Chapter 17: The Man Under the Oaks
The truck was there again on Thursday.
And on Friday.
On Friday, I didn't wait.
I handed Zuri to her teacher, Miss Patrice, and told her to keep her inside. Then I crossed the street, walked straight up to the driver's window, and slammed my palm flat against the glass.
The man jumped.
"Roll it down."
He hesitated.
Then he rolled it down.
Up close, he was younger than I'd thought. Maybe twenty-seven. He had a scar through one eyebrow and an Army Ranger tab tattooed on his forearm. His hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
"I'm not here to hurt anybody," he said.
"You've been watching my daughter for three days."
"I know."
"I'm calling the police."
"Please," he said. "Please don't. Just— just give me two minutes. Please."
Something in his voice stopped me.
It wasn't fear.
It was grief.
"Two minutes," I said.
He reached slowly into his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph. Creased. Soft at the edges. He handed it to me through the window.
A young Black woman, maybe nineteen, sitting on the hood of an old car, laughing at whoever held the camera. Curly hair pulled up. Big, brown, expressive eyes.
I knew those eyes.
I saw them every morning across the breakfast table.
"Her name was Kiara Price," the man said quietly. "She was my girlfriend. Five years before you got Zuri. I mean— the summer before."
My mouth went dry.
"I shipped out to Afghanistan in July," he said. "We broke up on the phone in September. Long distance, bad connection, both of us too young and stupid. She never told me she was pregnant. I swear to God, Mr. Callahan. She never told me."
I couldn't speak.
"I came home fourteen months later. She'd moved. Her phone was disconnected. Her mama said she'd gone to Macon. I figured she'd moved on." He swallowed. "She died two years ago. Overdose. In a motel in Valdosta. I didn't even find out until her cousin called me last spring."
He looked at the school doors.
"Her cousin said, 'You know about the baby, right?' And I said, 'What baby?'"
He wiped his face with his palm.
"Then I saw the news. The yacht. The trial. That little girl's picture on every website in America." His voice broke. "She's got Kiara's eyes. She's got my mama's chin. I knew before I even did the math."
"Why didn't you just contact me?"
"I didn't know how. What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, I'm the guy who didn't know she existed, can I see her?'" He laughed bitterly. "So I drove up from Miami. I just wanted to see her once. With my own eyes. I was gonna go home after that. I swear."
"You came three days."
"I know," he whispered. "I couldn't stop."
I looked down at the photograph of Kiara Price, laughing on the hood of a car.
The woman who had carried my daughter.
Who had given her up, or lost her, to the state of Georgia.
Who had died alone in a motel room without ever knowing her baby had grown up to call a man named Ryan "Daddy."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Darnell," he said. "Darnell Price. I'm a firefighter-paramedic with Miami-Dade Fire Rescue."
He held out his hand.
I looked at it for a long moment.
Then, God help me, I shook it.
"I'm not ready," I said. "For you to meet her. I don't know if I'll ever be ready."
He nodded.
"I understand."
"But I'll think about it."
"That's more than I had this morning," Darnell said.
He handed me a card with his phone number, started the truck, and drove away.
I stood under the live oaks for a long time.
When I went back inside the school, Zuri was sitting on the bench beside Miss Patrice, swinging her lavender shoes.
"Daddy, who was that man?"
I knelt down and fixed the white bow clip in her curls.
"Somebody who knew a person you're going to hear about someday," I said.
"Who?"
"Somebody who loved you before you were born."
Zuri frowned.
"Like Mommy?"
May you like
My throat closed.
"Like Mommy," I said.
