In the Land of Milk and Honey Read online

  “Thanks. I may take you up on that.”

  “Think you could talk Jill into coming, too?” he hedged with a smile. I nodded, I’d try.

  Tristan barreled into the room in his blue PJs. I held out my arms, signaling for him to come over, but he looked towards the kitchen and a smile quirked up on his lips.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said and bolted back to the bedroom. Jill came wandering back in with an amused look on her face, and Violet trailed on her heels eating ice cream from the carton. He ran back in and right up to Jill.

  “I made this for you, Jillian,” he told her with a smile, and she kneeled to look at the piece of construction paper in his hands and a smile lit up on her face.

  Ian leaned down in my ear and whispered, “Boob man.” I smacked him and he chuckled, but then I thought of Daniel at my office today checking out my chest.

  “It’s beautiful. The best gift ever,” she gushed as she hugged him tightly. He seemed to be blushing when she let him go and showed the picture off to us as we ooh’d and aah’d.

  “Hey, isn’t that the drawing you gave Mommy earlier today?” I asked slowly of the crayon landscape. His bright green eyes widened because he’d been busted.

  “I’ll make you another one tomorrow, Mom. Promise,” he admitted and fidgeted with his nightshirt.

  I pursed my lips and began to wonder what other unsavory traits Daniel had passed on to my son. I shook my head. “Bath time,” I announced to him as I popped up and made my way to return him to his room.

  He hugged Jill and was still hugging Violet by the time I got to him. She seemed to be hugging him really tight, which I thought was touching.

  “Tristan?” Vi said as she stroked his hair, and I thought she was going a little overboard on the sentimentality.

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, dear sweet boy. Sugar plum, baby cakes…” she cooed, channeling her inner mommy dearest as she took his face between her hands and searched his eyes adoringly.

  “Huh?” he said confusedly.

  “How would you feel about Auntie Violet being your new step-mommy?” Vi asked in a baby voice. I tugged her by the arm, hearing laughter behind us.

  “What’s she talking about, Mom?” he puzzled.

  “Nothing at all, baby,” I answered as I narrowed my eyes at Violet and tried to shoot a laser at her.

  As we made our way down the hall, I heard her say, “What? I’m calling dibs.”

  After his bath, Tristan snuggled under his covers right away, and we talked about school for a bit before his eyes drooped down and I watched him fall asleep peacefully. I cupped his little cheek in my hand and thought about what this all meant for him. I decided then and there that I needed to make whatever decision would protect him best. I knew all too well what rejection from a parent felt like.

  If Daniel didn’t want to claim him, it was his loss. If he denied Tristan, I wouldn’t tell him who his father was because I can’t imagine the sting of watching such a highly visible man carry on a happy life knowing he wanted nothing to do with him. I never wanted him to feel not good enough because that could never be true. Children are too fragile for that kind of pain, and I would make sure that never happened. I kissed him on the forehead and shut off the lights, determined to do my best for him.

  “I’m heading out,” Violet informed me as I joined her in the kitchen. She kissed my cheek and headed for the front door, and I just had to know.

  “Violet, what happened when you found me?” I asked.

  She looked hesitant and surprised by my question. “Bree,” she sighed. “You really want to know?”

  “I think I need to,” I replied, and she searched my eyes for a few moments before pursing her lips. She seemed reluctant.

  “Well…back then you know how I was busy all the time. Just starting my line after graduating and you were still in school at the dorms. It was normal for you to blow me off because you were so super focused on school and keeping your scholarship and I was traveling…partying,” she admitted guiltily. I gave her a reassuring smile to continue.

  “So, after that New Year’s, it seemed normal when I’d call and you’d tell me you were buried under tests, books, studying…whatever. I was in and out of the country and didn’t even realize how much time had passed since I’d seen you. We’d had an argument. So I stopped by your dorm one day so you couldn’t blow me off any longer. That’s when the school told me you’d left,” she trailed off.

  “Keep going,” I encouraged her when she seemed to be getting emotional.

