Page 40 of Salvation
He pats my hand before letting it go, but he doesn’t move to leave yet. He lifts his arm, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Look, Ivy, I know this may be none of my business, but what about the father? Is he around? I can go with you to tell him if you would like.”
The offer catches me off guard. My mind goes to Campbell, and I recall how he looked standing in the driveway after I went inside. I didn’t look back as I walked away, but something pulled me to my window after I shut the door behind me. I stood behind a curtain, watching Campbell stare at my front door. He stood there for several minutes, and the longer he stood there, the more I realized that something is very wrong with the boy I once loved. There’s no way to fully explain the look of pure emptiness that took over his face as he stood there staring after me before spinning and walking in the direction of his parents’ home. I watched him go, almost tempted to chase after him—afraid ofwhat he would do with that look on his face. But in the end, he disappeared, and I stayed rooted right where I was.
The air kicks on, sending goosebumps over my arms and bringing my attention mostly back to the present, but the look on Campbell’s face never leaves my mind.
“He knows,” I tell Charles, ”but thank you.”
I don’t offer him anything else about Campbell. I’m not sure what I would say anyway, but thankfully, he doesn’t pry further, just dips his head and says, “I’m glad you called, dear.”
The sincerity in his voice almost makes me want to trust him. Almost. Because as much as I am thankful for his help, needing him and trusting him are two different things.
I clear my throat, and Charles must sense my discomfort because he smiles once more before opening the front door for himself. Except, he doesn’t walk out because standing there, blocking his way with her hand raised to knock, is the blonde, honey-eyed girl I’ve only ever seen in pictures. The one I’ve dreamed about. There’s no mistaking who she is. She’s a spitting image of me.
My daughter.
“Ivy, dear,” Charles says, turning his head to look at me over his shoulder, one brow lifted. “I think it’s for you. Do you want me to stay?”
Swallowing, I step forward. My hand shakes as I place it on my great-uncle’s arm. “No, I–I think I have it. Thank you, Charles.”
I don’t take my eyes from Willow—I can’t—but Charles seems to understand. He reaches up, squeezing my hand. “I’ll be off, but remember what I said about family, Ivy.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgment, and he slips out the door, past Willow. My attention never wavers from her. She’s staring back at me, her head cocked to the side. Willow studies me while I do the same to her. Black jeans. Black Chuck Taylors. Blackfingernail polish. She’s a walking advertisement for the color. Curly hair the color of mine hangs around her shoulders, and when it falls over one eye, she doesn’t bother pushing it back. Willow lifts a brow in a challenge as if to question whether I’m going to say something or just stand here all day.
My mind is spinning, and I can’t think of anything to say. What does one say to the daughter they thought had died? In the end, I settle with the only thing that comes to mind.
“Hi.”
I want to kick myself as soon as the word is out of my mouth. I feel like an idiot. I’ve dreamed of this girl—of telling her all the things I thought I’d never get the chance to—and the best thing I can come up with is “hi.” I don’t even know if she knows who I am, and yet, if she’s here, she has to.
Did Jackie and John change their mind?
Willow seems oblivious to my internal conflict because she nods her head in a greeting and hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “Who was the old guy?”
I have to choke back a snort because how do I explain that he’s my great uncle, that I just recently met, because he delivered the news that my grandmother had been hiding for sixteen years? All that seems a little heavy for the first time meeting her, so instead, I just say, “Family.”
Willow shrugs. “Cool. Are you going to invite me in?”
“Uh, sure, come in,” I say, stepping out of the way and looking over her shoulder. “Are—um—John and Jackie here?”
A look of unease flashes over Willow’s face, there and then gone. “Nah. My boyfriend dropped me off.”
“Is he outside?”
“Nope,” she says, stepping through the door like it’s no big deal that this kid just left her here to fend for herself. The unease that was on Willow’s face moments before settles onto mine.
“Do your parents know you are here?”
Another noncommittal shrug is the only answer I get as she takes in the house, her eyes roaming everywhere except on me. Suddenly, I wish I’d made myself paint the walls. I don’t want the white to haunt her, too.
I rub my fingers over my brow. I can’t do this by myself.
“I—uh—I have cookies in the kitchen. I’ll show you where it is, and then we can talk. I need to make a phone call first, though.”
Willow spins, her eyes finally landing on me. The familiarity of her gaze is both smothering and comforting.
“To the other genetic contributor?”
Coughing, I rub my brow harder. “I’m sorry?”
