Chapter One
Pacing restlessly up and down the sidewalk, I studied the building. It reminded me of a high school, the type built back in the late fifties or early sixties; designed by engineers not architects, long and rectangular, two floors, dirty windows with wire-reinforced glass, concrete block, and an aura of age, depression - a building forgotten by time.
Chest-high chain link fencing still surrounded the building, originally designed to keep less enthusiastic students in. The grass was mostly brown, struggling to survive the arid conditions of Albuquerque.
Checking my watch, I saw I had three more minutes before my two-thirty appointment. Nerves upset my stomach - or maybe it was the three espressos I'd had earlier. I worried. I wasn't prepared. It felt like I was a kid again on a Sunday night not having done my homework and not having prepared for a Monday quiz.
Taking a deep breath, I headed up the cracked walkway, climbed the five broad, well-worn concrete steps, and pushed open one of the wide tempered glass and metal doors.
The aroma hit me immediately. It smelled of disuse and desperation overlaid by Pine-Sol. Phones rang somewhere. I made my way to the reception.
A middle-aged woman ignored me for a minute or two. I coughed politely. Didn't work. Eventually she looked up.
"Yes?"
"Brad Wheldon to see Mrs. Perez," I informed her.
Without a word, she picked up a telephone receiver and dialed, then pointed authoritatively at some plastic seats across the hall from her. I took the hint and sat.
Posters of all types covered the walls. Some were yellowed with age, some new. They promoted caring and a smoke-free building and showed different idyllic scenes of kids and parents playing carefree. Some had mothers wrapping their arms around children. In one corner was a poster advising me to report abuse to the police next to a poster promoting the State's efforts on behalf of families.
It was a singularly unappealing place to work. No wonder the receptionist seemed drained of life.
A middle-aged, portly Latina woman with dark hair, streaked with the first signs of grey, emerged through swinging doors. She spotted me and smiled. "Mr. Wheldon?"
I nodded and stood up, accepting her hand and shaking it.
"This way, please," she said, turning and leading.
I followed her down a dreary hall, white painted walls long faded to rancid cream, the grey-specked linoleum floor polished by institutional cleaners and only mild warping at the edges. She opened a wooden door with an inset frosted glass window and ushered me through.
"I'll be right with you," she assured me, closing the door behind her.
One scuffed square wooden table looking like it was vintage Second World War had four matching chairs around it. More posters offering kindness and hope were on the walls, all with smiling-faced, good-looking families - ideals rarely found in real life.
I sat and waited, letting my mind drift back.
The telephone call I'd received last week - Friday at five thirty-two exactly as I pulled a bottle of Corona beer from the fridge - had come out of the blue and tilted the earth under me.
I'd answered the phone and a pleasant woman's voice had asked, "May I speak with Mr. Wheldon, please?"
"Speaking."
"Bradley Weldon?" she'd inquired.
"Yes. Who's this?" I asked. And why was she using my full first name? No one did that.
"My name is Mrs. Perez. Can you confirm your date of birth as November 30, 1989?"
"Why?" I asked, now suspicious. Being intensely private, asking me to confirm my birthday set off warning bells.
"I know this is strange, Mr. Wheldon. Please bear with me. I have to confirm I'm talking to the right person."
"Again, why?"
I heard her sigh. "I'm prohibited from discussing confidential details until I can confirm you are who you are. I'm very sorry, but it's the law."
Intrigued, I pulled the kitchen chair out and sat. "Okay. Yes. That's my birthday." I took a sip of beer.
"Thank you. I'm calling from the Social Services Welfare Department in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We've been trying to find you to let you know your daughter is in our care."
Beer exploded from my mouth. I coughed to clear my lungs, finally gasping, "My what?"
"Your daughter," Mrs. Perez repeated.
"Are you sure you've got the right person?"
"Yes. Bradley Wheldon, born November 30th, 1989 is identified as the father on the birth certificate."
"That's impossible!"
In a calm tone, Mrs. Perez asked, "Did you know Christine Mather?"
An image flashed into mind; Christine, my first: sweet, blonde, cute as heck, and fourteen years old, a year younger than me. More memories flooded in; her bedroom, the scent, early afternoon, skipping school, the excitement of undressing, my first naked girl, small breasts, sexy pubes, fumbling and exploring, both of us virgins.
"Mr. Wheldon?"
"Uh, yeah?"
"It sounds like you didn't know you have a daughter," Mrs. Perez said. "This must come as a shock."
"Ya think?"
Why was my heart thumping?
In the small meeting room, I was drawn out of my reverie by the click-click sound of someone striding down the hall with purpose. Mrs. Perez had informed me Michaela Mather was twelve years old. In one accident, her mother and grandparents had perished.