  “The cops found you at the park. With a crazy street woman who was a known addict. She ratted you out. They thought maybe a deal had gone wrong between you. They brought you to the hospital. I didn’t even recognize you,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You told them you were meeting someone. You weren’t well, Bree.” she dropped her head to the ground as her voice cracked.

  “It’s alright, Vi. I’m fine now,” I soothed her. She let out a humorless laugh.

  “Bree, I was supposed to watch over you. We got Mitch to let you move here because I promised I would take care of you. It’s my fault,” she said in a weak voice.

  “It happened,” I said with a shrug, and she gave me a tight-lipped grin. “Who did I say I was waiting for?”

  “When they asked, you broke down crying and kept mumbling, ‘he did this to you.’ When we asked you if you’d been raped you shouted ‘no’, over and over. But we thought you had Stockholm syndrome or maybe you’d been captive or something.” She paused, assessing my reaction, and then continued. “You never said. You screamed for a day. The nurses tied you down after you kept ripping everything out. The feeding tube, the IVs. That’s when you went catatonic. A few days, but thankfully you came out. I called Jill and she helped me take you home, but you screamed at us and fought. You were months pregnant. Even when you woke up, you were in bad shape,” she faltered. “After I checked you out, you agreed to…not have it. I refused to speak about it, but you were scared and so was I, so I started looking for late term places. That’s when Jill brought in August. You remember that part, right?” she asked, looking suddenly very tired and worn.

  “Parts,” I replied, honestly. It was still foggy in my mind though. “I don’t know, it was all so crazy.” I shook my head.

  “It was a crazy time,” she added sadly and looked down at the floor. “I’m glad you found him, though. All these years Jill and I have really thought the worst, so this is kind of a relief, right?”

  “Right,” I replied, uncertain.

  “I better get going, Bree. By the way, those bags are all your new season clothes. Whatever doesn’t fit, just give back.”

  I locked the door behind her and glanced at the pile of shopping bags. Much of my wardrobe was thanks to her generosity. I dressed well only because she stocked my closet with options, like the designer messenger bag she’d given me to use as a diaper bag. I thought it was too much, but she called it ‘transitional’. Turns out she was right. Maybe I should put more stock in Violet’s advice.

  Then I noticed Jill’s Prada overnight bag sitting right next to the clothing bags and saw her on the sofa flipping through channels on the TV.

  “You don’t mind if I crash here, do you?” she asked shyly.

  “Not at all. You know where the blankets are,” I smiled and headed to my room.

  About half an hour later, I was tucked in bed when I heard my door creak open.

  “Do you mind?” Jill asked, and I shook my head before flopping it back down on the pillow. She did the same thing Saturday night, and I woke in the early morning to the sound of her softly weeping and rocking herself. I wanted to comfort her, but she’d just be embarrassed for being caught.

  She curled in on the other side of the bed and sighed heavily.

  “You should call Ian,” I advised.

  “I should,” she admitted. “The whole thing is a mess.”

  “Are you scared?” I hedged. She seemed to not want
to be alone for one second.

  “A little,” Jill confessed.

  “That wasn’t the first time, was it?” I concluded from what Ian had seen.

  “Nope. Not by a long shot.”

  “Jill! Why didn’t you tell us? I never liked that asshole.”

  She chuckled dryly. “I stayed because it was comfortable. Not the abuse, but we knew each other’s baggage. It’s easy to stick with bullshit when you’re terrified of starting over. Then I finally move on, and he has to go and ruin it,” she whispered bitterly. “But that piece of info doesn’t leave this room, okay? The last thing I need is Ian going Rambo on Nathan.”

  I laughed at the visual; it wasn’t a stretch. “My lips are sealed, but I’ll still kill him with my bare hands if I see him,” I threatened. Jill snickered.

  “It helps being around you,” she said. “It’s nice to be around someone who has more drama than I do.”

  “Just keep your kangaroo feet on your side of the bed.”

  “Thanks, Bree,” she whispered sincerely, and I heard her take in a breath to speak. “Are you scared?”

  I let the question tumble around in my head for a minute and I answered honestly.

  “A little.”

