It was worse for Lincoln, though, because that secret had been kept and nurtured by people he believed were his parents. Worse, as far as he knew, his real parents had abandoned the search for him.
What he didn’t know, what he hadn’t given me time to tell him the night before, was the Meiers were not his parents. Lily had not stolen their child. The reason she had those newspaper clippings about them and their plight was because she’d once spent an afternoon in Garamond, Pennsylvania. The next day she kidnapped an infant from a car parked at a roadside rest on the turnpike a few hundred miles from Garamond.
That’s right, Lincoln. If only you had listened. After her car was repaired, she drove west. Toward evening the next day, her stomach started grumbling and she knew she had to find a bathroom immediately. Luckily there were signs for a rest stop. Speeding up, she got there in the nick of time. Leaping out of the car, she barely noticed a Chevrolet Corvair parked ten feet down the way. No one was inside. No time to think about it. She ran to the bathroom.
Coming out, she saw the car again and would have ignored it except this time she heard a baby crying inside. Concerned, she started toward it. Way off in the field behind the parking area two people laughed. She looked and barely saw two heads moving up and down just above the grass out there. They were laughing, groaning, wrestling around. They were making love! What nerve! They’d felt like doing it, pulled right off the road, and ran into the nearest field. They were so lucky, whoever they were. She envied them their happiness and their guts. They had everything, she had nothing. Staring into the field unashamed, she wasn’t a voyeur; she was looking at happiness. She was drowning in her own life. A drowning woman looking at land for the last time.
But why was the child crying? It had to be theirs. Inside the Corvair on the back seat, a red-faced baby strapped into a powder-blue bassinet howled so savagely that all its features seemed to have congealed in the middle of its face. It certainly needed something—food, a new diaper, a hug—but Mom and Pop were occupied.
Lily looked both ways, saw no one, opened the driver’s door, and pushed the seat forward. The child stopped crying a second and glared at her. That meant nothing, but was all she needed. Stepping into the car, she took the baby in her arms and, without once looking back, ran to her Opel and drove off.
One day months later she was in a supermarket and saw that shitty newspaper The Truth. The one that talks about alien landings and cancer cures. On the front page was a headline: “The Town Where Babies Disappear.” There was a picture of Garamond, which she recognized because right in front was the gas station where they’d fixed her car. She bought the paper and read the article standing outside the market. Two babies in three years had been kidnapped from there, and neither had been found. They gave the names of the families. One was Meier. There were pictures of them and she loved how both of them looked. Wonderful faces. Intelligent in very different ways. They weren’t Lincoln’s parents. She didn’t ever want to know who the real ones were, but the same thing had happened to these people so close to where she had taken him. It was too much of a coincidence. After that, she always envisioned them as his parents. So every once in a great while she’d find ways of checking up on them over the years. I saw the clippings. First she called telephone information in Garamond for the address there. When they moved, she got the forwarding address from the post office. A couple of years later she wrote the newspaper in the new town where they lived and asked if there had been anything written about them. She said she was family and was working on a scrapbook for a planned big reunion. She always used a false name when she asked and had stuff sent to a post office box. What difference did it make? Who could connect them to her?
Lincoln could.
If he had torched the Meier house without ever having spoken to them, what would he do to Lily? Now that Lincoln knew Anwen Meier was not his mother, he would leave her alone. But he wouldn’t leave Lily alone, that was sure. One way or another, now or later, Lily and me… And possibly even—the thought was so horrendous and terrifying my mind almost wouldn’t process it: What might he do to his little sister?
I could have stayed and talked to Brendan, but what would it accomplish? Further prove what I already knew? Brendan’s story was simply too astonishing not to be believed. He had been kidnapped but was found and returned to his parents years later. How maddeningly unfair and ironic that must have been for Lincoln to hear! I pictured the two boys on the Meier front lawn early that morning. Was it light yet? Two boys with histories no human being deserved. One shirtless, in tattered clothes and a porcupine haircut, the other just out of bed in still-warm pajamas (such an endearing image—a teenage boy in his pajamas), talking together on the lawn. What did they say? How had their conversation gone? Walking back to my rented car, I went through half a dozen scenarios of what they’d said to each other in the short period before Lincoln, in an enlightened rage, attacked Brendan and kicked him in the groin. That was his style—kick ‘em in the balls, keep a gun behind your dresser, drive off in a stolen Mercedes. Our son. My son.
When he was young and bored, Lincoln would wander into my room with an expectant look on. Checking to see if I was busy, he’d come over and ask, “So, what’s going on, Max?”
“Not much, sport. What’s up with you?”
“Nothin’. You wanna do something together? Only if you’re free, you know. Only if you have time.”
I made time; I loved knowing this little boy liked to hang around with me.
I thought about that, racing out of Somerset for the second time in my life. It made me smile. Many of those good memories came during the ride back to New York, making it even more painful. It reminded me of driving away from a funeral. The fine memories of the times you spent with the dead one. All gone.
I had decided what to do by the time I reached the turnpike. At the next rest area I would pull off, find a telephone book, and start calling different airlines. When was their next plane to Los Angeles? What airport did it leave from? I had no doubt Lincoln would go home now. His anger at the Meiers had boomeranged on him in the most shocking, unexpected way. What else could he do but punish Lily a double dose now? First make her tell him who his real parents were so he could try to find them. And then… But Lily didn’t know. I was sure of that. Didn’t even remember where on the road she’d kidnapped him. That information could have easily been found by contacting the police in the area, but neither of us did it. Why? Because she didn’t want to know and neither did I, having decided to keep her secret all those years ago for my own selfish reasons.
I despaired, thinking of how great a head start he had on me. He was probably at an airport now, if not already on a plane heading home. I’d ask the airlines that too—how long ago did your last flight to L.A. leave? Would it be possible to find out if a certain Lincoln Fischer was on board? Would they tell you that over the phone? No.
I had to call Lily too. Call and warn her to get out of our house, our life, take our baby girl, run as fast as she could from our son, who was coming because he knew. And he knew because it was my fault. It was all my fault. Everything bad now I made, I caused. Looking too hard two thousand days ago, I should have left it alone and trusted my love and not my suspicions. My fault. Raising this lovely boy all wrong, not giving him what he needed to grow up a good soul. My fault. Giving him all the wrong directions to the right path. My fault. And taking notes!? Keeping a record of my life as a sinful man? Why? Why had I done these things? You did what you could. You did what you thought was right. No, you did what you thought would save you and Lily and fuck the rest of the world. That was the truth, wasn’t it? Fuck the rest of the world. My fault.