Fatherless: A Novel (4 page)

The office
looked not at all as Julia had imagined. The desk held no stack of confidential patient files. Beautiful paintings hung where
she had envisioned tacky posters of cats playfully depicting overused feel-good sentiments. The window blinds were open to
invite sunlit warmth rather than closed to conceal embarrassing confessions. Even Dr. Linda Moreland fell short of the stereotype,
comfortably crossing her legs while stealing a sip of Earl Grey tea, her eyes fixed on Julia rather than staring at a notepad
in detached scrutiny.

Julia had convinced herself to schedule one appointment with Maria’s therapist as a favor to her sister.
I don’t need some mushy-headed psychologist probing my mind for clues explaining insomnia
. To her surprise, Dr. Moreland neither looked nor sounded mushy. She seemed formidable, like a dear friend who cared too
much to cut her any slack.

“So you’ve had this same dream for seven months,” the invasion began. “Every night?”

“Only recently. When they started in the summer they came once every few weeks. But they gradually became more frequent.”

“Anything unique about that time frame?”

“Not that I remember.” Julia paused, reluctant to lower her guard any further. “I was hoping you could prescribe something
to relax my mind at night. I’m sure this is all stress-induced.”

“What kind of stress?”

“Mostly work, I suppose. I’m in a bit of a decline.” Julia felt exposed voicing aloud what she had been feeling.

“Is it causing financial problems?”

“Oh no,” Julia said too quickly. “I make a very good living.”

“Then what kind of decline?”

Julia paused to consider her answer. She had felt herself spiraling downward in more than her career. Jonathan’s rejection
had not been the first. But she decided to stick to the script.
One humiliation at a time
.

“I guess the best way to describe it would be a loss in stature.” Hearing her own words made her feel trifling. “That’s not
what I mean. How can I describe it? It’s just that for the first time in my life I sense myself sliding down instead of climbing
up. Yesterday’s news.”

“I understand,” Linda sympathized.

Did she
? Julia wondered. An elegant fifty, Dr. Moreland carried herself with a grace that evoked calm confidence. A visual tour of
the office suggested Linda’s practice had been thriving for many years. No sign of any downward plunges.

“I did get a new assignment earlier this week,” Julia continued. “Probably nothing like I’ve done in the past, but it could
open more doors and put me back on track.”

“Let’s hope so.” Linda’s soft smile failed to conceal her skepticism.

As nine ticks of the clock bellowed over the silence, Julia wondered what Linda was thinking. Dr. Moreland had no doubt heard
far more serious problems.
She probably thinks I’m a prima donna with a bruised ego
.

Julia wanted the session to end.

“What can you tell me about your father?”

“My father?” The question surprised Julia.

“Yes. You said the man in the dream made you think of your father.”

Julia relaxed some. “Right. He did. Well, at least how I’ve imagined him.”

“In his face?”

“No. I can’t see his face, only his shadow. Never his face.”

“How then?” Linda probed.

“I guess in his presence. He seems strong and kind.”

“But you wake up frightened?”

“More frightened than I’ve ever felt before,” Julia continued. “But I don’t think I’m afraid of the man as much as what’s
happening, like we’re both caught up in something dreadful.”

“What can you tell me about your father?” Linda asked.

“Just what my mom told my sister and me. There was an affair. He left when I was little.”

“Has either of you ever tried to contact him?”

“Never had the chance. He died when we were five and four. End of story.”

“And you can’t recall any other details from the dream?”

“None. It almost feels like entering the most intense scene of a long movie. I know something bigger is happening, but I’ve
walked into the theater just when the conflict peaks. I sense the danger, but I have no idea what’s going on.”

Julia stopped. She had never attempted to describe her dream to anyone before, keeping it buried beneath a solitary facade.
Linda’s attention, like a reader’s subscription, had given the experience validation. Perhaps even purpose.

“Anyway,” she said, hoping to retake the reins. “Do you think you can prescribe something to help me sleep better?”

Dr. Moreland grinned, revealing a gentle patience likely acquired working with clients far more high-strung than Julia. “I’m
afraid I don’t make a habit of writing prescriptions during the first thirty minutes of meeting a new patient.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

Still in command, Linda launched the second wave of her invasion. “Tell me about your love life. Are you in a relationship?”

“Nothing steady. But I date.” The question triggered defensive feelings in Julia similar to those felt during college dorm
life. Girls sized one another up based upon their latest sexual conquests. She’d hated the demeaning game, even when winning.

