He had not realized victory could leave such a hollow in his chest, such a bitter taste in his mouth.
15
“WATCH ME, MOMMY,” EMILY YELLED FROM THE top of the slide at the island community center.
Camp had been dismissed for the day, but children still lingered, running, shrieking, playing, as if everything were normal.
As if the rules of the playground still held true even when the laws of the universe shifted and Liz‟s world turned upside down.
“Mommy.”
“I‟m watching,” she called, standing near the other mothers.
Here, at least, she could be like other mothers. Watchful. As if her simple presence could protect her child in this strange
new world, a world where the old tales were true and lovers walked out of the sea and changeling children were stolen by the
fairies.
She wrapped her arms across her stomach, holding herself together.
Emily hit the ground running, chasing after a skinny dark-haired boy a year or two older.
Liz caught her breath. Emily. What on earth was she going to tell Em about her brother?
Nothing, she decided. Not yet. There was no need if Zack stayed. And if he left, telling Em was several notches down on
her list of things to obsess about.
“Never gets any easier, does it?” a woman next to her remarked.
Liz blinked, trying to place her. Chopped black hair, thin, attractive face, big, Italian eyes. “Sorry, what?”
“Parenthood.” The woman nodded toward the playground. “You think when they‟re babies that‟s the scariest time, and
then they‟re toddlers and getting into everything, and next thing you know they‟re trying to kill themselves on the monkey
bars. Must be even worse having a teenager.”
“I . . . It has its challenges.”
Like finding out your son‟s avoiding bath time because he turns into a . . . dolphin? Whale? She hadn‟t asked, didn‟t want
to imagine.
“God, I‟m sorry. You don‟t have a clue who I am.” The woman smiled, quick and wide. “Regina Hunter. That‟s my son
Nick on the playground. And you saw my daughter Grace when my husband brought her in for her well-baby checkup last
week.”
“Oh. Yes.” Liz struggled to pull herself together, straining her facial muscles to smile back. “Nice to meet you. How is
Grace?”
Liz flipped through her mental file of patients. Grace Hunter, three months old, father Dylan.
She felt an almost audible click in her skull as another piece slid into place. “You‟re married to Dylan Hunter.”
“That‟s right.”
Liz resisted the urge to grip her arm. “Your husband works with Morgan. Morgan Bressay.”
Regina eyed her cautiously. “Sometimes.”
“Environmental protection.” Her heart pounded. “Underwater exploration.”
Caution morphed into suspicion. “So?”
She was scaring her, Liz realized. She scared herself. She was taking a risk she wasn‟t prepared for with a woman she
didn‟t know. The children‟s voices faded in and out like the sound from a television a room away.
“I just wondered . . .” Her nerve and her voice failed her. “Have you known Morgan long?”
“Never saw him before this trip. You?”
She licked dry lips. “He‟s Zack‟s father. Zack is my son.”
“The teenager.”
Liz nodded. She couldn‟t do it. No matter how desperate she was for information about Morgan and insight about their son,
she couldn‟t unload her deepest fears and secrets on this friendly, normal, uncomprehending stranger.
“Puberty‟s rough. All those changes,” Regina said.
Liz caught her breath.
“I can just imagine,” the other woman continued deliberately, “what you must be going through.”
Her heart beat in her throat. “Can you? It‟s harder for Zack, I think, because he . . .”