Page 91 of Harper

“Felt like something that needed to be said in person.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. I should probably go back inside, but I can’t make myself leave him. It feels so nice to be around him, to be talking to him. “How’re you doing?”

“Still trying to sort things out,” he says vaguely. Then, “I heard from the Calvins. They sent a couple of pictures of her. She’s a beautiful kid, Harp. Super smart. Funny. She’s doing really well.”

I don’t know what to say to this information. I’m glad to hear it on one hand, but on the other, it comes perilously close to breaking the promise I made to myself to stay out of her life. That, and every time Joe and I discuss Moriah Raven, we end up hurting each other.

“That’s good.”

“They’ve done a lot of research on introducing an adopted child to their bio parents, and they say it’s better when the child is older—like a teenager. When they’re young it can be really confusing and scary—they often fear they’ll be ‘given back.’ I was disappointed, but I told them to do what’s best for her. When it’s the right time for her to meet me, I’ll be ready.”

“You’re handling this really well, Joe.”

“The Calvins are good people. Great parents. They love her. They’ve done right by her.”

It means a lot to me to hear Joe admit this.

“Well,” he says, stepping off the boardwalk. “I guess I’ll see you at the clinic on Tuesday.”

“You’re not staying?”

He gazes at me for a second, then shakes his head. “Nah. I have to—”

“Joe! Here I am!” Exiting the bar from behind me is Avery Wells, who walks past me, and over to Joe, taking his arm. “Thanks for waiting.”

“No problem,” he says, sparing a quick glance at me. “’Night, Harp.”

“Oh. Uh…night, Joe,” I murmur, looking back and forth between him and Avery.

“Great party, Harper!” says Avery, waving goodbye. “Congrats to your brother.”

“Thanks, Avery,” I answer, my heart in my throat.

I watch them walk away in the direction of Joe’s house, telling myself I have no right to feel sad or betrayed or jealous. I have no right to run after them, and beg Joe to love me again, even though that’s exactly what I want to do. As he walks farther and farther away from me with Avery, I feel lonelier than ever. Emptier, too.

It occurs to me that I could be surrounded by people if I went back inside, but they aren’t the people I long for. Theyaren’t the person I long for. There’s only one of him, and he’s walking away from me with another woman on his arm.

Leaning against a lamppost, I look forlornly over the quiet streets of Skagway. I should probably feel relieved that our conversation just now was so polite, so civil, but that very civility is clawing at me now; it’s bothering me more than I ever would have guessed.

I learned a long time ago that hate isn’t the opposite of love. Indifference is. When I felt like Joe hated me, it meant he still had feelings for me. But civility? Polite apologies and breezy inquiries about my health? That’s closer to indifference than hate, isn’t it?

And then Avery’s sudden appearance? The easy way she took Joe’s arm and walked away with him? Oh, god.

My eyes well with stupid, jealous, useless tears.

Instead of going back inside, I get in my car and drive home so I can wallow in this sharp, new grief.

***

Joe

Historically, I haven’t been much of a church-goer.

My mother took me to services at First Presbyterian on Christmas Eve when I was growing up, so I’ve always associated the little church, built by the Methodists in 1905 and taken over by the Presbyterians in 1917, as a place of celebration. The opera seats, wooden ceiling and electrical lights are, remarkably, still original, and as a community, we’re protective of the building, both as a place of worship, and as a historical landmark. Personally, I stop by at least once a week to check on things, and I attend the fire inspection annually.

Although I haven’t added Sunday services to my weekly schedule, I’ve been stopping by more often than usual lately. I like sitting in the sanctuary. I’ve been using it as a place to think—as a place to sort through my feelings and try to gain clarity for the future. Sometimes Pastor Mac comes and sits with me; over the last few weeks I’ve told him about my long history with Harper and what happened ten years ago; about our daughter Moriah Raven and the baby on the way. I shared Mrs. Stewart’s steps to forgiveness with him, and he joked that she should come into town to lead services the next time he’s on vacation.

Talking with him has eased my pain a little. It’s taken the edge off my anger. Mrs. Stewart’s second step to forgiveness—remembering that no one is perfect—has been a recurring theme to our conversations lately. I have started to see that despite how deeply I loved Harper all those years ago, I was blinded by my own agenda. She was never as confident about forever as I was, but instead of hearing her worries and validating them, I steamrolled over them, convincing myself that my faith in the future would bring her around. All it ended up doing was alienating us from each other when she needed me most.

---