at every invisible year between them, at the fact that he had a house with a spare bedroom while his mother stood in the cold with all her possessions stuffed into a battered bag.
“Come with me,” he said.
She stiffened.
“Marcus—”
“Please. Just come with us. We'll get somewhere warm, and you can tell me everything.””
“I don't want to cause trouble.””
“You're not causing trouble.””
“I don't want to interfere with your family.””
Marcus looked at Caleb.
His son had moved closer, still carrying the oranges. His young face held a mixture of wonder and worry.
“Dad,” Caleb said quietly, “is she really your mom?””
Marcus nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
Caleb looked at the old woman.
“Then she's my grandma?””
The woman pressed a hand to her chest.
“If you'll have me, sweetheart.””
Caleb stepped forward and hugged her.
It was an awkward embrace. He had to bend around the handbag, and she was so surprised that her arms remained suspended for a second before wrapping around him.
Then she closed her eyes.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered.
“Look at you.””
Caleb pulled back.
“I'm Caleb.””
“Caleb,” she repeated, tasting the name.
“That's a beautiful name.””
“My dad picked it.””
Her eyes moved to Marcus.
“You're a father.””
Marcus gave a small, broken laugh.
“For ten years.””
She looked at Caleb again, and grief passed over her face so suddenly that Marcus noticed.
She had missed his childhood. His first steps. His first day of school. His scraped knees, birthday candles, and all the ordinary moments that become precious only when they are gone.
She had missed everything.
Marcus helped her to her feet.
“Let's get you inside somewhere.””
They walked to a small café at the end of the block. The bell above the door rang as they entered, and warm air carrying the smell of coffee and cinnamon surrounded them.
Marcus guided his mother to a booth near the window. Caleb slid in beside her, carefully placing the oranges on the seat.
Marcus went to the counter and ordered soup, sandwiches, and hot tea. When he returned, his mother was holding the silver locket with both hands.
She had opened it again.
Her thumb moved across the faded photograph.
“You had a gap between these two teeth,” she said softly, pointing at the little boy's smile.
“You used to refuse to smile for pictures because you thought people would laugh at you.””
Marcus managed a faint smile.
“I don't remember that.””
“You would cover your mouth with both hands. Then, when you forgot I was holding the camera, you'd grin so wide I could see every tooth.””
She laughed through her tears.
“You were a stubborn little thing.””
Caleb leaned over to look at the photograph.
“Dad, you look just like me when I was little.””
Marcus studied the image again.
The resemblance was unmistakable. His round cheeks, his crooked smile, the scar above his eyebrow. Even the way he tilted his head slightly to the left.
But there was something else in the photograph. Behind the little boy stood a woman wearing a floral dress, one hand resting on his shoulder.
Marcus had never noticed the background before.
He touched the edge of the picture.
“Who took this?””
His mother smiled sadly.
“Your aunt Denise. She came by that afternoon. You wanted to ride your bicycle, but the pedal kept falling off.””
Marcus's fingers stopped moving.
“Aunt Denise?””
The woman looked up.
“Yes.””
“Denise Carter?””
She nodded slowly.
Marcus leaned back.
Denise Carter had been his father's older sister. She had helped raise him after his mother supposedly abandoned the family. She attended his school meetings, bought his first suit, and stood beside him when he graduated high school.
She was also the person who had told him his mother never wanted to see him again.
A terrible coldness settled in his stomach.
“What happened after that picture was taken?”” he asked.
His mother looked down into her tea.
“I remember you were playing in the yard. Your father was working late, and Denise came inside with a telephone message. She said your grandmother had become ill and that I needed to go to the hospital immediately.””
Marcus frowned.
“Grandma was already dead by then.””
His mother went very still.
“What?””
“My grandmother died when I was four. I remember the funeral.””
She stared at him, and the fragile warmth that had returned to her face began to disappear.
“No,” she whispered.
“Denise told me your grandmother had been taken to the hospital. She said I needed to leave right away.””
Marcus felt his stomach twist.
“Where was I?””
“At home with your father.””
“Then why didn't you come back?””
His mother stared at the table.
For several seconds, she seemed unable to make herself speak.
“Because when I returned, the house was empty.””
Marcus's jaw tightened.
“Empty?””
“All your clothes were gone. Your toys, your little blue bicycle, everything. Your father wasn't there.
I asked the neighbors, but nobody would tell me anything. Then Denise came to see me.””
His mother rubbed her thumb against the side of the teacup.
“She said your father had taken you away. She told me he was tired of my arguments, tired of the way I was always asking questions about the money he kept hidden.””
