Chapter 4: The Child in the Photograph
For a long time, neither Simone nor I spoke.
The photograph lay between us on the open cedar chest. Two newborn babies. Two hospital blankets. My mother's handwriting on the back, identifying one of them as Daniel's son.
I kept staring at the picture, hoping some detail would change if I looked long enough.
It didn't.
“Mom,” Simone said carefully, “how many babies did you have?””
“One.””
“Then whose baby is this?””
“I don't know.””
She looked at me with an expression so wounded that I wished she would simply scream.
“You keep saying that.””
“Because I don't know, Simone.””
“Then let's start with what you do know.””
She sat on the floor beside the chest, pulled her knees toward her chest, and examined the photograph again.
“Were you in the hospital when this picture was taken?””
“Yes.””
“Did you know Daniel?””
I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed.
“Yes.””
“Who was he?””
I rubbed my palms together, feeling the old fear return with every breath.
“Daniel Carter was Raymond's younger brother.””
Simone looked up sharply.
“Raymond had a brother?””
“Yes.””
“Why have I never heard about him?””
“Because he died before you were born.””
Her expression softened for a second.
“How?””
I stared at the photograph.
“A car accident.””
“Was it the same accident that brought Raymond to the hospital?””
“No. Daniel died months before you were born.””
Simone looked back at the picture.
“So Grandma knew him.””
“She knew both brothers.””
“And this baby was his?””
“That's what the writing says.””
“Then who was the mother?””
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Simone stood abruptly.
“No. I'm done with this.””
“Where are you going?””
“To get water before I start throwing things.””
She left the room, and I heard the kitchen faucet running.
I remained beside the chest, holding my mother's letter. The torn sentence at the bottom seemed almost deliberate. Whoever had removed the rest had done so carefully, following the line rather than ripping the page in anger.
Someone had wanted that information gone.
A minute later, Simone returned with two glasses of water.
She handed one to me and sat across from me on the bed.
“Tell me about Daniel,” she said.
I took a sip.
“He was younger than Raymond by four years. He was funny, impulsive, and always getting himself into trouble. Raymond was the responsible one. Daniel was the one who could walk into a room full of strangers and leave with ten new friends.””
“Did Grandma like him?””
“She loved him.””
“Did you?””
I hesitated.
“I cared about him.””
Simone caught the hesitation.
“That's not what I asked.””
“No,” I admitted.
“It isn't.””
I placed the glass on the bedside table.
“Daniel was like a younger brother to me, too. When Raymond and I started dating, Daniel was around all the time. He helped us move into our first apartment.
He fixed my car when the engine made that terrible knocking sound. He even taught me how to change a tire.””
“Then what happened?””
“He died.””
“That's not enough, Mom.””
“I know.””
She leaned forward.
“Was he married?””
“I don't know.””
“Did he have a girlfriend?””
“I don't know.””
“Did he have a child?””
I looked at the photograph.
“I didn't know he had one.””
Simone went quiet.
Then she asked the question I had been dreading.
“Did Grandma know?””
I couldn't answer immediately.
My mother had always known more than she told me. Even when I was a child, she had a way of looking at me as though she were weighing every word before allowing it into the world.
After Daniel died, she became even more guarded.
She told me not to ask Raymond questions about his brother. She said grief made people do strange things. She insisted that Raymond needed time.
Then, a few months later, she told me to leave him.
I had never understood why.
“I think she knew something,” I said finally.
Simone gave a bitter laugh.
“Of course she did.””
She stood and walked toward the window. Outside, a car passed slowly beneath the streetlight.
“Do you think the baby was Raymond's?””
I felt the question settle over the room.
“I don't know.””
“Could he have been?””
“I suppose.””
“Then why does the note say Daniel's son?””
“Because that's what Grandma believed. Or wanted someone to believe.””
Simone turned around.
“You think she lied?””
“I think there's a reason she wrote that sentence.””
“And you think Raymond knows it?””
I thought of the way he had looked at the photograph in the hospital, the grief in his eyes, and the words he had spoken about waiting for me.
“I think he knows more than he's told us.””
Simone retrieved her phone.
“I called him earlier.””
My stomach tightened.
“What did he say?””
“He answered, but I hung up before he could say much. I was angry.””
“Good.””
She frowned.
“Good?””
“I don't want you getting involved with him until we understand what's happening.””
“Mom, he was already involved before I was born. Apparently, he was there when I was born. He knew Grandma. He knew my nickname.””
She held up the phone.
“And somebody just sent me a photograph of a second baby. I think we're past the point where pretending he doesn't exist will help.””
I looked away.
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
“Call him,” I said quietly.
Simone studied me, making sure she had heard correctly.
“You're sure?””
“No. But I think we need answers.””
She dialed the number on Raymond's card and put the call on speaker.
He answered after the second ring.
“Simone?””
She stiffened.
“You knew it was me?””
“I was hoping you'd call.””
“Why?””
“Because I owe you the truth.””
She glanced at me.
“We found a photograph.””
There was a pause.
“What photograph?””
“Two babies in a hospital. One of them is me. The other is labeled Daniel's son.””
Silence.
