Page 8 of Concrete Evidence
Stunned, Marc had no knowledge of his parents’ conversations. “Church? He said believers were victims of propaganda.”
“Age and life experiences had mellowed him.”
They sat quietly in the darkness, Marc sorting through what she’d said, and he assumed her thoughts were occupied too. Both weighed the what-ifs had his father survived.
“When did you learn about his daughter?”
“A year and a half ago. The girl was the result of an affair. After she gave birth, the mother took off and left Tessa with the grandmother. Abbott tried to find the mother, but she’d disappeared.”
“Did he have contact with his daughter or the grandmother?”
“Yes. He saw the mistakes he’d made with you and didn’t want a repeat.”
“But she lived with her grandmother.” He regretted reacting like a spiteful kid.
“Right. A long story there too. Recently Abbott completed a renovation to his home for her to live with him.”
“Why did he wait so long?”
“No reason to keep it from you. The grandmother permitted visitation, but nothing else. Not joint custody and Abbott didn’t want a drawn-out battle in court, especially when the grandmother loved Tessa. The woman feared losing the girl like she’d lost her own daughter. About four months ago, the grandmother was diagnosed with stage4 cancer and changed her mind. Papers were signed for Abbott to have permanent custody. The grandmother is currently in hospice care, and Tessa chose to live with her until the end.”
Poor kid. She’d received one bad break after another. “Were there plans to tell me about all this?” Guilt hit him. “That sounded immature. Let me rephrase my question. Was there a discussion about one of us meeting the girl?”
“I’d already agreed to it.” She started to say more and stopped.
“You and he were getting back together, and she’d be a part of your lives. The three of you.” Marc dragged his tongue across dry lips. “I want you happy, and I’d never have tried to stop you.”
“That’s comforting. When I talked to Abbott on Thursday, he planned to contact you today, arrange for a meetup, attempt to repair the past, and inform you about your sister.”
“I see.”
“A lot for your analytical mind to absorb in one sitting.”
He chuckled, more nervousness than humor. “You know me well.”
“Your dad said to me, ‘God doesn’t cause a demolition unless He’s planned a renovation.’” She stood. “With those words, I’m going back to bed.”
“One more question.”
Mom faced him.
“Why wasn’t Tessa at the funeral?”
“Her grandmother is in no shape to drive. I spoke with Tessa on the phone, and she seemed very sweet. Deeply regretted not being able to attend the service. I consoled her the best I could.”
Marc heard the weariness in her voice. “I’m glad you were able to help her. Rest up.”
“I will. You are a perfect therapist.” She kissed the top of his head as though he were a boy again, and he didn’t mind a bit. “I love you. Please, try to sleep.” She closed the door behind her.
Wide-awake and his mind in investigative mode, he powered up his laptop. Through a secured FBI site, he searched for info on Tessa, including all social media platforms. Nothing surfaced on Facebook or Twitter, but he hadn’t really expected a presence there at her age. Instagram seemed to be her sweet spot, and for the first time, he saw a photo. Something like an electrical shock jolted through him. He saw himself at that age in her wide smile. Her skin was fairer than Marc’s olive tone, but he’d inherited a lot of Mom’s Hispanicgenes. Strange, he hadn’t expected to see any semblance of himself in another person until he had his own child. Tessa’s clean selfies and the poses with other girls gave him no indication of a teenager absorbed in herself or diving into things she had no business doing. From the green mermaid logo in many of the pics, Starbucks must have her attention for coffee drinks. Snapchat confirmed the same findings. In most of the photos, she wore her light-brown, shoulder-length hair in a ponytail. Fresh. Clean.
He approved.
Tomorrow he’d spend the day with Mom, but on Wednesday he’d drive to the office and check Tessa’s school and medical records.
Marc scrolled through Instagram again to study images, reels, and stories for an indication of a relationship with their father. If he’d spoken the truth about changing his ways, Marc needed to see it. He discovered a video of his father and Tessa eating ice cream, a side of his father he’d never experienced.
The two sat at a round table with double-decker ice cream cones. He asked for a bite of her mint chocolate chip. She agreed and lifted the cone and brushed it across his nose. They laughed. The two actually laughed together. Marc had no memories to compare with what played out before him. Yet he couldn’t blame Tessa either. Humiliation wound through him like a nasty virus. A grown man shouldn’t feel this way, but his thirty-two-year-old heart ached like he was eight again.