Back then, thirteen years ago, I'd thought I was in love and was confused when Christine and her family had suddenly moved away without a word from her. She'd never responded to my emails and her phone had been disconnected. At fifteen, I'd agonized for a while but then forgot about her, letting her live fondly in my memory as my first.
The meeting room door opened. Mrs. Perez entered with a thick file folder clutched to her chest. Behind her, a girl entered and I knew immediately, without a shred of doubt, she was my daughter. It was evident in her deep blue eyes - my eyes - looking at me with determined coolness, and my dark brown hair. Everything else was pure Christine, slender, almost delicate, petite.
Mrs. Perez sat to my right, placing the file folder on the old table. Michaela sat across from me, studying me. A slight flush rose on her cheekbones when I openly stared at her and she turned her face away.
"Michaela, this is Bradley Wheldon, your father. Mr. Wheldon, this is your daughter, Michaela Mather. I have some formalities to get out of the way, then you two can chat."
Mrs. Perez spent the next half-hour confirming my identity, having me complete endless forms, discussing my responsibilities and Michaela's needs, explaining support services available here in New Mexico and services available back home in Arkansas and more details than I could keep track of. Through it all, out of the corner of my eye I saw Michaela surreptitiously study me. She never smiled and averted her gaze when I glanced her way.
I couldn't help being fascinated. In so many ways it was like looking at a young me and a young Christine nicely blended. In the delicateness of her features I could see Christine; slender and straight nose, high cheekbones, the shape of her face, and lips forming a sensual, classic mouth.
I forced a smile when she glanced at me. It felt artificial. Michaela didn't react with the exception of another faint flush emerging high on her cheeks.
With forms signed, Mrs. Perez closed her file.
"Well, now the legal formalities are over, I'll leave you two for a while to get acquainted. I'll be back with Michaela's things." She stood, collected the thick file folder and, with a kind smile, left the room, closing the door behind her.
Nerves jittered again. I cleared my throat. "So . . . Michaela . . ."
Michaela, now staring at me, asked almost defiantly, "How come you never tried to see me?"
My pulse jumped. "Is that what your mother said?"
Michaela shook her head. "She wasn't allowed to contact you. Why didn't you try to find me?"
"I didn't know you existed."
"If you had, would you have wanted to meet me?"
"Absolutely!" I assured her. I might be young, but I couldn't imagine abandoning a child. Why hadn't Christine told me she was pregnant?
Michaela nodded once and said, "Okay." That's it. Nothing more. Acceptance.
The silence that followed was awkward. Both of us stared. Michaela's expression was neutral, her blue eyes penetrating. She didn't fidget. She still had a dusting of pink on her cheeks. Her clothes - jeans and sweat shirt - were wrinkled and looked like they'd been worn a few days past their prime. I noticed her fingernails were chewed to the quick, and her dark hair needed brushing. It looked like she'd run her fingers through it to bring order and failed.
I also noticed how small she was; another reminder of Christine. Christine had barely brushed five feet at fourteen years old, slender and energetic. She'd made me feel tall.
Studying Michaela, I suffered from a blank mind, still in shock. She was my daughter! Jesus! Eventually, I asked, "Do you have any more questions you'd like to ask me?"
She shook her head. "Not yet."
The door opened. Mrs. Perez entered with two suitcases. "How's it going?" she asked.
"Really well. Michaela can't stop talking," I told her. Michaela flashed a quick smile that vanished as fast as it had arrived.
"Good. Well, here are her things. I'll let you go." She turned to Michaela. "Remember, if you have any problems or questions, you can always call me."
Michaela nodded. As we stood, Mrs. Perez hugged her. "It'll be fine, honey. Don't worry."
Less than an hour later, Michaela gripped the seat as I piloted the Beechcraft Baron G58 into the air for the five and a half hour flight home.
"Are you afraid of flying?" I asked over the loud noise.
Michaela shook her head, contradicting her mien, her taut body posture, and serious expression.
Despite headphones and microphones, she didn't talk. Eventually, she studied the land below us as we crossed Texas and Oklahoma on our way to Arkansas. A few hours into our flight, she started to relax.
I had hundreds of questions tumbling through my mind. I was curious about her and very curious about her mother. Yet, it didn't feel right to probe while in flight. The engine noise was not conducive to chatting. I was also still feeling hesitant.
Being a father was strange to me. I didn't see myself as one. In fact, searching myself, I couldn't find a fatherly instinct. Was there such a thing as a "fatherly instinct"? All sorts of complications loomed, the biggest being how Michaela was going to disrupt my sedate, orderly, and carefully controlled life. Would I be able to adapt? It wasn't in my nature. What would living with another person be like? How badly would my lifestyle be changed?
