Children of Paranoia (45 page)

I was glad we were able to have him at home. I was afraid of going back to the hospital after the debacle in Charleston. Besides, now Christopher was born off the grid. Now there's no record that he even exists. There's no way for anyone to know where he came from. Officially, he was born to ghosts. Hopefully, that will help to keep him safe.

I don't even have words to describe how I feel. Maybe I'm too tired. Maybe the words just don't exist. Our son was born today. I feel like I was reborn with him. Thank you, Maria. You've given me such a gift. You've given me more than I deserve.

It's a little after three in the morning. You're asleep in the bedroom. Little Christopher really hasn't figured out the difference between day and night yet. I'm sure it will come. It's only been a week and a half. It's nice for now. We couldn't afford for me to stop working, so this way I get to see our little boy. He's so small. He wakes up crying at pretty much the same times every night. Most of the time he's crying because he's hungry and you have to get up with him. But around three o'clock every morning he wakes up just because he wants to be held. I can't blame him. It's scary to be alone.

When he wakes up at three, I try to let you sleep. His feeding schedule has kept you pretty exhausted. Besides, I like having the time alone with him, just the men. I like that I can stop his crying just by picking him up and holding him. Sometimes I imagine that he cries at night even when he's not hungry because he's knows that I'll come for him. He knows that it's daddy who will hold him. When I pick him up out of his bassinet and place him in my lap he often reaches out and grabs hold of one of my fingers. Our boy's got quite a grip. He holds on to my finger like he'd go tumbling through the universe if he let it go.

He's asleep in my lap now. I could put him back in his crib, but I don't want to. I want to hold him for a little bit longer.

The moon is bright outside, bright enough that I can write by moonlight. I don't know how much longer I'm going to keep this journal. I'm not sure I need it anymore. I'm not sure if there's anything else that I can tell you about me. Now all anybody needs to know about me is bundled up in my lap. That's the only thing that's important.

I still can hardly believe that any of this has happened. I can't believe that I'm a father. I can't believe that I've abandoned the War. In some ways, it makes sense to me. I have a few random memories of my father from before he was killed. They are all from a time before I knew that the War existed. They're all innocent memories.

He used to take me fishing every Sunday morning. It was like our version of church. My sister would come sometimes but she didn't really like to fish. I didn't really like to fish, either, but I went because I liked spending time with my father. We'd drive down to a lake near our house. There was a little pier that poked out into the water. It was old and the wood was beginning to rot. I had never seen a boat on it. It was like our own private spot. We'd walk to the end of the pier and sit down, bait our hooks with worms, and cast our lines into the water. My father used to bait my hook for me because I didn't have the heart to push the hook through the squiggling little worm. Then we'd wait and we'd talk. I think I did most of the talking. I don't remember what we talked about. I don't remember my father imparting to me any fatherly wisdom. I just remember being there and being happy, waiting for a fish to nibble at the end of my line, half hoping that it wouldn't. In some ways, I think it's better that my father passed away before I learned about the War. I'm glad I never had to talk to him about it. I'm glad my memories of him are more pure than that.

Someday, maybe I'll take Christopher fishing. When I do, I'll bait his hook for him. We can talk all day about nothing and everything will be okay.

Chris,

I hope with every fiber of my being that you never have to read this, that when all is said and done I'll be able to protect you. If you are reading this, then something went wrong with part of my plan and I failed you for the second time. If something did happen to you, if I failed you again, then I think it is important for you to know who you really are and who your father was. Your name—the name your father and I gave you—is Christopher Jude. Your last name isn't important. It's probably better if you don't know it. My name is Maria. I'm your mother. Your father's name was Joseph. We had you when we were very young, myself especially. I know how dangerous the world I brought you into is. Trust me, I've seen the danger up close. I need you to know that I'm doing everything I can to protect you. I might not always make the right decisions, but I'm trying. Your father tried too. We so wanted a normal life for you. For a little while, we had illusions that we could give it to you.

