March 18, 2016

My father is frail. He's going to turn seventy-five years old at the end of May, and decades of heavy drinking have taken their toll on his body. Though he's stuck with his sobriety since Christmas, and welcomes my visits and phone calls, there's no reversing the damage - both physical and habitual.

He shuffles when he walks. He looks like every drunk person I've ever seen or been, trying to make his way from point A to point B, like the ground under him isn't stable. As evening approaches and he gets tired, he starts slurring his words slightly, like his mind remembers the alcohol that is no longer coursing through his veins. His hands still shake a lot.

I've spoken with him on the phone once a week since Christmas, and Derek and I have visited him in Delaware three times. He's open to my questions, but his body language is easy to read. One word answers to anything means, "Don't ask me anymore."

I asked him how much he was really drinking, and he told me it increased over time. At first it was just at nights to get to sleep, and then it became an all-day thing, but not always. When he was out on the water, he was careful.

I asked him how he initially got from Italy to the US, and he described in detail how he'd gotten a job on a cargo ship to make the journey.

When I asked him what he did when he wasn't drinking or passed out or fishing, he shrugged his shoulders. "Wrote."

One word, end of conversation.

He never mentions my mother, and when I have - twice - he doesn't even give me a one word response. His lips close into a thin line and he says nothing at all.

I made the trek to Delaware early on the Sunday morning after Derek and I found out I was pregnant; I didn't go to tell him about the baby, I went to tell him about Leon.

Derek and I agreed not to tell anyone I was pregnant just yet. Neither of us were naive; no matter how much we hoped and believed that I'd carry this pregnancy to term, at my age, the odds of miscarriage were much higher, even after seeing a heartbeat. We agreed to get through the first trimester and the first round of prenatal tests.

I might have been more open to people knowing right away if I actually felt pregnant. I wanted to be throwing up and feeling incredibly nauseous. I wanted my breasts to ache and the thought of touching them to make me cringe. I'd experienced both when I was fifteen, and this time I had none of that. Not really.

I had the modest nausea that I'd attributed to feeling anxious or nervous about Leon for the past couple of weeks. I was only just slightly more tired than usual. It concerned me. I wanted to feel more; I wanted to feel everything. I wanted every classic pregnancy symptom expanded exponentially at the prescribed time to make this feel real.

When we woke up that first Saturday morning after we knew, with Leon still passed out next to me in the bed, I looked at Derek's face and he looked like he'd regressed about ten years, age-wise. It's not that I'd never seen him relaxed before or happy; in the past several months, relaxed and happy had been pretty much a mainstay for us. But he looked different, and I couldn't pinpoint the emotion I saw on his face.

When Leon woke up, he smiled at us both. Then he heard slight sounds that filtered their way up from the kitchen one floor below and smiled even wider. "Nana," he said. He bolted from our bed and I could hear his feet on the stairs.

He called us Emily and Derek, but was immediately fine with a title for Fran. It was understandable. He'd had a mother, and he may not have had a father, but he had some contextual basis for them, namely in the form of his mother's sketchy boyfriends. He hadn't told us much about himself or his life before he was kidnapped, but we'd gotten that much out of him.

Fran was a grandmother from storybooks and cartoons and movies and Leon bonded with her instantly. She came to us on the wings of a one-way plane ticket, and said she'd stay until we got sick of her or she got tired of us, which we all knew was not likely to happen. Derek told me when Fran first arrived at the airport that she'd introduced herself as Derek's mom, which Leon knew, because I'd explained that to him in detail before I left for work that morning. He may not have been able to speak too much English yet, but he could understand quite a bit. Fran told Leon he could call her Fran or Nana, and she'd been Nana ever since.

I listened from our bed that morning as Leon's feet landed on the first floor of the house and he happily greeted Fran in the kitchen. Derek pulled me to him and kissed my forehead. That was when we discussed telling people about the baby, and we decided to wait.

"I didn't get to tell you about yesterday in Williamsburg," he whispered to me before I got out of bed.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He really liked being around the other kids who were in the garden there," Derek told me. He told me the whole story about the day, how Leon was kind and curious about being in such close proximity to other children. And we decided it was time to start extending Leon's social circles. Our initial thought was JJ and her family; JJ because she's practically impossible to feel uncomfortable around, and Henry because he was nearly two years younger than Leon, but kind and mature for his age. We both acknowledged that Penelope needed to be included, because she'd been showing astounding restraint staying away since we brought Leon home, and we couldn't not invite her to this first gathering.