Then Raymond exhaled sharply.
“Where did you get that?””
“From my grandmother's cedar chest.””
“Denise's mother kept it?””
“Yes.””
Another silence.
When Raymond spoke again, his voice had changed.
“Listen to me carefully. Don't throw that photograph away. Don't let anyone take it from you.””
Simone's eyes narrowed.
“Why?””
“Because if it's the picture I think it is, it proves something I've been trying to establish for nineteen years.””
I felt cold.
“Raymond,” I said, leaning toward the phone.
“What are you talking about?””
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “I need to see the photograph.””
“No,” I replied.
“Denise, please.””
“You've had nineteen years to tell me what you know.””
“And you've had nineteen years to tell me why you disappeared.””
The words struck a nerve.
Simone looked between us.
“Stop arguing. What does the photograph prove?””
Raymond took a breath.
“It proves that your grandmother knew about the second baby. It might also prove that the child was alive when Daniel died.””
“Was he supposed to be dead?”” Simone asked.
“No,” Raymond said.
“But after the accident, we were told the baby had died, too.””
I gripped the edge of the bed.
“What?””
Raymond's voice lowered.
“Daniel's girlfriend was pregnant. She was due around the time he died. Your grandmother told us the baby didn't survive.””
Simone stared at the photograph.
“But this picture shows a baby.””
“Yes.””
“Then somebody lied.””
“I believe so.””
“Who?””
Raymond hesitated.
“That's what I haven't been able to prove.””
I looked at the torn letter in my hands.
“Why didn't you tell me any of this when we were together?””
“Because I didn't know then. I found out years later.””
“How?””
“I received an envelope with no return address. It contained a copy of a birth certificate and a note saying Daniel's child was alive.””
My heart began pounding.
“Who sent it?””
“I never found out.””
“Where is the birth certificate?””
“I still have it.””
Simone's voice grew sharper.
“And you didn't go to the police?””
“I went to a lawyer. The records were incomplete, and the name on the document didn't match the name we had been given at the hospital. I needed more than a letter from an anonymous stranger.””
“What name was on it?””
Raymond didn't answer.
“Mr. Ellis,” Simone said, “what name?””
He finally spoke.
“Daniel's child was registered as Marcus Reed.””
I repeated the name under my breath.
Marcus Reed.
It meant nothing to me.
But Simone's face changed.
“What?”” I asked.
She shook her head, as though she wasn't sure she should speak.
“Mom, I know that name.””
I turned toward her.
“From where?””
She swallowed.
“It's on a photograph in Grandma's old album. I saw it years ago, when I was helping her sort things in her living room.””
My mouth went dry.
“What photograph?””
“A picture of a little boy standing beside Grandma. He looked about five or six. I asked who he was, and she said he was the son of an old family friend.””
Simone looked at the phone.
“I remember the name because she wrote it underneath the picture.””
Raymond spoke quickly.
“Where is that album now?””
“I don't know,” Simone said.
“Maybe in the storage boxes.””
“Can you look?””
She turned to me.
I nodded.
We ended the call, and Simone went into the hallway closet where we kept the boxes from my mother's house.
I remained on the bed, staring at the photograph.
Two babies.
One secret.
A dead man whose child might have survived.
And a mother who had carried the truth to her grave.
Ten minutes later, Simone returned with a dusty photo album.
She opened it on the bed and began turning pages.
There were pictures of family reunions, birthday parties, church picnics, and my mother's retirement dinner. Some photographs had dates written on the back. Others had names in her careful handwriting.
Then Simone stopped.
“Here.””
She turned the album toward me.
The photograph showed my mother standing on the steps of a brick house, one hand resting on the shoulder of a young boy with short hair and a solemn expression.
He was wearing a blue shirt and holding a toy truck.
On the back, my mother's handwriting read:
Marcus Reed. First day of school. September 2007.
Simone looked at me.
“Grandma knew him.””
I stared at the date.
September 2007.
Marcus would have been about seven years old.
I looked at the photograph of the newborn baby again.
Then I noticed something I had missed before.
A small birthmark near the child's left ear.
I had seen that mark once before.
Not on a photograph.
On a little boy who had visited my mother's house when Simone was still in elementary school.
A boy my mother had introduced as the son of a friend.
A boy who had looked at me with familiar eyes and asked whether I knew a man named Raymond Ellis.
I had dismissed the question as childish curiosity.
Now I could barely breathe.
“Simone,” I whispered.
She looked up.
“What?””
I held the photograph beside the picture in the album.
The birthmark was in the same place.
The two images showed the same child.
And beneath the photograph of Marcus, my mother had written another line, so faint that I had to tilt the page toward the lamp to read it.
He must never learn who his father really was.
Before I could speak, my phone rang.
Raymond's name appeared on the screen.
I answered.
His voice was urgent.
“Denise, listen to me. I've just found out someone accessed Daniel's old case file this afternoon.””
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Who?””
“I don't know. But they requested the original hospital records.””
I looked at the two photographs lying side by side.
May you like
Then Raymond said the words that made my blood run cold.
“Whoever is looking for Marcus knows we're close to finding him.””