You were born in New Mexico. After running for almost nine months, your father and I had settled down in a small white house on the edge of the red sand deserts. We thought we had finally found a safe place, an oasis. We tried to stay to ourselves. We tried not to bother anyone. I'm sure you don't remember but for a little while, we were like a normal, happy little family. I remember beautiful moments when I actually forgot that we were running. I think that even your father, at times, indulged himself and let himself believe that they'd forgotten us. We were so naive, lost in our own little dream world, believing that wanting something bad enough could make it happen, hoping that what we'd already sacrificed would be enough. We gave up everything—everything but each other and you. You were such a blessing, a gift that goes beyond metaphors. Then they came for you. We had four weeks, the four most wonderful weeks of my life. In those four weeks, you gave me more than I can ever repay you.

I wish that there was some way that I could show you how much you changed your father. I remember watching him hold you. He'd put his hands around you and hold you ever so gently. At times you'd cry and all he had to do was reach for you and the crying would stop. He used to put you on his chest as he lay on that ugly green sofa we had in our living room and you'd fall asleep like a tiny angel. Your body would rise and fall as your father breathed. We talked about ways we could make the little house nicer so that you could grow up there and be like a normal kid. We had an old gray knotted tree in the backyard, the last tree before miles of empty desert. Your father talked all the time about tying a tire to one of the branches to make a swing for when you got older. I wish he could have given that to you. I wish I had real memories of your father pushing you on the tire swing instead of just dreams of memories that never existed.

Sometimes I tried to pretend that we really were a normal family. We wouldn't talk about the War for days on end. No matter how much we pretended, no matter how much your father acted like everything was normal, he never forgot who we were or what we were doing alone, hiding on the edge of the world. He was always thinking about it. I know because he used to talk to himself in his sleep. He used to mutter and scream. But during the day, he acted normal for my sake and for yours. We wanted so badly to spend our lives with you, to forget and to be forgotten. We just wanted them to leave us alone. But it wasn't over. They didn't forget us, Chris. If you only remember one thing that I try to teach you, remember that they never forget.

They came for you on a Sunday afternoon. Sometimes I feel like I have no memories except for my memories of that day, like every other memory I ever had was washed clean by five men with guns. It seemed like a normal, peaceful Sunday until I heard a knock on the front door. In the months that we had lived in that tiny house, not a single person had knocked on our door until that day. Who would knock? We barely spoke to anyone other than the doctor who delivered you and the guys your father worked with. Your father demanded that we keep a low profile for your protection. It was all for naught. They knew where we were from the very beginning.

The memory of the knock on the door still scares me. It made such a hollow sound on the door. I heard a loud thump and then there was a long pause as if whoever was knocking was waiting for the echo to disappear. I was sitting in the kitchen with you on my lap. At first I didn't think anything of it. People knock on doors. They just weren't supposed to knock on ours.

By the second
thump
your father had gotten to his feet and was walking toward us. He had been in the living room, lying on the couch, reading the newspaper. I tried to let him rest on Sundays, knowing how hard he worked all week. I watched him come toward us. He didn't make a sound as he walked. He had learned to walk like that, swiftly but silently, long before I ever met him. When I saw him walking toward us like that, that's when I finally realized that I should be afraid. You should know that before you were born, your father was a very dangerous man. I had done everything that I could think to do to tame him but it wasn't until you were born that he really changed. You made him happy and content. I saw it in him every day. When he heard that knock on the door, though, he changed back to that dangerous man almost instantly. I could see the paranoia come back into him and, I'll be honest, I was glad.

It wasn't until your father was a step or two away from us that I finally looked toward the front door. The front door was made of a light brown wood and was framed by two thin stained glass windows that threw colors—reds, greens, blues, and yellows—onto the floor. When I looked at the door, I saw two figures standing on the other side of the stained glass. Because of the colors, I could only see the silhouettes of two large, hulking bodies. The third man behind the door, the one knocking, wasn't visible through the glass. Your father, without any hesitation, stepped between us and the door in case his body to block the visitors' view of me and you, should the men press their eyes against the stained glass windows. When your father reached us, he extended his hand and slipped his thumb in your mouth. You immediately began to suckle his thumb like a nipple. Right after he stuck his thumb in your mouth, we heard the third knock.

