“The screenplay is right. She was obsessed with you.”
He finishes buttoning his shirt and sits on the bench beside me, then takes my hand. He looks down at our joined fingers as he speaks. “I was dating Carolyn, Amelia’s twin. Not seriously, but we enjoyed each other. She was easy to be with and I—I wasn’t looking for anyone permanent. I was raw after you, Syl. I just wanted a woman in my bed. Someone to take the edge off.”
His words are painful to hear, all the more so because this is a chain of events I set in motion, but I say nothing. I just sit and I listen.
“Amelia had a crush, but I never cared for her. They were identical twins, but looks were the only thing they had in common. Amelia was narcissistic and had a cruel streak. A selfish streak. And one night she came into my bed dressed as her sister, wearing Carolyn’s perfume. She said nothing, and she woke me up with kisses and touches and—at any rate, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I thought Carolyn had come home early from a trip. It wasn’t until after I’d fucked her that I got my wits back and realized she was Amelia. It was that one time, but it was enough.”
“She was pregnant.”
“She was. And she tried to pressure me into marrying her. I said no. I didn’t love her—I despised her, actually. Or pitied her. And I didn’t love Carolyn, either.”
He takes a deep breath, and though I have a million questions, I force myself to stay quiet.
“I told her I wasn’t even sure the baby was mine—and that was true. Amelia slept around. But she insisted that it was, and part of me believed her. But I wasn’t about to be pressured into marriage, and when the house was done, I left. A few months later, she had the baby. And a week after that, she lured her sister into a work shed. Used a revolver to put five bullets in her, and then used the last one to kill herself.”
He is speaking evenly, almost matter-of-factly. But he is gripping my hand hard, and I can tell that every word is painful.
“Megan got custody of the baby.”
“She did. And she called me. She knew—as much as anyone did—that Ronnie was mine. She also knew—and now Arvin was involved—that the whole thing would be a huge scandal. She was awarded legal guardianship, and the family asked me to not claim the child. At the time, I thought that was best. I was shell-shocked. Confused. Lost. Hurt. I don’t even know. And I was traveling so much, working twenty-four/seven, that I didn’t think I could be a good dad. A solid father. I sent money regularly, started college funds, bought presents. Then I started visiting. Megan and I became friends—and, yes, we slept together once, but there was nothing real there. But there was something real between me and Ronnie. I grew to love her. And though I didn’t need a paternity test to know she was mine, I had one anyway.”
I think about the little girl’s eyes and hair, and I feel like a fool for not having seen it before. “It was positive,” I say, stating the obvious. “When did you take it?”
“Ronnie was about eighteen months old.”
I frown a little as I nod. I know that, of course; I’d seen the test attached to the court documents. “Why didn’t you file a paternity action then?”
“I thought about it,” he says. “But Ronnie’s well-being has always been my chief concern. At the time, that meant me being her uncle. She had Megan and Tony, and though they hadn’t adopted her, they stood as Mommy and Daddy.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “So she had stability. Care. She also had Megan’s maternal grandparents around to help. Still has them, of course, even though David, Megan’s grandfather, had a small stroke last year. He’s bedridden. But her grandmother, Betty, is a rock. I’m pretty sure that woman is invincible.”