Page 64 of Harper

But I don’t. She needs her space, and I need to respect that.

“Drive safe, okay? Call me anytime. I’ll keep my phone with me around the clock.”

“Whatever happens,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “I loved you, Joe. When we were kids, I loved you more than anything. I love you now, too. Right now. Right this second. And I’ll love you on the day I die.” She brushes the tears off her cheeks. “Remember that, okay? Try to remember that no matter what. There was never a day—never a second—that I didn’t love you, Joe.”

She hasn’t said those words to me in ten years. They render me speechless. They all but bring me to my knees for the second time in one day.

The door closes behind her, and I’m left to wait and see what happens next.

Chapter 7

Harper

When I left Aunt Charlotte’s house, five weeks after Raven’s adoption, I made a promise to myself—and to my daughter—that I wouldn’t interfere in her life.

I’d made my choice to give her up; now I needed to make peace with it.

Because I’d met the Calvins in person before Raven was born and invited them to the hospital for her birth, her adoption was technically considered “semi-open” in the state of Oregon. The Calvins even offered to send me updates about Raven, but at the time, I had declined. I felt it was better—for me and for Raven—to treat the adoption as “closed.”

It wasn’t about turning my back on her. It was about protecting both of us—giving me the freedom to move on with my life as a young woman, and giving her the best possible chance to bond with the Calvins.

I promised myself I’d never look for her. Nor would I look for the Calvins, even on social media. I worried that if I found her, the temptation to know her would be too great. For her sake and mine, I closed the door on a relationship with her; then I sealed that door with every bit of care and concern I had for Raven’s stability, happiness, and well-being.

As the years went by, however, I wondered about her. I thought about her. I hoped she was happy and healthy. I couldn’t help it. Short of seeking out a relationship with my biological daughter or her adoptive parents, I wanted to be available to her and the Calvins if they ever needed me.

So, I made a caveat to my once-airtight promise, and it was this: if Raven ever required my help or if she had a desire to meetme in person at some point—with the permission and blessing of her parents—I would be discoverable.

Three years ago, I joined an online adoption registry. I opted out of emails, preferring to check my account twice a year, on her birthday and half-birthday. I was surprised when I found a message from Denise Calvin on Raven’s seventh birthday. I learned that my daughter’s legal name had been changed to Moriah Raven Calvin, and she was a chatty, clever, happy child who loved the family dogs, camping trips and old-school cartoons. Denise ended the short message asking if I’d like to see a recent photo of Moriah, but I politely declined, explaining that I didn’t want to bother them or interfere in their daughter’s life. I just wanted the Calvins to know where to find me if they ever needed me. Denise wrote back one last time, thanking me for enrolling in the registry and telling me that if I ever changed my mind, to let her know; she said there could be room for me in Moriah’s life, provided that I was respectful of the Calvins’ role as her parents. I didn’t write back to that message, and we haven’t communicated in the two years since.

But now?

Now that I’m looking down the barrel of telling Joe about his nine-year-old daughter?

I’m grateful to have this thread of communication with the Calvins. I think it’s very possible I’m going to need it. I can imagine no scenario in which Joe doesn’t want to be a part of Moriah Raven’s life, and yes, it scares the shit out of me on every imaginable level.

Especially because I’ve decided that I want to keep this baby.

God willing.

I’ve already been in touch with an obstetrician in Anchorage at the Providence Alaska Children’s Center. After Moriah Raven’s traumatic birth, this pregnancy is going to be high-riskin the extreme. While I can go to routine appointments and ultrasounds here in Skagway, I’ll need to be under the care of an experienced perinatologist in Anchorage, and I’ll likely need to schedule a c-section there well in advance of my baby’s due date. I don’t want to risk the same issues I experienced ten years ago.

Issues that Joe still knows nothing about.

When I consider everything I have to tell him, my head swims, and my stomach heaves. I’m dreading it, and it’s making me short-tempered and emotional. So when my brothers ask if I’d like to go out for drinks at the Purple Parsnip, where McKenna’s a bartender, I say yes. After a week inside my own head, I desperately need a night out.

As Hunter, Tanner, Sawyer, and I walk through the double doors of the Parsnip, the crowd erupts in applause.

“Is that for us?” jokes Hunter, though he knows full well we’ve just walked in at the tail-end of Bruce’s Soapy Smith skit.

McKenna waves us over to a reserved table in the corner, but I head to the bar to order a non-alcoholic beer on the sly. I haven’t told my family anything yet; I need to talk to Joe first. Until then, I need to keep my pregnancy under the radar, and drinking a Coke while my brothers drink beer would be suspicious.

When I get to the table, Hunter looks up at me and grins.

“Isabella says hi,” he says, waggling his eyebrows like an idiot.

“Say hi back!” chirps McKenna. She seems taken with the idea of her best friend dating my older brother, but all I see are warning flags everywhere. My own experience with long-distance relationships tells me that Hunter’s in for heartbreak.

I slide into the empty seat between McKenna and Sawyer, but going out on the town isn’t having the result I’d hoped for. My problems swirl in my head, demanding attention and answers.

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