I held you close to me. “Be right there,” your father shouted toward the front door. Then he turned toward us and spoke in a whisper. “Take Christopher. Go out the back door.” He paused for a second, waiting for me to nod so that he knew that I understood. I nodded and he went on. “Don't go to the car. Just get away from here as fast as you can. Go straight. Make distance.” I wanted to say something but your father placed his free hand over my mouth. He shook his head to tell me that I shouldn't speak, that I shouldn't make a single noise. I was glad that he did it because I had no idea what I was supposed to say. “Go now. Whenever you have a choice, go north.” I knew I should have been asking questions but I couldn't think of the right questions to ask. Fear had taken up all the space in my mind. “I'll find you,” your father said to me, answering the most important question without waiting for me to ask it. Then he took my hand, held it in front of his face, and kissed the tips of my fingers. After he kissed my hand, he slid his thumb out of your mouth and slid in my thumb in its place. I felt you grasp my thumb with your gums and a split second later your father turned toward the front door. He didn't look back to see if I was doing what he asked me to. He knew that I would. I loved your father. I didn't want to leave him. But I had to. Your father wasn't telling me to run for my safety. He was telling me to run for yours.

I've gone over that afternoon in my head again and again, trying to figure out if I could have done anything to stop what happened, if there was any moment where I could have done something to change our fates. The idea haunted me for weeks. It ate up every moment of every day. Then I realized that I couldn't linger on the past. Even if I could have done something different, the fact was that I hadn't. The past is the past, Christopher. It's irrelevant unless it's got something to teach you about the future.

I turned back toward your father for a moment just as he was reaching his hand to the doorknob. The hulking shadows were still standing behind the stained glass. It was time for us to go. We had to get outside of the house before your father opened the front door and hope that no one saw us. We stepped out of the sliding glass door leading out of the kitchen. I was holding you in my arms, ready to run. I hadn't thought to take anything with me. We could worry about food and diapers later. Your father told me to run, so I planned on running. Straight lines. North whenever possible. Your father's instincts told him that the knock on the door meant danger and my instincts told me to believe him.

I stepped outside onto the hard red dirt, holding you against me. The sun was low in the sky but the day was still hot. I have vivid memories of how still the air was, like we were on a movie set. The desert opened up in front of us. It seemed endless. That memory has been burned into my brain. It tortures me. I had no idea if I would ever see your father again but I swear I didn't hesitate. I clutched you against my chest, my thumb still in your mouth, and didn't look back. I looked forward, past the tree with the ghost of the tire swing that had never been and would never be. Beyond that was just flat, sunscorched land. I couldn't see a single other house or road. That's why your father had chosen that house. He thought the isolation would make us safer. I wanted to get you as far from the house as possible before you cried out. I had no idea what your father was planning on doing. Nothing would have surprised me. He had already volunteered to sacrifice his life for you once, before you were even born, when we were running from Charleston, but somehow he'd been saved. I didn't know what your father was going to do but I knew that my job was to run, so I ran. We made it about ten steps from the back door before I heard the horrible cracking sound. It was a sound that I recognized, a sound I was getting all too used to hearing. I stopped running, the noise lodged in my ear, caught somewhere between the sound of a whip cracking and the explosion of a cannon. The sound wasn't coming from inside the house like I half expected. It was coming from right behind me. I stopped short as if I'd run to the edge of a cliff. I held you even closer to me so that they wouldn't be able to shoot you without shooting through me first. I heard the cracking sound again—just one more time. This time, I saw dirt kick up five feet in front of me, like a tiny plume of red smoke rising from the ground. You started crying. Even with my thumb in your mouth, you began to cry louder than I had ever heard you cry before. I wanted to cry too. I wanted to cry with you. I knew that your father, if he was still alive, would hear your cry and he would know that I failed.