8. Amos
AMOS
S unshine glints off the metallic slide of the playground nestled in the corner of Diddington Park. I pace nervously as I wait for Alana and Sam to arrive.
I'm not sure who I'm more nervous to see. Alana rejected me, and I'm not used to that. But I can't shake my attraction to her.
Dad stands to attention behind Mom who's seated on a park bench wringing her hands, the only sign that she's as nervous as I am.
Avery is on her own. I wonder if she deliberately left Ed at home, not wanting to scare the boy with Ed's jaunty scar and inability to speak. Me and Dad will be scary enough.
A beat-up Honda pulls up to the edge of the playground, and Alana climbs out of the driver's seat.
My breath hitches at the sight of her. She wears her hair pulled back in a ponytail, showing her round cheeks and full lips.
She's dressed casually in yoga pants and a sweater that hangs over her frame, hiding the figure beneath.
Damn, it's a bad time to be attracted to a woman, but I've never felt anything like the pull I feel toward Alana.
I drag my eyes away from her to the small figure climbing out of the backseat. Mom stands up, and we all turn to watch Sam arrive.
The boy is small with skinny legs poking out of a pair of shorts. His blonde hair hangs around his face, and his eyes dart every which way.
Mom gasps, and I don't blame her. It's like Jake coming back to life in his childhood form.
But this isn't Jake, I remind myself. This is Sam. A different child.
Alana stops in front of us, and Sam waits a step behind her. He tucks himself behind Alana and eyes us warily.
She crouches down, so she's at his eye level. "Sam, this is the family I was telling you about. This is your father's family."
He peers up at us, and my heart breaks at the distrust on his face.
Mom steps forward. "Hi, Sam. I'm your grandmother."
The boy turns to Alana, looking confused.
"It's okay, honey," says Mom. "If you're not comfortable calling me that yet, you can call me Shona. Or you can call me Nanna."
She approaches him with tears in her eyes. "You look so much like your daddy. May I give you a hug?"
He looks to Alana and gives him a nod. "If that's what you want, Sam."
Shona doesn't wait for him to consent; she pulls him close. The little boy is stiff in her arms, and Mom pulls back.
"If we'd known about you, honey, we would have met you a long time ago. I'm so sorry about what happened to your momma."
At mention of his mom the boy looks down, and I think he's about to cry.
Avery steps forward. "Hi Sam, I'm your Auntie Avery. But you can call me Avery if Auntie seems too weird."
The boy still doesn't say anything, and we stand around in an awkward silence. He's overwhelmed, and now I wish I'd done this alone. Not that I can think of anything to say to the little guy.
"Do you want to go on the slide, honey?" Mom asks.
Sam nods once.
Mom takes his hand and leads him over to the playground.
The slide is wide and not very long, and it's obvious it's made for a younger kid. He climbs up and goes down a couple of times while Mom calls words of encouragement, and we all stand around watching.
He must feel like a performing monkey. The next time he slides down, he sits at the bottom of the slide and looks around like he doesn't know what to do.
"How about we have some snacks?" Mom asks.
She leads him to the picnic table and pulls out a bag of food. While Mom makes breezy talk to make up for the silences, I watch the boy.
The tiny Jake. No, Sam. I have to get it into my head. He's Sam.
He smiles politely and answers in monosyllables.
"Have you been going to school here?"
"Yes."
"Do you like school?"
"Yes."
"What's your favorite subject?"
He shrugs. "Dunno."
"Do you play sports?"
The boy looks around, overwhelmed by the questions. I don't wait for him to answer. I pick up the baseball glove and ball that I brought along.
"You know how to catch?"
Sam looks at me for the first time, and I try not to flinch as Jake's eyes stare back at me.
He nods and I toss him the glove.
I leave Mom with the snacks, and we head to the grassy patch near the playground.
He tugs on the glove and it's too big for his little hand, but he doesn't complain.
He's a good catcher with good reflexes. His hand shoots out and snatches the ball. He throws it back wide, but I run and get it and chuck it back to him.
As we toss the ball back and forth, the boy seems to relax for the first time. He doesn't speak, and neither do I. I don't know what to say to a six-year-old. So we just toss the ball back and forth.
And I realize there is no way, shape, or form that I'm prepared for a child.