“What money?””
“I don't know. I never found out.””
Marcus stared at her.
His father, Robert Brooks, had died when Marcus was twenty-two. In the years after his mother's disappearance, Robert had told him that she was unstable, that she had left voluntarily, and that he had tried everything to bring her home.
Marcus had believed him.
He had never questioned the story because he was a child when it began, and because Denise repeated it with the confidence of someone who had witnessed every moment herself.
“What did Dad tell you?”” Marcus asked.
His mother looked up.
“Nothing. I never saw him again.””
Marcus's breath caught.
“You never saw him again?””
“Not once.””
“Then how did you know where we went?””
“I didn't. I searched for months. I went to the police.
I wrote letters to every relative whose address I knew. Denise said she had heard your father moved out of state. Then she told me he had filed papers saying I had abandoned you.””
Marcus shook his head.
“That can't be right.””
“I know what I did, baby. I know I never abandoned you.””
Her voice rose on the last word. Several people in the café glanced toward their booth.
She lowered her voice, but her eyes remained fierce.
“I searched. I walked until my feet bled. I took buses to places I could barely afford.
I called every number I could find. But whenever I got close to something, the door would close.””
Marcus felt tears gather again.
“Why didn't you find me?””
“Because I didn't know where you were. And after a while, I didn't have enough money to keep looking.””
He stared at the woman across from him.
“What happened to you?””
She tried to smile.
“Life happened.””
“That isn't an answer.””
“No, it isn't.””
She looked toward the window, where pedestrians moved beneath the fading afternoon light.
“I worked in laundromats. I cleaned offices. I slept in rooms where the locks didn't work. There were times I had to choose between buying food and paying for a bus ticket to another town because somebody told me they'd seen you.””
Marcus pressed his hand over his mouth.
“Lord.””
“Sometimes people were kind. Sometimes they weren't. Eventually, I stopped telling people why I was looking. They started treating me like a crazy old woman chasing a child who didn't want her.””
Her eyes returned to his.
“But I never stopped believing you were alive.””
Marcus reached across the table and took her hand.
“I thought you left me.””
“I know.””
“I thought you didn't love me enough to stay.””
She squeezed his fingers.
“Oh, Marcus.””
“I spent years wondering what was wrong with me.””
His voice cracked, and he turned his face away.
His mother leaned forward as far as the table allowed.
“There was nothing wrong with you. Nothing. You were my baby. You were the best thing that ever happened to me.””
He began to cry again, quietly this time, his shoulders shaking as he tried to hold himself together.
She touched his hand with her free one.
“I would have come for you every day of my life if I'd known where to go.””
Caleb had been silent throughout the conversation. Now he reached across the table and placed his small hand over theirs.
“Grandma,” he asked, “why didn't anybody tell you where Dad was?””
The old woman looked at him.
For a moment, the question seemed to hurt her more than anything Marcus had asked.
“That's what I need to find out, sweetheart.””
Marcus wiped his face.
He looked again at the locket.
The initials on its back had been engraved by his father. He remembered Robert showing it to him one evening, explaining that the letters stood for Marcus Brooks and that some things were worth keeping even when the world became difficult.
Robert had given it to his mother before Marcus was born.
Then, years later, the locket had disappeared with her.
Marcus looked up.
“What's your full name, Mama?””
She seemed surprised by the question.
“Evelyn Brooks. Evelyn Marie Brooks.””
He nodded, committing the words to memory as though he might lose them if he did not.
Then he reached for his phone.
“I need to make a call.””
His mother stiffened.
“Who are you calling?””
“Someone who might know what happened.””
He scrolled through his contacts until he found a number he had not used in several months.
Denise Carter.
His aunt answered on the fourth ring.
“Marcus, baby. Everything all right?””
He stared at Evelyn.
His mother had gone pale again. Her eyes fixed on the phone as though she could hear the voice on the other end.
Marcus spoke slowly.
“Aunt Denise, I need you to answer something honestly.””
“What's wrong?””
“Did you ever tell my mother that I was dead?””
The silence that followed was so complete that Marcus could hear the café refrigerator humming behind the counter.
Then Denise said, “Why on earth would you ask me that?””
Marcus closed his eyes.
Because he knew that tone.
It was the same tone she had used when he was twelve and asked why his mother had never sent him a birthday card.
The same tone she used whenever he asked about the years before his father took him away.
He opened his eyes.
“Because she's sitting right here.””
May you like
On the other end of the line, Denise stopped breathing loudly enough for Marcus to hear it.
Then the call disconnected.
