Set Me Free (46 page)

As the years passed, and no agents knocked at his door, and no private eyes flashed mug shots of Caroline at his boss or neighbors,
hoping to make an ID, Nat began to wonder whether you’d given up the search. If you’d done that, what kind of father did that
make you? He’d look at your scrambling, gorgeous girl—now
his
scrambling, gorgeous girl—and know that you didn’t deserve her. Nat had promised Caroline that if anything happened to her,
he’d guard Willa with his life, and he’d return her to you, Willa’s father. He figured that he’d kept the best part of that
promise, even after he read of a man named Elliot Barrow who’d started a school out in Oregon for Indian kids. Willa was seven
when Nat read that article. He thought: “Maybe this isn’t the same Elliot Barrow.” He decided, just in case: “We do not go
west of the Mississippi.” He vowed: “I will forget I ever read this.” He burned the article up. There was a hectic dailiness
to attend to: school lunches to pack, swings to push, bedtime stories to tell. Nat didn’t let himself stop and think about
the enormity of what he’d done. Just kept moving. Once he and Willa had settled down in Connecticut, once he’d put a roof
over their heads, a life of secrecy was no longer a daily improvisation; it became a habit.

That is, until he turned on his radio that morning a few weeks ago and everything changed. As Bob Edwards’s voice broke the
story, Nat could feel his life breaking apart. First came the name: Elliot Barrow. Then the urgency of the accident: the man
was as good as dead. For an instant Nat was tempted to think this might be a different man, a different Elliot from the one
who’d fathered Caroline’s child, the stranger he’d read about in that education magazine. Then Bob Edwards clinched it. This
Elliot Barrow had once been linked to radical activism in the 1970s and early ‘80s. Seems his wife had been a terrorist. Killed
by a bomb. What an incredible man, a true hero, an inspirational story, Elliot Barrow was. He had gone on to found Ponderosa
Academy in hopes of showing
people that radical change was possible through daily, peaceful endeavor. That, finally, was what brought Nat to his knees.

There in his kitchen, watching the goldfinches mobbing the thistle, Nat saw the collapse of his world. When he had first lifted
Willa out of Caroline’s arms and made his promise, he hadn’t been thinking about Willa or Elliot. He’d been thinking about
Caroline. He’d always wanted to woo her, to please her, to earn her trust. Nothing had changed. A few days later, Nat saw
Caroline’s picture in the paper and read her other name: Astrid Lux Barrow. That was when, for the first time, he thought
about Elliot. Right then, right there, with the newspaper spread open in front of him, he decided to break half that promise
and be damned. As far as he was concerned, you’d died alongside the woman who’d married you and not him.

Only then did he think,
really think,
about Willa, who’d grown accustomed to greedily gulping formula from the bottle he held, peeing her way through those mounds
of disposable diapers he’d grown adept at changing. First she would cry and he wouldn’t know what to do, but once he picked
her up or slipped her into the Snugli, she’d smooth down into a lump on his chest, and he’d gather her into his rhythm and
place his hand on her back. Already he loved, without measure, without reason, the astonishing mewing girl in his arms. He
loved her as if she were his own.

For over seventeen years, Nat was able to believe that you, Elliot Barrow, were a monster. For over seventeen years, Nat was
able to believe that even though the FBI might want him for kidnapping, he’d done the right thing. Hell, he’d done better
than keeping Caroline’s promise; he’d kept her daughter. And he’d kept her daughter safe by giving her a life of love.

That thought sustained him. Then the radio told him that Elliot Barrow was still alive, that Elliot Barrow was not a monster;
Elliot Barrow was a great man among men. Suddenly, forcefully, Nat realized he still had time to fulfill the rest of the promise.
He couldn’t make Willa come with him to the dying man’s bedside, but he could make her feel that she should, so he packed
the car.

No one can blame Nat for being racked by a hideous, irreparable grief and guilt over what he’d done once he realized the enormity
of his transgression. Stealing another man’s child is not just a crime against the man; it is a crime against the child. In
this case, a crime against
two
children. How great a crime it was became obvious the moment Nat laid eyes on Amelia, and Ponderosa Academy, and his own
Willa standing in the middle of a life that could have been hers, except for him.

