Page 7 of Quiet Beautiful Things

While that might not be crystal clear, there’s one thing that is.

The next line reads:Probability of Paternity: 99.9998%

Holy shit.

I lose my breath as swiftly as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. Tumbling onto the grass, I bend my knees and put my head between my legs.

Holy shit.

My heart races. I almost hyperventilate. Closing my eyes, I try to picture my life. The life that just got turned upside down with one swab of the cheek. One reckless night. One single email.

I’m a fucking dad.

~ ~ ~

Two hours later, Lucas, Allie, Mom, Dad, and I are sitting around my table with Ms. Duffey from New York Child Protective Services. I knew they’d be coming. Trish called and told me.

“Let me get this straight,” Dad asks on my behalf. Probably because I’m still too stunned to speak. “This Lucinda is in drug rehab, the grandparents want to dump their grandchild on my son so they can sail the world on a cruise ship, and if my son refuses custody, the girl will go into foster care?”

“That sums it up,” Mrs. Duffey says.

“Can we please stop referring to the child as ‘the girl’,” Mom says. “She must have a name. And do you have a picture?”

“Her name is Maisy.” A picture is pulled from a folder and slid across the table.

Mom gasps. “My Lord. She looks just like you did at that age.”

I study the picture. The girl is beautiful despite her unkempt curly blonde hair. And there is a definite sadness in her eyes. I raise a brow at Mom.

“I mean her face, Blake. Not her hair. She has your eyes. Your nose. The shape of your jaw. And I’m willing to bet, if she weresmiling, she’d even have your dimples.” A hand covers Mom’s heart. “Maisy Montana. It has a nice ring.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Duffey says. “Legally, her name is Wilcox.”

“Surely we can get that changed,” Dad says.

“It all depends. While we’re issuing Blake emergency temporary guardianship so he can care for her, there are still a lot of unknowns here. Such as what will happen when Miss Wilcox is released from rehab.”

“And how long will that be?”

“Miss Wilcox is in a ninety-day inpatient program, after which she may have an extended stay in a sober living residential facility. I fully expect her to get visitation privileges after the inpatient program.”

Finally, I speak. “As in, I’m babysitting for three months and then Lucinda gets to come back and do whatever she wants?”

She shakes her head. “You have rights as the father. She also has rights. But given the circumstances under which Maisy was taken away, the courts may rule in your favor should it come to that.”

“What exactly are these circumstances?” Mom asks, lines of worry etching near her eyes.

“Neglect, mostly.”

There is a burning inside me as I look at the picture. There is such sadness in her eyes. My kid—my daughter—has been raised and neglected by a drug addict. Surprise overcomes me as I realize how protective I’m being over someone I’ve never met. “Was she beaten?” I ask with a tight jaw.

“Maisy shows no signs of physical abuse. But sometimes neglect can have the same outcomes. She’s shy. Reserved. And she doesn’t communicate outside of pointing and drawing.”

Mom gasps again. “She doesn’t communicate? What do you mean?”

“Well, ma’am”—Mrs. Duffey looks at me—“it appears Maisy may be deaf.”

A hand flies to Mom’s mouth, covering her surprise. “Oh my gosh.”

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