Page 81 of Playing With Fire

“This is Christine.” Molly’s voice cut through Ricky’s stunned brain. He looked up in surprise. Molly patted his hand. “Not her, I mean, but the image of Christine when she was born.”

His stomach rumbled but he ignored it.

“See that dimple in her chin? And those long lashes?”

Ricky squinted. Yes, the baby did have a tiny mark on her chin, and the artist had taken care to highlight the thickly lashed eyes. His own eyes felt scratchy and sore.

He tried not to hurry them. Tom and Molly were already shell shocked, tremulous with emotion. Here was a tiny piece of their own beloved, lost child.

Tom cleared his throat. “Turn it over, son.”

Ricky reached out, suddenly reluctant to take this next step, but his hand obeyed his higher brain.

The other side of the paper was covered by Chrissie’s light pencil scrawl.

Baby Lioba. Child of Ricky and Chrissie.

Nothing gold can stay.

“That’s Robert Frost. The poet. You knew Christine was an English Literature major?”

Tom was almost speaking to himself, but Ricky nodded. His throat was thick with memory. Chrissie had adored Frost’s poem, captivated by the poignant imagery of loss and rebirth.

He stared at the words. This was it, the evidence he had been seeking. But was it enough? Enough to convince the legal gatekeepers to add his name to the child’s birth certificate, and to then begin the tortuous process of unwinding the tangle of rights, responsibilities and permissions which made up the adoption process?

No.

He shook his head. The logical part of his brain knew immediately that no sane bureaucrat would even consider such a thing, even if it were possible, which Ricky doubted. And no reasonable biological parent would dream of ripping their child away from a family unless they were convinced that the child was in danger.

Lioba.

The best he could hope for was that one day she would come looking for him. Those steel bands around his chest tightened, and he struggled to fill his lungs with oxygen.

“I just need to know that she’s...okay. That she’s loved and cared for.” Ricky’s words were a low growl of pain.

“I understand. But what’s been done cannot be undone, you must see that,” said Molly gently. “It hurts us that our daughter did not turn to her parents in what must have been a terrible time. And we can’t imagine how you feel Ricky.”

He could only nod. His own parents had said almost the exact thing. Shock, joy, sadness, and finally acceptance.

Grief rose in Ricky’s throat, helpless and raw, and he wondered if anything could ever fill the aching void in his heart.

Molly’s hand was dry and cool on his arm. “Christine made this decision, and in my heart I know that she did what she thought was best for her baby. Now we must trust that the authorities found her a new family who will keep her safe.”

Ricky’s hands curled into fists. “Forgive me if I don’t share your confidence, Molly. In my line of work, I see...” He paused. “I see that these things don’t always go to plan.”

Molly smiled. Her eyes swam with tears. “I know that, Ricky. Our daughter was supposed to grow up and pursue her dreams. That includes the right to make the wrong choices.”

Tom laid his hand over Molly’s, and somehow the warm weight on his arm was itself a comfort to Ricky. And that scent, of soap and talc and maple syrup muffins, wrapped around him like a hug.

Molly threw her husband a smile full of love. Ricky’s mind flashed immediately to Jodi. And in the midst of his pain, he wished that he had told her. That he had shared this secret, burning inside him for so long, with the one person who might have helped to heal his broken heart.

He had made himself an island, and that was no way for a man to live.

Molly’s voice was soft. “I truly believe that God held our child in the palm of his hand, even when things didn’t go to plan. Chrissie was never lost, and neither is Lioba. We just don’t know where that baby is right now.”

Ricky’s chest relaxed a fraction. He drew in a ragged lungful of air. His eyes, which he didn’t realize were closed, blinked open.

He slowly rose to his feet. He looked around at the small, neat apartment, at the pile of knitted beanies for the homeless shelter and the flyers for the food bank. At the packaged-up cookies and the pictures of foster children in remote, impoverished places.

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