The minute the police dropped Nat off at our door—he was to pick up his Volvo later, in Bend, where he’d spent the night in
custody—Willa forgave him absolutely, with her entire heart and body. She clung to him and wept, murmuring, “Daddy, Daddy,
Daddy.”

Amelia, knowing that you would never hug her again, stood to the side, looking on in wonder, and then Nat opened his arms
even wider and welcomed Amelia into his lanky embrace. “Look at you,” he kept saying. “Just look at you.” And then; “I am
so sorry. Please forgive me, I am so sorry.”

Which brings me to you, Elliot. As all of us—led by your daughters—ask you to forgive Nat, we also ask you to forgive yourself.
We know now that you were looking for Willa, and look! Elliot, something even better has happened: she has found
you.

After Willa walked into our midst, after Helen screamed and sobbed and yelled, she began to murmur, “You weren’t crazy after
all, you were never crazy.” She was talking to
you,
because seventeen years ago, you laid your head in her lap and cried, and she thought you were crazy. Ravaged by grief, exhausted
by the countless number of police interviews needed to establish your complete and utter lack of awareness of Astrid’s devastating
illegal activities, you were undone. The moment you’d heard about Astrid’s death, you’d begun ranting about Willa, your other
baby. And guess what—I don’t have to tell you this—everyone, lawyers, police detectives, family, friends, assured you
there is no second baby.
There was only one birth certificate. Only you and Astrid and her midwife at
the birth, and the midwife was nowhere to be found. By the time you called Helen to you, you’d begun to believe you were truly
insane. Helen was your test; Helen would advise you what to do. So you confided in her too.

You told her about the existence of the two girls, and that one of them had disappeared with Astrid when she’d fled. Later,
after the explosion, your lawyer was not so indulgent as he’d been at first. He’d attempted to expand the scope of the investigation,
but the remains at the explosion site were all adults. Six people, including Astrid and the midwife, identified by their dental
records. Then there was the fact that no one had ever seen the second baby. The lawyer had neatly explained this part of the
argument by the time Helen showed up. You wanted Helen to know that this meant simply that no one had ever seen the two babies
together at once, which, as far as you were concerned, meant nothing at all.

What Helen did that night was to hold you in her arms, to gather up your baby girl Amelia, and to tell you that Amelia was
reason enough to pull yourself together. Didn’t you realize you could lose
her,
Amelia, if you let grief drive you mad? By morning, true to form, you rose from Helen’s lap, washed your face, and declared,
“Enough of this craziness!”

Seventeen years later, Helen knew that you’d managed to keep Amelia, but it was only at the end of your life that Willa had
come back to you. Worse still, you’d tried to tell Helen about this loss more than once. In fact, she understood that you’d
been talking about Willa moments before you’d tried to rescue your other daughter from the fire. You’d sounded optimistic,
and this optimism was what sent her, on the morning after Willa’s appearance, straight to your office. In your desk, she easily
found the file folder labeled
WILLA.
Inside, she read the letter from the detective and a printout of two hundred names and addresses. Red checks by all the names
from A through K. Willa Llewellyn was on that list. A circle around her name. Her phone number underlined. You were right.
You had found her.

You were on your way to your Willa. That was the reason you
wanted us here, at the school, to go about your business in your stead. That was the reason you were so tempted by the possibility
of collaborating with Benson Country Day. You were leaving. You were going to get your lost baby yourself. Summer was approaching.
You had a plan. You were on your way. But you couldn’t abandon us utterly. You knew that in Helen’s and my hands, with the
helpful expertise of Benson, the Neige Courante children you had come to love would continue to thrive at Ponderosa Academy.
Sure, it was an arrogant plan. Then again, that was your style; you excelled at I-know-what’s-right-for-you. I used to hate
this about you. But now I wonder: what if you were right? The headmaster of Benson Country Day called me the morning after
the fire to express his condolences, to offer his support. I was cynical. But he has called every day since. He has been down
to visit you three times. He tells me he sees our schools as two separate entities bound together by tragedy but also by possibility.
He hopes we can carry on your vision of collaboration, and he is encouraging about financial possibilities for your Ponderosa
Academy. I hate to admit it, but his ideas don’t sound so bad. I bet that doesn’t surprise you.

