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  The angry, raw heat faded. Mrs. Dale was a straight-to-the-point woman who never engaged in small talk. And like any proud mother, Bridget loved talking about her child. “I held his party at Sleeping Giant Park. The kids had a lot of fun. They swam and hiked. I even arranged to have his favorite hero show up—Laser from the Z Men.”

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Dale tapped her pen against the desk. “I met with Kyle’s father yesterday for a full assessment. Mr. Guimond has relocated here. My supervisor and I agreed to one hour, once a week supervised visits for Kyle and his father.”

  The blood flowing through Bridget’s veins slowed. “I see... Does... does this mean, uh, does this mean—” She dug her nails into the arm of the chair.

  “Understand, Kyle hasn’t seen his father in almost four years.” Mrs. Dale’s normal sharper-than-her-pointed-nose voice warmed to a reassuring tone. Even her hard gaze softened, liquifying her cold gray eyes to melted clay.

  “This doesn’t mean he’ll gain full custody. He may never gain full custody. Transitions, especially those of Adam Guimond’s case, take a long time. A very long time.” The melted clay of Mrs. Dale’s eyes re-hardened to their natural concrete. Her thin upper lip twitched.

  All Bridget had to do was stay silent and let Mrs. Dale sabotage Adam’s chances at regaining custody of Kyle. Was this what the woman was insinuating?

  But Bridget was Catholic. Her parents, the church, and God expected her to handle the most important facet of her life with faith—a faith as shaky as her trembling knees and clacking teeth after what she’d endured at Adam’s recklessness.

  Chapter Two: Do You Believe?

  Today was the day. Kyle’s first visit with his dad. Bridget settled her hand against her heaving chest to keep from jabbing the mascara wand into her eye.

  Deep breaths. Stay calm. She could do this. Straighten. Stand tall. She capped the mascara tube and twisted it shut.

  “Mom?” Kyle’s softer-than-cotton voice slid into the bedroom.

  Bridget turned from the full-length mirror.

  All without Bridget nagging him to dress, Kyle had slipped on his backpack, laced his shoes, scrubbed his round face to a shine, and his gleaming white teeth said he’d brushed and flossed.

  He held one of the chocolate bars he’d received as a gift during his birthday party. “Please?”

  Pain smothered Bridget’s chest. The no word sucked more than a vacuum cleaner during such a crucial time for Kyle. Today, he deserved a treat. “You’re going to see your dad. You have to stay clean.”

  Kyle bowed his head. “Do we have to go?” His question was smaller than his apprehensive whisper.

  “You know we have to.” And I wish we didn’t. “I explained everything to you last night.” Even though your father doesn’t deserve an explanation. “You said you were okay with seeing him.” But I’m not.

  “Uh-huh.” Kyle kept his head bowed.

  “What is it?”

  When Kyle lifted his head, fear suffocated his dark eyes. “Am I going to have to live with him? Will you stop being my mom?”

  How could Bridget reassure Kyle when her own hope had curled into a defeated ball? Time to don her Mom hat of bravery. “I told you last night, Mrs. Dale’s supervising your dad. She’ll decide what’ll happen. Decisions won’t be made for a long time. We’d better get going. We can’t be late.”

  Bridget snatched her purse off the bed. “I told you. I’m going to work very hard to keep us together.”

  Kyle flashed a toothy, crooked grin. “I know, Mom. You can do anything. You’re a Z Man!” He jumped and landed on spread feet while pointing.

  Bridget’s shriveled hope continued to shrink. If only that were true.

  “Maybe...” He licked his plump lips. “Maybe we can go see Grandpa and Grandma this weekend.”

  “I think we should.” Dad’s faith was unshakable. Perhaps Bridget could steal some from her father to plump up hers that was the size of a pea. “Remember, I’ll be in the room. You’re not doing this alone.”

  “I know, Mom.” Kyle twirled off into the main part of their condo.

  Bridget smoothed her shirt and the pleats to her pants. She followed him to the foyer. “It’s already five to nine. Our appointment’s at nine-thirty. Let’s go.”

  Kyle flung open the door and darted into the hallway.

  “Wait. Don’t run ahead.” Kyle knew the rules. He must stay close. She fumbled with the deadbolt.

  “Are we stopping for a double-double at Reggie’s Donuts?” Kyle dashed to the elevator. “I got dibs on the down button.” He pushed it, grinning.

  “Yes.” She slung her purse strap over her shoulder while skimming down the hall, knees jittering.

  “Can I get a doughnut?”

  The elevator door opened. “Anything but chocolate.”

  “Why not?”

  Bridget shepherded him into the elevator. “Because you have to stay clean.”

  “Clean.” Kyle sneered. “I hate clean.” Using his little finger, the one he always wrapped around Bridget’s before she kissed him goodnight, he pressed the lobby button.

  “I know you do.” Bridget tweaked his wide nose. Touching him expelled some of the anxiety climbing up her spine. “For me... please stay clean. Mrs. Dale’s going to watch everything.”

  Kyle’s fingers browsed the elevator buttons. He stopped at the big red one.