“So there has been no breakup?”

If only my relationships lasted long enough to break
, Julia thought. “Not since college.”

“Recent rejections?”

“I’m thirty-four. Let’s just say I don’t get as many invitations as in the past. But men still find me attractive.”

Distant, but attractive.

“I have no question about that. You’re a lovely woman.”

Julia smiled uneasily.

Linda’s eyes moved away for a peek at the clock. “I’m so sorry, Julia,” she said, “but I need to wrap up our conversation
to prepare for my next appointment.”

“Yes. I understand. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”

“Perhaps next time we can schedule a full hour. That would give me more time to unpack your experience.”

“I’d like that,” Julia lied, eager to check
Tried therapy
off her list.

“I can say this much, Julia. I’m fairly confident medication won’t solve the problem. I’m not even convinced the dreams
are
a problem.”

Of course they’re a problem
, Julia thought.
I need rest
.

“I’m not a dream specialist,” Linda continued. “But I think your subconscious may be urging you toward something important.”

“Something important? Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Linda confessed. “But I imagine it has something to do with your dad.”

“I told you, my dad was never part of my life. Besides, he’s dead and gone.”

“Exactly.”

Thirty minutes
later Julia stood in a dimly lit hallway opposite a peephole through which Jeremy Santos could peer to check the identity
of his guest.

She continued probing the assignment Dr. Moreland had given.
Talk to someone who can help fill in your father’s face
.

What did she mean? Her father’s absence had never caused strange dreams before. Why should it be causing them now? Julia hated
the idea of wasting time and energy coddling silly insecurities. What she needed was the welcome distraction of hard work
on an important assignment.

As the door opened, Julia smiled at the skinny, pale young man who seemed surprised by her appearance. “Mr. Santos? I’m Julia
Davidson. Paul Daugherty arranged for us to meet. Is this still a good time?”

“Yes. Welcome. Please come in.”

The small apartment felt more cramped than its size required. It contained typical signs of bachelorhood: piles of empty pizza
boxes, unwashed dishes stacked in the sink, and the slight musty smell of fermenting laundry. Her eyes landed on an assortment
of mechanical devices gathering dust in the space traditionally occupied by a sofa and end table. At first glance they looked
like neglected exercise equipment. Closer scrutiny, however, offered a heartrending image of how difficult life for Jeremy’s
younger brother Antonio must have been.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Approaching a chair beside the kitchen table, Julia noticed other signs of life before Antonio’s transition: a lift harness
visible through the open bedroom door, the corner desk surface higher than normal to enable wheelchair access, and a high-end
blender well suited for turning solid foods into soft puree.

Retrieving a portable digital recorder and touch-screen notepad from her purse, Julia asked if he would allow her to record
the conversation.

“Of course,” he agreed.

Hitting the record button, Julia felt a tiny rush of adrenaline, a sensation she had missed. The rewards of writing opinion
columns paled in comparison to the thrill of investigative reporting. Each story was a new puzzle to solve, problem to decipher,
or secret to expose. You never knew what you might uncover while asking questions, following leads, chasing obscure details.
And then the best part: selecting the perfect ingredients to prepare a delicious entrée of journalistic prose.

“First,” Julia began, “I want to extend my condolences on the loss of your mother and Antonio.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Jeremy seemed genuinely surprised by the sentiment. Months of litigation had probably demanded an unnatural
detachment. Lawyers needed facts, not feelings.

“I hope telling your story can help others avoid what you’ve endured.” It was the right thing to say, even if only half true.
“Can you start by describing what happened last August and why you initiated the suit against NEXT Transition Services?”

The look in his eyes told her she had been too abrupt.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “But I want to show you something first.”

Two pictures. The first contained a man who looked remarkably like Jeremy holding a three-year-old boy laughing in delight.
Beside them a lovely young woman knelt beside a stroller carrying a toddler. Jeremy’s intact family.

“This was us in 2025. As you can probably tell, my dad and mom were crazy about each other.”

“They seem to be a lovely couple.”

Julia braced herself for the second picture.

“This is us last August at Antonio’s farewell dinner.”

The image contained three people rather than four. Jeremy wore a staged grin, an emotional hostage turned reluctant accessory.
His mother’s face showed wearied relief mixed with guilt and indignation. Only Antonio beamed in self-congratulating pride, his twisted body restraining bold resolution while his eyes provided the smile weak facial muscles could no longer
raise.

“Your father?” Julia asked.