That was how we ended up with JJ, Will, Henry, baby Zachary and Penelope over at our house that Saturday afternoon. Leon was shy at first around everyone. He glued himself to my side and stared, his blue eyes blinking slowly at all of the newcomers in the living room.

Henry lifted up a large box - a lego set. "I brought Legos," he said quietly while glancing between Leon and JJ, like he wasn't quite sure what to do. But JJ and Will must have prepared him well, because he looked at me and said, "Emily, can you please tell him I brought legos and ask him if he wants to play with me?"

So I squeezed Leon's hand and translated. Slowly, Leon nodded. He stepped towards Henry, and smiled. Henry returned the grin that looked so much like JJ's it made me wonder what our baby's smile would be like, mine or Derek's.

Things settled comfortably after that. Derek and Will got on the floor with the boys and the legos. JJ, Penelope and I sat around the kitchen table with Fran, who lovingly held Zachary, drinking tea. I watched Leon, who probably had never had many toys, and probably had had even fewer friendships. He was a natural at it though, being a friendly little boy when he felt safe and secure. And he was surprisingly good with Legos, once he got the instruction manual in his hands. Though the language barrier was significant, the non-verbal communication was sweet and age-appropriate.

We all had pizza together for dinner that evening, and Leon's comfort level increased with everyone. It didn't escape me, as my slice of pizza was before me, that I picked off the sausage. The smell and thought of eating it made my stomach roll, and I knew it had nothing to do with nerves or anxiety about Leon anymore. Sausage was typically my pizza go-to topping, and I watched JJ raise one eyebrow slightly as I picked it off. I smiled at her and shrugged, and she said nothing, because she was JJ and she wouldn't. But I also watched her grin slightly as she took her first bite of pizza.

It was after that, while all of the adults were sitting around and talking, that Leon was walking with Henry around the living room. He stopped at the fireplace mantle and pointed to the ship in the bottle. "Little Moon," Leon said. "My grandfather made." He grinned at Henry, and my heart did a stutter step.

Later that night, when Derek and I were putting him to bed, Leon asked me quietly in French if Fran knew what happened to Derek when he was a younger. I told him she did. He blushed and asked if Fran knew about what had happened to him, and I hugged him and told him she did. He went through the list. "Does JJ and Will? Does Penelope?" Yes, I told him. "Does Henry?" No, I assured him.

He was quiet for several minutes after that. He laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then he told me as best as he could at his age that his foster parents in Paris were nice, but they wanted to pretend like it never happened, which made him feel like he couldn't talk about it, or anything relating to it, like how the kids at school made fun of him and hit him.

I assured him that he could talk to us about anything. I assured him that he was safe with us and could feel however he wanted to feel and we would understand. I told him that pretending bad things didn't happen didn't make them go away; I told him accepting those bad things and working through them allowed us to let go, even if we could never totally forget. I said it in English and French, so Derek could understand.

He sat next to Leon on the bed and put his hand over the little boy's. Leon asked Derek how often he thought about what happened to him. More specifically, he asked if there were days when he didn't think about it all. I translated. Derek assured him that yes, that will happen, but it takes time.

"How long?" Leon asked.

Derek spoke and I translated again. "I don't know for sure. I never told anybody about what happened to me for many, many years. I never talked to anybody about it. I think because of that, I thought about what happened quite a bit. Once people I cared about knew, and I stopped being embarrassed about that, it started getting easier to not think about it. And then one day I realized I hadn't thought about in a week and it surprised me. And then it was a month. Sometimes things come up and I still think about it, but it doesn't hurt as much when that happens anymore. It's better now, much better, because I told my whole story."

Leon stared at Derek for a long time before crawling into his lap and wrapping his little arms around Derek's neck. "What was his name?" Leon asked in French, but Derek didn't need a translation for that.

I watched him swallow with great difficulty and his eyes landed on me. He hugged Leon to his chest and said, "Carl."

"Did it hurt?" Leon asked with his head buried on Derek's shoulder.

Derek raised his eyebrow at me and I converted the question to English, speaking past the lump in my throat.