  “Don’t you dare. We can’t be late.” The high-pitched order flew from Bridget’s mouth before she could take back the words.

  “Mom?” Kyle’s eyes popped to the shape of dinner plates.

  “It’s okay, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.” Bridget rubbed the back of his neck.

  The door opened. They scooted to their parking spot outside of the condominium. Once Bridget made sure Kyle was buckled in, she started the truck and backed out.

  “At seven-thirty this morning, the OPP underwater recovery unit pulled a body from the McIntyre River near Isabel and Simpson Street,” the radio announcer said. “Police refused to comment if the body was Sheena Keesha, a sixteen-year-old Indigenous girl from Big Rock First Nation, which is four hundred and fifty kilometers north of the city. Keesha, as previously reported, went missing six days ago while in protective child care. Friends confirmed she was last seen outside of The Gator Bar on Brodie Street and Victoria Avenue. This marks the fourth Indigenous youth to go missing this year.”

  Bridget switched off the stereo. Each time she heard this kind of horrible news, fear dug into her flesh like burly palms gripping her throat.

  * * * *

  Adam shifted in the plastic chair. He pulled at his shirt collar. For the third time, he smoothed his forearms. A better impression called for cuffed sleeves, but a running furnace was colder than the room for supervised visits.

  Toys were piled in the corner. A round kiddie table and kiddie chairs were available for the children to sit at. Adam stood. His thirsty throat demanded a cola from the vending machine in the corner, but he needed the last of his change to catch a bus back to the halfway house. As for the toonie he kept in his other pocket, he’d saved the two-dollar coin for Kyle in case the boy wanted a treat.

  The door opened. The Hawk marched into the room, carrying a clipboard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Guimond. I see you are here bright and early.” Her grim, thin mouth failed to flicker with a hint of a smile.

  What’d she expect him to do? Show up an hour late? He hadn’t seen Kyle in almost four years. “Is there any coffee?”

  “This is a supervised visit, not a correctional institution taxpayers fund from their hard-earned wages so inmates can partake in beverages at our expense. Next time, if you desire coffee, please bring one.”

  Winnipeg’s Portage and Main in the dead of winter was warmer than this frosty old biddy. “Got it.” Adam meandered to the window and leaned against the sill, placing his hands on either side of him.

  Mrs. Dale sat on one of the plastic chairs. She crossed her thin l
egs at the ankles and scribbled on her clipboard.

  Sweat formed at the nape of Adam’s neck. Any second, Kyle and Bridget would come through the door.

  * * * *

  Bridget ushered Kyle down the hall, passing the line of offices, straight to the visitation room. He clutched his doughnut bag, and she strangled the handle of her travel mug. Holding hands, she kept squeezing her son’s fingers.

  They stopped at the door where Adam waited on the other side.

  For Kyle’s sake, Bridget must expunge the tingles juddering through her limbs. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll be there. Mrs. Dale’ll be there. You won’t be alone.”

  “O-okay.” Kyle’s lower lip quivered. “I’m ready, Mommy.”

  Not good. On his sixth birthday, he’d proudly announced he was too old to call her by that name. This was worse than Bridget had expected. She rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades. “Let’s go. Remember, God’s with... He’s with us.”

  “He is, isn’t He, Mommy?” Color returned to Kyle’s brown skin.

  “Always, He is. I’m going to open the door.” Bridget kept her voice hushed.

  Kyle’s small muscles beneath Bridget’s palm tightened.

  She turned the handle. Keeping her cool was imperative, although the accusing words of asshole, liar, and jerk, inched up her throat.

  When Bridget opened the door, Adam was leaning against the windowsill, and the bitter words kept blinking in her brain. She gripped and re-gripped Kyle’s hand.

  A short-sleeved white dress shirt hugged Adam’s strong upper chest and broad shoulders. He’d tucked the hem into the slim waist of his beige dress pants. His shoulder-length pitch-black hair, minus the familiar beige cowboy hat, was combed off his square face, but stray strands brushed his straight black brows.

  The saliva thickened in Bridget’s throat at the sight of his long, wide nose, strong jawline, and the plush mouth he used to brush at her earlobe.

  His black eyes held hers, his gaze as impenetrable as it had been in the past, unmoving, refusing to let her inside.

  Bridget recoiled. Her heart, ready to melt all over the floor, hardened to stone. She lifted her chin.

  Adam’s nod was slow, a careful tilt of his head.

  Bridget looked to Kyle and pointed at the chair next to Mrs. Dale. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Okay... Mom.” Kyle continued to grip her hand.

  She wiggled her fingers free. “Go on.” She made sure her gentle order came out soft and drawn-out.

  He inched forward, clutching his small Reggie’s Donuts bag.

  “Hey.” Adam shifted to his haunches. His pants cuddled his muscular thighs.

  Mouth wet and lungs shrinking, Bridget shimmied to Mrs. Dale and sat on the edge of the plastic chair. She dug her nails into her purse and her muscles contracted—this could be the longest hour of her life.

