Long-Lost Father. Melissa James
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flitted across her face, lifting dimples, before she repeated her initial question. “Are you my father?”
Her face held only a polite smile. Impassivity in a five-year-old unnerved Brett. There was nothing in her face to read. She was curious as to whether he was her father, that was all.
“Yes, Casey,” he said softly. “My name’s Brett Glennon. I’m your father.”
She nodded, slow and cautious, not moving toward him or moving away. He realised she was keeping her distance, almost as if she was afraid…
Afraid of him?
Keeping his features schooled, he absorbed the pain. Casey saw more than he would have thought with those imperfect eyes. Had she seen past his gentle facade to the anger in his heart that his child, his daughter, should have such a terrible burden to bear? Did she wonder if her daddy wouldn’t like her because she was blind?
This was a fear his daughter should never have had to go through—
And she wouldn’t if I hadn’t left for Africa.
And like that, the truth pounced on him, like a lion long crouched nearby, waiting to attack. Maybe he’d known all along. But he’d concentrated so much on where Sam had been, he’d forgotten what she’d borne alone in the years he’d been gone. If she’d stayed with his parents, he’d have known Casey the past two years—but he’d still have three years of unintentional neglect to make up for.
Not for the first time, he felt the knife-pang of regret for leaving Sam behind in the first place, for charging ahead with a dream despite the cost to others, for cementing a love that happened in the wrong time and place. By living his dream, he’d left her alone with a hard pregnancy, a new state and a special-needs child, and his parents with the consequences of an assumed death and his father’s strokes.
He’d been so damn-fool arrogant to think he had to save the world instead of keeping his own world together. Been so sure his choice was right, cocky and confident that everything would fall into place for everyone he loved.
It hadn’t worked out for anyone. Not for the refugees he’d gone to help—he’d been kidnapped too soon to be of use. It hadn’t worked for his parents—his father had been wheelchair-bound for years from the shock of losing his son and grandchild at once.
It didn’t work out for Sam, either. Not even for me.
He’d thought he’d been the victim in this scenario. Events tonight had shown him that he hadn’t been the only one to make sacrifices.
It seemed he had a lot to make up for.
“I came to meet you, Casey,” he said, hoping to start bridging a gap that should never have existed…but it did, and he had to deal with the reality of that. “I would have come a long time ago, but—” after a glance at Sam, he went on “—but I was living far away and I didn’t know where you and Mummy had gone.”
“Okay,” Casey said, accepting his words at face value. She stuck out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr.—” She groped for the name she’d already forgotten.
“My name’s Brett Glennon, Casey.” He limped forward and took her hand. Sam had trained their child in good manners—but then, blind children learned through hearing and touch, scent and instinct. Touching was Casey’s way of “seeing” him.
“I’m very glad to meet you,” he added, smiling at her even though he knew she couldn’t see it. Casey possessed her mother’s ability to send that piercing shaft of joy through him with the most simple of words and acts.
“You’re smiling,” Casey said. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, taken aback. “I’m just so happy to meet you, Casey—and to discover that I have such a beautiful daughter.”
“My name’s Holloway,” Casey said gravely, releasing his hand. “At school, the other kids who got a daddy and a mummy all got the same name.”
“Have, Casey,” Sam put in, her voice restrained. “The kids have a daddy and have the same name.”
“Yeah, that,” Casey agreed, her smile growing. “So why’s your name different?”
Brett grinned. So she’d also inherited his tendency to tease…and his bulldog tenacity to get answers.
Cautiously he gave her an edited version of the truth. “Like I said, I was far away. I was living in a place called Africa when you were born. I’m a doctor and I wanted to help people who were hungry and suffering.” With a flickered look at a withdrawn Sam, he added, “I was working where it was hard to get to a phone. I wish I had known about you, Casey. I would have come home to look after you both.”
He searched Casey’s face, wondering if she’d noticed his avoidance of her real question, but she’d veiled her reaction. Another wall of anguish slammed into him. That any five-year-old child, let alone his daughter, should know how to hide her emotions, struck his soul with a chilling feeling of wrongness.
Casey asked slowly, “Can I look at you?”
Sam said, “She means she’d like to—”
“I know, Sam.” With a difficulty so strong it was pitiful, he managed to bend his knee. Balancing with a hand on the chair, then the coffee table beside it, he lowered himself to the floor before the little girl. Again he took Casey’s hand—such a fragile thing—and lifted it to his face. “Go for it, kid,” he said in a gentle voice.
Casey’s fingers explored his face, walking along his skin in delicate pulses and strokes. She felt his closed eyes, tested the shape of his less-than-classic nose, his strongly defined cheekbones, the line of his brow. She learned the shape of his ears. Her fingers probed his mouth, feeling the indents of his dimples beside it.
Question number one answered: she wasn’t legally blind but profoundly blind. Legally blind children could see through thick glasses, make out blurry images by peering close enough. Casey must have no sight at all. What accident of birth or fate had caused it? Had the stress of her mother’s pregnancy all alone caused this?
Could he have prevented Casey’s disability if he’d been home and seen the signs of trouble before her optic nerve had become irreparably damaged?
“You have dimples, like me,” Casey commented, jerking him from his reverie.
“And we have the same colour eyes,” he added, without mentioning the actual shade. She wouldn’t understand, he thought, and the pang of wistfulness hit him harder than he believed it could. He’d thought he’d accepted this…
But that was before he’d met her, this lovely child with the woman’s mind.
Casey nodded thoughtfully. “Do I look like you?”
“A little bit,” he said, feeling a strong sense of pride. This tiny angel, so haunting and almost perfect, had sprung from his loins, his blood, his love for Sam. “You look more like your mummy, which means you’re very pretty.”
A tiny hand fell onto his chest—and a frown marred her translucent face. “Why are you sad?” she asked. Either she knew she was pretty or such things didn’t bother her.
Does she know what “pretty” is? She’s never seen one beautiful thing in her life…
And again that hurt far more than he’d thought it would.
Then her words penetrated and he blinked. “What?”
“You walked funny and have a stick to balance. You have a sore leg. And you have sad lines,” Casey said softly, “here—” she touched his mouth “—and here,” touching his forehead.
“I might be old,” he replied to gain time, stunned by what she’d said and how she’d reached her conclusions—and by the fact that she was right every time.
Casey’s mouth turned