What comes next? Helen. I bring you Helen. Not as your ex-wife, not as your next in command, not as the woman who is marshaling
and cajoling your girls through this hard, hard time. No. I bring you Helen as the woman I love, the woman I’d want to tell
you about if we’d ever shared these things.

Helen stayed. I knew at first that she was staying for Amelia and Amelia alone. After Elliot’s accident, Helen was the one
who got the grieving Amelia up each day, fed her, helped her shower, did her laundry. I don’t know what I would have done
if Helen hadn’t been here to get us all through that first awful week. When Willa showed up, I saw that the second girl and
what she brought with her—that pain and glowing need—was another reason for Helen to stay.

I knew that Calbert Fleecing was not the reason Helen woke in the morning. To be fair, Helen wasn’t my reason for getting
through each day either; like her, I had an eye on those girls. I was
caught up in worrying about you and holding your proverbial hand and getting the school through to the end of the year.

So Helen and I didn’t have much of a chance to talk about the weather, let alone what had or had not passed between us. I’d
like to tell you that I didn’t think about her romantically at all that first week or so. I’d like to tell you I was so selfless
that when she pressed past me on the stairs, I didn’t remember how salty her skin was, or that her loosened hair smelled of
fig and cassis. But now that I’m a responsible adult, I’m trying to keep my lies to a minimum.

The first moment we had alone was the night when Suzanne Cinqchevaux scooped up Amelia, Willa, and Nat and took them up to
her house for a good hot meal. You were suspended between life and death, and that seemed to have become the pervading metaphor
for all of us: we were holding our breath. For what, we didn’t know. I was finishing up washing a sink full of dirty dishes.
I found Helen downstairs, on the porch. The night breeze carried the promise of summertime.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.

She jumped at the sound of my voice. “Seemed like a good time to start again.” She offered me one. I took it and hoped she’d
lean in to me and touch the glowing orange of her cigarette to mine. She offered me a box of matches instead. “Beautiful night,”
she said, looking back out again. She leaned against a porch beam, and I saw how badly she needed something to hold her up.
It figured. We had all been leaning on her.

“When do you think you’ll head east?” I asked.

She took another drag, then looked me in the eye. “You’re really asking me that? After all I’ve done?”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I meant, I know you have another life. One you want to get back to… right? The ticket you
had to Vermont?”

“I guess,” she said.

I picked my own porch beam to lean against and looked where
she was looking. Nothing much to see. Just the headlights out on the highway, pointing north and pointing south.

“How is Michael?” I asked carefully.

“Dying.”

There’s not much to answer to that. I tried another tack. “I didn’t mean to bother you.” I turned to go. She called my bluff
and let me walk away. She wasn’t going to stop me. Had I not turned back, I would have ended up inside. “Actually—”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me why you’re so angry with me? Because you know I’m sorry. I told you I’m sorry about the phone calls with
Duncan, and—”

“You really think this is about Duncan?”

I came back beside her. “Isn’t it?”

She took another drag and watched me. “You know”—she exhaled—“you always want to talk about
me.
About
my
life. You want to hear about what I’ve done and who I’ve loved and where I’ve lived. At first I was flattered. I mean, it
really goes well with your whole sensitive-new-age guy routine. But I get it now: you just don’t want to have to talk about
yourself.”

“Maybe,” I said, and I couldn’t believe it, but gladness tugged at the corners of my mouth.

“Maybe,” she said, shaking her head.

“What do you want to know?”

“Maybe I’m not interested anymore.”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but here’s your chance to decide.”

She raised her eyebrows and looked me up and down. The light from the porch lamp made her whole self yellow. “Your father,”
she said.

“What about my father?”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

That was when I smiled for real. Because that was how well she already knew me. She knew exactly the question no one had ever
been brave enough to ask. “He’s dead,” I said.