  I knew I could shade the sun with all the hurdles I had ahead of me, but for the first time in my life I knew my son’s father. I just didn’t know if that father wanted a son.

  Chapter 9 - Trance and Transcendentalism

  About an hour later, once Jill was sound asleep, I delicately pulled the covers back, easing my feet onto the floor. It took me several minutes to open the top drawer of my nightstand while retrieving my nail clipper because her sporadic snoring startled me as the wood of the drawer creakily slid out. I turned to her once more in the dark and barely made out her twisted form in the sheets taking up most of the bed while drool dribbled down her chin. It just didn’t look as cute on Jill as it did on Tristan I mused internally.

  Satisfied that she was deep in REM, I tiptoed my way to my walk-in closet and gently closed the door behind me before turning on the lights. I pulled out my step stool and carefully pulled down the packed box from the top shelf, wobbling once, and then sat cross-legged on the ground in front of it as I sliced the seam of tape with the file on the nail clipper.

  There it was. At the very bottom of the stacks of books that held my childhood fantasies, darkest nightmares, and wildest dreams, was a deteriorated black and white composition notebook that held a single entry from over five years ago. The book was tattered with water damage and ink bleed on the pages, some ripped completely out; nothing like all my other neatly organized and labeled books. I carefully separated yellowed pages to find the entry I was looking for, and it didn’t take me long to recognize the manic script it was written in that I’d only laid eyes on once after mistakenly finding it and then hiding it away. I’d almost destroyed it. It scared me for myself and for my son.

  And now, this was the piece of the Daniel Baird puzzle that confused and concerned me the most. I read the following five-year-old journal entry silently.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  It was real.

  You didn’t dream it and you’re not crazy.

  Don’t ever let their eyes convince you.

  He was real.

  It was New Year’s Eve. I’d gone out for the night with Jill and Violet to an upscale nightclub in the theater district to celebrate. The place was packed as the party raged on, but by 1:00 a.m. I was exhausted and wanted to go home. I told them so, but they had just met two guys there and had many drinks, so they were nowhere near ready to leave. I threatened to leave without them, but they were beyond idle threats and rational thought, so I shoved their purses into their arms and told them to hold back their own hair when they wound up puking in the decrepit bathroom stall of the club. I’d take the train home on my own I said.

  They didn’t stop me, but of course, I didn’t leave. They probably knew that. It wasn’t the first time. I hid, sitting in the corner of the loud, crowded club. Waiting and watching. I couldn’t leave them there in their heavily inebriated condition with those sleazy Manhattanites, and I knew there was no way I’d find my own way home. I never left campus without them. They moved out of sight, so I stood and watched the top of Jill’s golden ginger hair as is it bobbed and bounced to the music. By 2:00 a.m. they announced no more drink service, and I knew the venue would kick everyone out soon, so I hustled through the sweaty masses to rejoin my group. I grabbed Jill’s arm, but when the woman turned around, it wasn’t Jill.

  I kept my cool as I went to the outside door of the club and watched the entire crowd of drunken partygoers drain from inside into the streets, but Violet and Jill never came out. I begged the doorman to let me back in to search, but he refused.

  That’s when I panicked. I was so worried for them. I was always the sober one, the designated driver, the one that made sure no one slipped things in their drinks, and I’d thrown a fit and abandoned them. I’d sulked since the ball drop because as of midnight, it was officially my nineteenth birthday—and nobody noticed. It was petty of me because I had all the next day to enjoy it, but it stung that Violet hadn’t acknowledged it at after the ball drop like all the years before. And now they were missing. Did those slime-balls take them home? Where to? All I could think of was my father’s old line, “You could be dead in a ditch.”

  I didn’t have any money and my cell phone was dead. I cursed myself for not carrying a purse. I walked through the streets for blocks and ended up on the Upper East Side. I needed a phone, so I went inside the first safe place I could find still open at this hour: The Waldorf Astoria Hotel. I called Violet’s and Jillian’s phones repeatedly, leaving frantic voicemails until the concierge told me if I wasn’t a guest, I had to leave. I asked her if I could use the restroom first, and she agreed.