"Yes," Derek said softly.

Leon looked up from Derek's shoulder and asked me, "JJ and Will don't think I'd hurt Henry do they?"

I sat down and put my arms around him and Derek. "No, Leon. They know bad things can happen to people. Terrible things. But they also know that doesn't mean you'd hurt someone the same way. They know because Derek would never hurt anyone. And they know because they've met many children and adults in their jobs who had bad things happen to them, and they never hurt anyone else. I think they very much want you and Henry to be friends. When they see you, they see a kind boy and a good person."

The whole conversation wiped us all out emotionally. Leon was quiet after that, as we tucked him in for the night. He hugged us both and he kissed my cheek. We left his room and I made it the few steps across the hallway to our room. I collapsed into bed, my arms around Derek, pulling him with me, holding him to me and keeping my ear against the beating of his heart. It all just felt so raw and precarious - Leon and helping him grow up emotionally strong and healthy despite his past, me being pregnant, being there with Derek at all like this, raising a family.

I think Derek was feeling similarly, because we got up from the bed and quietly got ourselves ready for sleep. Back into pajamas, we fell into bed together again and resumed the same position. I fell asleep with my head on Derek's chest, his fingers running through my hair, both of us in deep thought.

And we woke up in the same position early the next morning, with no little boy in bed next to me. Leon had made it the whole night in his bed. It made me think about the power of taking risks and telling truths, even when those truths and the reactions that might come were unpredictable or worrisome.

I opened my mouth to tell Derek I loved him, and what came out was, "I need to go tell my father about Leon."

That Sunday morning drive was cloudy with intermittent sprinkles, but it was clear by the time I got to Delaware. I found my father on his boat, barefoot and in jeans and a t-shirt. The whole scene looked a lot different than it did back in November, when both my father and his boat were relatively unkempt and dirty.

Plus, he smiled hugely when he saw me and stepped onto the dock to give me a hug. "I wasn't expecting you," he said quietly in my ear. Gone was the smell of unwashed hair and alcohol. In its place was the clean smell of Irish Spring soap and something else that was a scent I associated with my father from when I was a young girl.

"I know. I needed to talk to you," I responded.

He invited me onto his boat and we sat across from each other. I was nervous, but I launched right in. "The case in August? The one you had the newspaper clippings from?" I asked. He nodded and I continued, "There was a little boy I met during that time, one of the victims. He's had a bad time of it and he tried to kill himself a few weeks ago. When I got the call, Derek and I flew to Paris. We brought him back home with us. His name's Leon and he's eight years old. He's a wonderful little boy and I'm so happy we have him."

My father's eyes met mine and he didn't look away. I wouldn't say his mouth moved into a thin line, which was an indicator that he didn't want to talk about it or it was too much for him. After a few seconds he smiled slightly at me. "It's good he's with you and Derek. You'll be good for him," he said softly, carefully.

I nodded. "Leon's curious about you. He's seen pictures of you and he's fascinated by the ship in the bottle on the mantel."

My father reached over and touched my knee. "Emily, I don't know," he said sadly. "I love you, but I don't know. I'm going to have to think about it. I think you're probably an amazing mother, and I think I'd like to see that, but I've avoided children since the day I left you. I know things are better now, for you and me, but every day is still a struggle for me. I'm staying sober because I want a relationship with you, but I don't know if I can handle being around a child without it making me think of everything I ran away from."

It was heartbreaking and beautiful in its honesty, actually better than what I imagined. He wasn't giving me a one word response or shutting himself off. He was saying he didn't know, but he also wasn't saying, "No."

"You can take your time," I said to him. "I just wanted you to know. I didn't tell you at first because I was worried about how you'd react. But it felt wrong keeping it from you. If you do decide to come, Fran's here right now. She'll probably be here for awhile. She's a good buffer."

My dad laughed at that. "That she is."

Silence descended over us and I looked around. I looked at my watch and back at my father. "It looks like you're getting ready to go fishing. I have a couple of hours. Want company?"

My dad stood and reached his hand out to me. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet. "Fishing is always better with my first mate."

That was nearly two weeks ago.

