Chapter 3 - The ReunionWe walked inside.
The smell hit me first.
Old wood.
Floor cleaner.
Laundry detergent.
Toast.
Crayons.
Children.
I had forgotten that children have a smell as a group.
Not unpleasant.
Warm.
Alive.
There were drawings taped along the hallway.
Crooked houses.
Dogs with five legs.
Families holding hands.
One drawing showed a purple dinosaur labeled MR. KEVIN despite there being, according to Sister Catherine, no Kevin on staff.
She walked me through the building.
I listened.
Not because I am charitable by nature.
Because my mother raised me in an apartment three blocks from a place almost like St. Margaret’s.
She worked in a hardware store by day and cleaned offices at night.
Our heat failed every winter.
I learned at nine that an oven with the door open could warm a kitchen but also kill you if you were stupid enough to forget ventilation.
When I became wealthy, people assumed I donated because rich men need plaques.
I donated because I remembered being cold.
Sister Catherine showed me the broken east wing.
The library with two shelves and chairs that did not match.
A boiler older than several democratic governments.
Then we reached the common room.
Twenty-seven children.
Blocks.
Books.
Puzzles.
Noise.
The sound dropped when I entered.
I knew that silence.
Adults made it too.
The body’s ancient response to danger.
Stop moving.
Assess.
Wait.
Children were less polite about staring.
I stood in the doorway.
They stared back.
Then one little girl near the rear of the room stood.
Yellow sweater.
White collar.
Dark hair curling at the ends.
Maybe six.
Her face went still.
So did mine.
I did not know why yet.
She took a step.
Another.
Then ran.
Nico shifted behind me.
I raised one hand without looking.
The girl crossed the room.
Children moved aside.
She reached me.
Wrapped both arms around my leg.
And said:
“Daddy.”
No one breathed.
I wish I could tell you I knew immediately.
That some invisible instinct passed between us.
That blood recognized blood.
That is sentimental nonsense.
What I knew immediately was that her eyes were the same gray-green as mine.
Uncommon.
Not impossible.
Her left cheek dimpled when she tightened her mouth.
Mine did too when I was young.
Her nose belonged to Alina.
That was harder to dismiss.
I looked down.
The girl pressed her face against my knee as if the question had already been resolved for her.
“Daddy.”
My hands hung uselessly beside me.
I had negotiated with men who threatened my life without losing track of my breathing.
I had been shot once.
Stabbed twice.
Arrested three times.
Nothing had ever prepared me for six-year-old arms.
I crouched.
Slowly.
She released my leg and immediately put both arms around my neck.
I did not hug her yet.
I was afraid to.
“What’s your name?”
She pulled back.
“Lucia.”
My chest tightened.
Not Sophia.
Good.
Maybe.
Reason.
“Lucia what?”
She shrugged.
“Just Lucia.”
Sister Catherine approached carefully.
“Lucia, sweetheart. Do you know this man?”
The child looked offended.
“Yes.”
“How?”
She looked at me.
“Mama showed me.”
Every hair on my arms lifted.
“Showed you what?”
“A picture.”
Sister Catherine said gently:
“Whose picture?”
“Daddy.”
My throat closed.
The child touched one finger beneath my eye.
“Mama said his eyes look like the lake when rain comes.”
Alina’s words.
Not exact.
Close enough.
On our third date, she once said my eyes looked “like Lake Michigan before a storm.”
I had mocked her for being poetic.
May you like
She told me I was emotionally illiterate.
She was right.