  I splashed water on my face and tried to regroup, deciding I would wait outside Jill’s studio apartment in Midtown. It was the closest to here, I knew that much, and if they didn’t show by morning, I’d try to track down Jill’s brother to help—and possibly the police.

  I walked through the halls of the hotel as I made my way out. It was opulently decorated in gilded golds and looked like a French palace. There were banquet halls where private parties were still in full swing with music flooding the halls. There was a string quartet in the lounge, a live rock cover band playing all the obnoxious New Year’s songs in a separate ballroom, and couples covered in confetti laughed and blew horns between kisses as they headed up to their rooms. But through all that noise, there was an undercurrent of something that caught my attention. Something I couldn’t ignore.

  I closed my eyes and focused on the sound until it led me to a closed set of double doors in the far corner. With an uncommon bravery, I peeked inside and was overcome with sound of a baby grand piano’s cry, the notes taking ownership of the air like it was borrowed to begin with, and the back of a lone dark-haired figure playing like his life hung on it.

  The room was ornate and completely mirrored with a large crystal chandelier hung in the center, but the piano was the only furniture there. Table and chairs that had been broken down were leaned against the walls, which I only observed through my peripheral vision because my eyes were glued to the instrument. I craned my neck in to see the player in the reflection, but his hair covered everything, and he leaned over so far his nose was practically touching the piano. He must be a master, I thought to myself. Some prodigy of Juilliard because this rivaled everything I’d ever heard from the greats.

  It was the most intensely melancholy sound. It was sweet and sorrowful, bitter and beautiful. It didn’t wail, it wept. I’d never heard anything like it. It chilled me and warmed me all at once. I could see the back of the player as he hunched over the black lacquered instrument of only wood and metal, but he was making it human and it was giving him everything it had. I watched his spinal column writhe like a snake, his music the charmer, and h
is shoulder blades shift with each movement underneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. His fingers moved furiously across the keys demanding more, and it gave it all. He wasn’t patient as I watched his head jerk swiftly on certain notes, and nod slowly, encouragingly on others while frenzied hands crept and lunged along the ivory and ebony ladies at his tips. But I wasn’t witnessing a seduction; it was a pillaging in its rawest form.

  The bittersweet yearning of the piece wound into a resigned acceptance and after the final note, a quiet sob echoed through the empty room. The player became completely immobile, and my eyes flickered from where they’d been mesmerized on the keys to meet the reflection of enraged eyes under a formidable lowered brow.

  Completely mortified that I’d intruded on something so private, I ran, moving as fast as my legs could take me, and hoping they wouldn’t fail. I stumbled once so I gathered my dress in my hand as I blew past the concierge who was shouting something, and out the front door of the hotel I ran.

  The cold night air filled my lungs in big gusts and my cheeks stung, but I kept moving. Around the block and then another, until finally they gave out. I stepped into the covered entry of a small closed deli and leaned against the glass, sliding to the cold concrete ground. I pulled the skirt of my dress around my ankles and wrapped my arms around my knees, still panting, heart racing. Quiet steps approached me but I couldn’t see straight, so I tried to be still.

  But he was there. The player.

  He was easily over six feet tall and thin. His dingy white T-shirt hung limply on his hunched shoulders and an equally dingy white dress shirt was slung over the left, and I noticed underneath the fabric of the hanging shirt that his sagging jeans were bunched at the waist. He took one step, closing our distance, and sat down next to me, inches away. All I could think to do was bury my face in my knees and let my hair cover me.

  “Look at me,” he ordered, and I did. And he was looking back.

  But he didn’t look upset. His hair was wild and greasy, falling in his face, and he looked weeks into the process of growing an ungroomed beard, the shade of an old penny. His cheekbones protruded from above the uneven line of facial hair, and dark circles resided under tired eyes. His skin was sallow and although it was very cold and he was grossly underdressed, beads of sweat like dew formed around the corners of his forehead. His nose looked like it belonged on a statue for all its perfection except for a small healing mark on the bridge, and he had a single cigarette tucked behind his ear, held in place by his tangle of hair.