“He left shortly after Antonio’s diagnosis. Longer than most would stay I suppose.” Jeremy’s resentment remained palpable.
“He said he would visit, send money. You know how that story ends.”

Julia felt anger welling up inside. Against her own social politics, she could not escape the expectation fathers should protect
and provide. Her hand instinctively reached toward Jeremy’s arm.

He pulled back. “I didn’t show you the pictures for pity.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I wanted you to see them so that you’ll remember that this story is not about a lawsuit. It’s about real people. Lots of
them.”

“I understand that.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Jeremy examined Julia’s face, trying to find her soul. Against journalistic protocol and personal
impulse, she let him look deeply. Fifteen seconds passed. He decided to trust her.

“I’ll send you a set of the pictures, along with these.” He tapped the digital pad to open a new folder before sliding the
pad in front of Julia.

A list of documents. She opened the first, dated August 19, 2023. Her eyes widened, and then softened. “Your mother’s journal?”

“Parts of it. I copied the sections where she writes about Antonio.” He paused. “She did the same for me. I didn’t know about
it until we retrieved her digital library after the cremation. I’m keeping those entries private. You understand.”

“Of course.”

“Other entries came from Antonio. At first he used a voice transcription application. It got harder for him the last few years
when his speech became weaker and more distorted. The most recent entries were typed one pinky finger movement at a time.
A single sentence could take him an hour to complete. He was a persistent guy,” Jeremy said with a warmhearted laugh. “A lot
stronger than I’ll ever be.”

“I can tell you loved them both very much.”

“She never did anything for herself,” he reminisced. “She deserved better.”

“I look forward to reading her journal, getting to know her. And your brother.”

He didn’t hear her. “His disease was similar to the one that famous physicist had. What was his name?”

“Hawking?” she offered.

“That’s it. Stephen Hawking.”

Julia remembered seeing pictures of the brilliant cosmologist from Oxford, his distorted body held captive in a mobilized
wheelchair. She looked again at the unused equipment in the adjoining room.

Jeremy proceeded to describe the events surrounding his brother’s transition day: an unexpected visit from a police officer
delivering very bad news, the drive to the clinic to formally identify his mother’s lifeless body, Antonio’s cold corpse lying
beside a visibly shaken woman wearing a fresh bandage across the side of her face and the dark redness of coagulated blood
on her blouse.

“They told you your mother slipped and fell while attacking the nurse?”

“Transition specialist,” he corrected. “Yeah, they said Mom fell during a violent episode trying to stop Antonio’s procedure.”

“But you don’t believe that?” Julia asked.

“I believe it.”

Julia looked up from her list of prepared questions.

“I never thought anyone intentionally killed my mother. Why would they do that?”

“Then what prompted the lawsuit?” she asked.

“NEXT will say I’m just after money.”

Julia remembered Paul’s marching orders.
Portray the kid as a pawn of greedy lawyers
. “Are you?” she asked.

“Listen, if I just wanted money I would have accepted their third offer to settle the case.”

“You’ve had three settlement offers?” Julia’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“My lawyer says I can’t tell anyone the amount. But he said it was more than we’re likely to net pushing this boulder all
the way up the judicial mountain.”

She looked into Jeremy’s weary eyes. He seemed ready to move on with his life and be done with the whole mess.

“Did you know that my brother scheduled his appointment as a minor?” Jeremy asked. “I didn’t realize it until my lawyer showed
me a copy of Antonio’s application. He applied a few days before his birthday. Mom never approved it.”

“Do you think that’s why they offered to settle?”

He didn’t.

Julia had expected the answer. Paul had explained that out of nearly three hundred thousand transitions involving minors,
only fifteen had failed to obtain parental permission. Each of those incidents had led to a mere slap on the wrist, a small
fine for inadequate procedural oversight, and modest compensation to the families. Nothing significant enough to motivate
such large settlement offers to Jeremy.

“Help me understand, Mr. Santos. You knew NEXT wasn’t worried about your case due to Antonio’s age?”

“Yep,” he replied.

“And you believe your mom’s death was an accident?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’ve turned down large financial offers?”

“Correct.”

“Then what motivated this lawsuit?”

“Hannah.”

Julia had no recollection of anyone by that name associated with the case. “Who’s Hannah?”

“Hannah Walker, Antonio’s transition specialist,” he explained. “She called me a few months after the incident. Told me she
had quit her job and wanted to meet me for coffee.”

Stumbling onto an odd-shaped puzzle piece, Julia felt another surge of adrenaline.