Page 84 of An Unfinished Story
“Yeah, my case manager—the one back then—had his number. But I didn’t want to call him and bother him.”
“He didn’t run off on you,” Claire assured him. “Is that what you thought?”
Oliver nodded, and the foreign feeling, still unidentifiable, rose up her spine.
Everyone took a long breath, barely hearing the noises from the playground.
“Let’s back up,” Whitaker said. “Do you know who we are?”
“Kari told me. You’re a writer.” Oliver glanced at Claire, his eyes still darting and insecure. “You’re Claire. I recognize you from the photos on David’s desk.”
Her heart suddenly burned, the other feeling going away. “I don’t know where to start, Oliver. He never told me about you.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
Oliver looked at the table. “He wanted to tell you for a long time. Couldn’t figure out how.”
“What was the big deal?” Claire heard anger in her voice and reminded herself to calm down.
He shook his head, eyes still down. “He just said you were sad about never being a mom.”
Claire tightened her face, controlling the rush of emotions.
“But David was going to tell you,” Oliver assured her, like he was standing up for him. “We were supposed to go to your house for dinner one night. He wanted me to meet you.”
“What happened?”
“He never came to get me. I didn’t see him again.”
Claire’s voice cracked as she asked, “Was that in February? Three years ago.”
Oliver thought for a moment. “I think so.”
The entire weight of the world came dropping down on top of her. “That’s the day he died, Oliver. I’m sure of it. He told me he was bringing someone over.” She set her hands on the table. “Of course it was you. He was hit by a drunk driver around four o’clock. On February 18.”
Oliver crossed his arms and squinted, looking past Claire’s shoulder to nowhere. Claire could tell he was counting back. Oliver choked up, and his eyes grew wet. He was pressing his mouth together, fighting off a cry. He turned right, looking at the gravel bed below.
Everyone let him process the news.
For more than three years, she’d wondered who was supposed to have dinner with them. And Oliver was the answer. Davidwasgoing to tell her about him.
“I thought he just—” Oliver stopped and shook his head, biting down hard on his emotions. Kari put a comforting hand on his back.
“I thought he was mad at me and decided he didn’t want me to meet you.”
“No, honey,” Claire said. “He never would have done that. From what I can tell, he cared about you so much.” That foreign feeling came rushing back, but more familiar now. It was love but different somehow.
Oliver was floored by the news, his whole body folding in.
“After the accident,” Claire said, “the police found a Yankees hat wrapped up as a gift in his car. Was that for you? Are you a Yankees fan?”
A tear nearly shot out of his eye. “Yeah.” His lip trembled.
Claire’s heart ached, feeling the boy’s pain from across the table, a lifetime of fighting to survive, fighting to find a place in the world. Bad news, death, abandonment. It was all he knew. She was witnessing a boy discover that he hadn’t been abandoned after all, that the world maybe wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Or was it? David was still dead.
In the silence that followed, she heard an engine starting up on one of the boats near the landing.