My father and I fished that day and had a pleasant, but quiet, time. Derek and I went back to Dr. Craig's office the next day and we both got to see our baby on that grainy screen, our fingers linked together and tears in our eyes as we both watched the tangible proof of a beating heart. Leon started going to therapy, and seemed to be genuinely positive about having a private outlet for his thoughts. He's seen Henry several times since that first meeting, and even spent a few hours at JJ's house without us. He's met the rest of the team, including Jack.

And through it all, Derek's still had that look on his face, the one that makes him look so much younger, but is an emotion I can't pinpoint.

This morning, I'm standing in the bathroom running my fingers through my hair, putting on the finishing touches as I get ready for work. He's standing behind me, having just stepped out of the shower. I catch his reflection in the mirror and search his face, trying to figure out exactly what this emotion is that I'm seeing.

He grins at me in the mirror. "What?" he asks.

I turn to look at him. "You've just looked different since you found out I was pregnant. Actually, you started looking like that when we brought Leon home, but it's even more evident now. I'm trying to figure out what it is I see on your face. I've never not been able to read you."

"You look different, too," he responds, still smiling.

I raise an eyebrow and turn back towards the mirror. Do I look different? I can't really see it. I'm due for a blood test tomorrow, a prenatal screening that will tell us whether this baby is healthy or not, and I'm still waiting for that big green light on the horizon, the one that says I made it through the first trimester. I still don't feel very pregnant, and that worries me. But I am happy. Happy with Derek and Leon. Happy to have our friends in our life and Fran here.

Maybe I do look slightly different, a touch of radiance. But it doesn't quite match what I'm seeing on Derek's face. I watch him step up behind me. I watch one hand settle low, over my stomach, and one arm wrap around my chest. "I think it's called contentment," he whispers in my ear.

I smile at the word. I smile because I'm the one who put that look on his face in a lot of ways. I smile because he's here with me and content, which is something I know he hasn't truly experienced since was a young child.

But I mull the word over in my mind this morning work, and I can't really find that descriptive adjective inside me. I envy Derek in a lot of ways, for his ability to be confident in my pregnancy and our future as a family of four. I envy him that he left one path in life and jumped into another, staying home with Leon for the time being, and found a missing piece inside him that he needed to find - the piece that needed to father a little boy who had a tragic past similar to his.

It's not that I haven't found my fair share of missing pieces inside me since I came home from London. I've found enough that I should just be eternally grateful and let everything else go. But I'm not quite there yet. I'm still holding out for a blood test, and a twelve-week ultrasound, and my father. My father who called me eleven days ago and told me he was going to set out to sea for awhile. He didn't take off without telling me, just like he promised. It was something, I tell myself. But it wasn't enough.

I mull over the word content before my morning meeting, and I'm still thinking about it at eleven o'clock when that meeting is finished. My phone rings just as I'm settling myself back at my desk. It's Derek.

"Hey," I answer softly, smiling to myself in my office. If he's calling me at work, it's usually because Leon did something funny or wonderful, and I brace myself for the happy story.

"Can you come home for lunch?" he asks in a hushed whisper.

"What's wrong?" I ask worriedly.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Your father's here."

I don't quite believe it. I don't believe it as I make my way out of my office, nor do I totally believe on the short drive home. But when I pull up at the house and open the front door, the truth of it is right there in front of me, in bright three dimensions.

My father is sitting on the couch, and Leon is on the floor, at his feet. His little body is leaning over the coffee table, at a glass bottle and all of the supplies needed to craft a simple ship to fit inside.

Leon looks over at me and his smile lights up the room. "Grandpa's here!" he exclaims in English.

My father turns and finds my eyes. He smiles at me, looking shy but happy. Looking nervous, but content. Content, there's that word again.

"I was just telling Leon here that I'm old and my hands shake too much for the strings and hinges now, but I think he can handle it, and he's doing a fine job."

I take in the bag on the floor near the couch, and I know this isn't a project that just gets complete in a single day. He's planning to see it through, I think.

Fran smiles at me from across the room and brushes a tear from her face. She doesn't ask too much about my life, but it's like she knows everything without me having to say a word. She knows what this means to me. And Derek is there, his arm around me.

My father sailed away to think things over because the idea of a grandchild or being around any child was difficult for him. But he came back, whole and sober. This time, he came back. And I feel it then, even though I don't quite have all the pieces yet. Contentment.