Glancing at Michaela, guilt hit me. Here I was worried about myself, but what was she going through? Nine weeks after losing her family and flying to an unknown future, how would I feel? Scared. Worried as hell. Was there something I should be doing to reassure her? I had no idea. I had no concept about having a child or raising one - and a girl at that! I was totally, utterly clueless!
Michaela glanced at me. Her cheeks flushed a slight pink before she turned her face away, yet her eyes remained firm and cool.
MICHAELA FELT IT AGAIN. She'd felt it the first moment she'd set eyes on Bradley; a magnetic appeal - as if she'd known him for her whole life. He was young, slender, and the first sight of his blue eyes had flooded her with warmth. Still, she didn't know him. She didn't know whether to believe he hadn't known about her or that he did and just didn't care.
Growing up, she'd dreamed about him so many times, making up situations, hoping he'd come into her life, and wondered what it would be like to have a dad. Now she had one and he wasn't like her dreams at all. She hadn't expected to react to him so strongly and strangely.
Watching the land slowly pass below, she wondered where she was going. Where did he live? Another wave of loss and sadness washed over her. I miss you so much, Mom!
The tiny airplane suddenly dipped and rose making her stomach roil again. This time, she didn't grip the seat. Large tracts of forest began to appear, the roads looking tiny and sinuous.
"We'll be landing in ten minutes," Bradley said in her headphones.
It looked rural. Rolling hills emerged covered in green. Cultivated linear blocks of land checker-boarded the valleys surrounded by higher ground, a vast forest off to the left. Slowly, a small town appeared and the plane descended. Here? She was going to live here? It was a minuscule town!
It grew larger as they descended. Then she saw a runway. With trees flashing by in a green blur, the plane hit the ground, bounced up once making her hold her breath, then settled down. Relief arrived. Back on firm ground.
The airport was small with several little planes, a helicopter, hangars and separate buildings. Twenty minutes later, secure in an SUV, she studied the passing landscape. A deep forest gave way to the town - much larger than it had appeared from above - then it was gone and they were back into the forest, the meandering road rising into hills, winding left and right. Bradley slowed and turned left.
A packed gravel and dirt drive led to an old house and large barn. The two-storied house looked ancient, yet not rundown. If anything, it was pristine. The yard was neatly tended. Wooden shutters and the balustrade looked freshly painted as was the wrap-around veranda. A pile of lumber was stacked to one side.
"Here we are," Bradley said, pulling up in front of the house.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"The city of Mena."
"That's a city we passed through?"
Bradley smiled. "It is. Almost six thousand inhabitants."
"Where are they hiding?"
He chuckled, grabbed her suitcases from the back, and led her in.
Michaela looked around with interest. The interior wasn't anything like she'd expected. It was an interesting blend of modern and old - modern entertainment system, old fireplace, old furniture. Yet, everything was spotlessly neat and clean. The old had been restored to like-new. Hardwood floors gleamed showing wonderful, rich wood grains. Down the hall, she caught a glimpse of the kitchen and an ancient enamel stove and refrigerator with rounded edges.
"Follow me," he said, climbing the stairs with her suitcases. "I know you've got stuff in storage. I'll have it shipped here as soon as I can."
She followed him, admiring the deeply polished oak banister. At the top, he paused.
"That bedroom is mine," he said, nodding towards the right. "There's a bedroom down to the left and another across from mine. Why don't you look at each and pick whichever one you want?"
Michaela walked down the left hall, passing a bathroom. She glanced into the bedroom - simple furniture, an armoire and chest of drawers both made out of beautiful wood. She returned and looked into the bedroom across from his.
"This one," she told him. She loved the large dormer window with a bench seat below it. A perfect spot to read. Besides, the room had a closet.
"Okay. This one it is." He put the suitcases on the bed. "I'll make us dinner. Come down when you're ready. Are you allergic to cheese?"
"No. Why?"
"How about tuna? Are you allergic to seafood?"
"No."
"Good."
He left her alone. Michaela sat on the bed and bounced; firm yet yielding. She left the bedroom and explored, discovering a bathroom right out of the last century with a claw foot bathtub and shower curtain on an oval rail, the shower a hand held one, white enamel sink with old-fashioned taps, the ones that looked like stars with enamel in the center - hot and cold written on them. A matching toilet with a wooden seat, and an old cabinet mirror. Everything was old yet in like-new condition. Strange.
She peeked into his bedroom. It was big, his bed large with a solid, rectangular, dark wooden headboard, an area rug at each side with bedside tables and lamps, large closet at one end and another door leading to a bathroom. Like the other bathroom, the fixtures were all old-fashioned. Why?
Returning to her room, she unpacked, neatly placing her clothes in the drawers and closet, and her books near the window. She plugged her iPhone into the wall to recharge.
This place is so strange, she thought. What will it be like living here? It's too quiet. There aren't even neighbors! It felt like she'd moved into another dimension and time!
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