Finally a Mother. Dana Corbit
Читать онлайн книгу.
that haunted her memories.
Trooper Shoffner guided Blake a few steps forward so that he was standing in front of her.
“I take it you and Mr. Wilson know each other?”
Shannon looked longingly at the boy who’d stared her down earlier but now refused to look her in the eye. “Well, not exactly, but—”
“You called him by name.”
“As I started to say, he is, he is...my son.” She was simply putting the truth into words as Blake had done, so she hated that her voice broke under the weight of it. She tried again. “I gave up a baby boy for adoption almost fifteen years ago. I met the adoptive parents once. They told me if the baby was a boy, they would name him Blake.” She lifted a hand to indicate the teen. “That’s him.”
“You’re certain of this?”
“Look at him. Don’t you see the resemblance?”
The officer didn’t look at either of them as he withdrew a notebook and pen from his pocket, but Blake sneaked a glance at her from beneath his shaggy hair.
“Obviously, maternity will have to be confirmed.” He tapped his pen on the paper. “But since you appear to have an interest in this boy, you should be aware that he was arrested this morning. You might be interested in knowing what type of items he was accused of shoplifting.”
“Um, okay.” Since Blake had turned to his side now, she couldn’t help staring at his cuffed hands.
“Food.” Trooper Shoffner spat the word as if it had soured in his mouth. “He was hungry.”
The officer’s censure stung, but not as much as the reality that the precious boy next to her had ever known hunger. How could that have happened? “Oh. You poor thing.”
“He also appears to be a runaway.”
The trooper’s stony expression told her he wasn’t kidding. If his first comment had been a stab, he’d twisted the knife with this one.
“Blake?”
His only answer was a shrug. She needed him to look at her, to tell her this was all a mistake, but he kept staring at the ground.
Catching herself this time as her hands lifted to touch him again, she stuffed them into her pockets. “What happened? Did you have an argument with your...parents?” She hated that the word caught in her throat. They were his parents after all. Under the law, she was his birth mother. Nothing more.
“If you give him something to eat, he might be able to answer your questions,” Mark said.
“You mean you didn’t feed him? You knew he was starving, and you couldn’t stop before coming here?”
He met her incredulous look with a steady one. “I started to, but he insisted on coming here first.”
Her righteous indignation fizzled. The blame was back on her, right where it belonged.
“Right. Well, take those cuffs off him and bring him in the kitchen.”
“I don’t think—”
“He can’t eat without his hands.” She didn’t care if she’d just given an order to a police officer, who was clearly more accustomed to giving them than receiving them. For whatever reason, her child was hungry. She might never have been able to do anything for him before, but she could feed him now and help free his hands so he could eat.
The trooper studied Blake for a few seconds and then withdrew a key from his pocket, stepped behind the boy and opened the handcuffs. Blake rubbed his wrists and spread his fingers to stretch them before jamming them in his sweatshirt pockets.
As Shannon led them down the hallway to the kitchen, questions ticked in her mind at the same pace as her tennis shoes on the worn wood floor. Why had Blake run away? How had he known her identity or how to locate her? Had his adoptive parents refused to let him search for her?
In the kitchen, she opened the huge, industrial refrigerator and stepped inside the chilly room to scan the contents. She grabbed a carton of eggs, a green pepper and a tomato and closed the door.
“Hope eggs are okay.”
Blake cleared his throat. “Anything’s fine. Except tomatoes.”
“You’d probably eat even those this morning,” Trooper Shoffner said with a chuckle.
“Probably.”
But Shannon wasn’t laughing, as irrational fear tightened her throat. She was about to make a first meal for her son, ever, and she knew nothing about him. What did he like to eat? Did he prefer video games or TV? Did he have food allergies? Worse than that, she didn’t know what type of life he’d led until now or what unfortunate events had landed him on her doorstep.
But she would find out. She would ask her questions and answer his. She would listen, no matter how painful his stories, no matter how much he blamed her. This was what she’d wanted: to be reunited with Blake and to have a chance to explain the past. Although this wasn’t the warm and tender reunion she’d imagined and prayed for, this was their story, and they would find a way to work through it. Her son had come looking for her. He was close enough to touch, if he would ever allow it. Having him with her was the most important thing. The only thing.
* * *
“Slow down or your breakfast is going to come back up,” Mark warned as Blake shoveled food into his mouth with barely a breath between bites.
He’d been right. The boy would have eaten even the dreaded tomatoes, and might have licked the plate afterward, if Shannon Lyndon had set those in front of him at the long table in the house’s cafeteria area. Although the boy didn’t appear to be malnourished overall, something told him that this wasn’t the first time Blake had ever been hungry. The same protective impulse he’d felt when he’d realized the boy was accused of stealing food rose in him again, but Mark tamped it down a second time. Becoming involved in this mess of a situation was the last thing he should do, even if he felt terrible for the boy who was the true victim in it.
Shannon sat across from them, staring in amazement at the boy as he wolfed down his food. She shouldn’t have been shocked. She’d known all along he was out there somewhere. Or at least some kid who was about Blake’s age. Mark shifted in his seat as the scent of Miss Lyndon’s perfume—something light and floral and too feminine for its own good—mingled with scents of Blake’s breakfast. Clearly, he was picking up on the wrong details in this case if he was mentally cataloging that one.
“You’re left-handed,” Shannon said to the boy.
Blake’s fork stilled. “So?”
“My dad’s a lefty.”
“Oh.”
As Blake scraped his plate, he met the woman’s gaze with those green-brown eyes. Instantly, Mark knew why he’d found Shannon’s eyes so familiar. They had to be related.
“Hey, any chance I could get some more?”
Setting his coffee aside, Mark patted Blake’s shoulder. “Give the food a few minutes to settle. If you’re still hungry after we talk, I’m sure, uh...Miss Lyndon would be happy to give you seconds.”
He wrapped his hands around his mug again, frustrated that he hadn’t been sure what to call her. He wouldn’t refer to this woman as Blake’s birth mother without proof, even if he suspected it was true. If she’d chosen to give up her parental rights, she had no claim to Blake, anyway.
“Sure. Whatever you want.” Shannon smiled across the table at the boy.
“Now, Blake, let’s start with you.” Mark picked up his notebook and pen. “I need your parents’ names and numbers so I can let them know where you are.”
Blake dropped his fork on his plate and pushed back from the table, crossing his arms. “Which ones?