  * * * *

  Adam’s throat wouldn’t stop constricting. A hard ball formed at the base of his neck.

  This visit was about his son. If he looked at Bridget again in the sleeveless blouse baring her sleek arms that she used to wrap around his shoulders, or the tight pants draping her slim thighs she’d spread wide for him, or the sexy high-heeled sandals giving him a peek at her red-painted toenails she’d caressed across his calf, or her red-painted nails she’d scratched across his back, it’d be all over for him.

  He’d close his mind to her thick, long, black hair, the delicate bone structure of her face, shining midnight eyes, and sensual lips.

  Kyle kept quivering, gaping at Adam. His son’s buzz cut must have been Bridget’s idea. Before his incarceration, Adam hadn’t allowed scissors to touch his only child’s black hair. Now was the time to put his anger management classes to use. If he’d been on the outside, Kyle’s hair would be halfway down his back by now.

  Using the voice of the past, the one reserved for his boy that was a good three octaves higher and sweeter than maple syrup, Adam offered what he hoped was a dazzling smile and said, “Hey. You had a birthday, didn’t you?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “What’cha got there?” Adam pointed at the bag.

  “A doughnut. Mommy... Mommy let me get one.” Kyle’s tiny voice shook, barely a whisper.

  “For our next visit, I’ll bring cookies. I make a mean chocolate chip cookie.”

  “I... I...” The little guy kept trembling as if Adam was some monster from a bad kiddie cartoon.

  Adam fished the toonie from his pants pocket. He must act quickly, or tears would erupt from his boy, straight in front of the note-taking Hawk, who’d probably slam the brakes on Adam’s visits. “Want a pop? We can get whatever you like.”

  Lower lip trembling, Kyle sadly shook his head. He shifted, stealing a peek at Bridget.

  “You wanna sit over here? There’s some coloring books.” Adam pointed at the round table and tiny chairs.

  “N-no.” Kyle stared at his running shoes with the words Z Men emblazoned on the sides.

  Defeat dragged Adam’s shoulders downwards. He forced his sunken chest outwards. Help me, Creator. Help me and my boy reconnect.

  He sat on the floor cross-legged, having done this tons of times when Kyle had been small. Under his breath, Adam hummed the Ojibway morning song.

  Kyle squinted.

  A light glowed inside of Adam.

  “That’s neat.” Kyle’s soft words echoed against Adam’s ears.

  He kept singing and held out his hands for the big test.

  Kyle shifted and sat cross-legged, too. His small hands shook, but he wrapped his fingers around Adam’s. Their first contact in almost four years. The warmth of Kyle’s hands, the boy’s smooth palms, and the trust he’d shown by holding hands almost melted Adam’s scarred heart.

  He sang the last words of the song and squeezed Kyle’s fingers.

  “Do you go to powwows? Do you wear feathers?”

  Hope beat against Adam’s ribcage. They did stand a chance of becoming father and son.

  “You did. I brought you with me. I put ‘em right here.” Adam tapped the back of Kyle’s head where he used to attach the roach of porcupine hairs and the two feathers fastened to the spreader.

  “I... I did? Wow. Can I wear it again?” Anticipation clung to Kyle’s question.

  “You’ll need a new one. The old one’s too small.” Adam had better find a woman at the Kitchi-Gaming Friendship Center to make a northern traditional dance outfit for Kyle. As for money, he’d dig into his precious savings, what he’d stashed away for his new life with Kyle, for new regalia.

  From the corner of his eye, he stole a peek at Bridget’s tight ruby-red lips. Her frigid glare was as hard as any man’s on the range in the pen.

  “I hear you want to be an altar server.”

  Kyle’s buzzed head bobbed. His long, white teeth gleamed. “I start grade two when summer’s done. Mom said when I do... um... the bread of Christ thing, I can help Father Arnold at church. It’s a really important job.” He came off his butt, leaning forward. “Uncle Emery said when he was my age he did it. He... he’s not gonna be a priest anymore. I have a new uncle now. Uncle Darryl. Uncle Emery got married. He married Uncle Darryl.”

  “Your mom told me in her last letter.”

  “Mom said you finished the big school.”

  “Big school?”

  “Where the big kids go.”

  “Oh, high school.” Adam had better take a refresher on kid speak. “Yep. Dad finished high school when he was away.”

  “Where’d you go?” Kyle tilted his head and puckered his lips. “Why’d you go away?”

  Adam inched his hand forward and stroked Kyle’s fuzzy head of prickly hair. When the boy didn’t draw back, Adam’s breathing seemed to simmer like the relaxing shower he had last night.

  “We’ll talk about it another time. I want you to understand I didn’t want to leave or go away that long.”

  “Then why’d you go?” Kyle’s large eyes drooped at the corners.


  “I had to. Sometimes we gotta do things we don’t wanna. But I’m back now. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The sharp intake of breath belonged to Bridget. Adam looked over his shoulder at his ex-fiancée’s rigid jaw and eyes colder and harder than onyx.

  She didn’t believe him? She believed he’d return to his old ways? He not only wanted Kyle back, he wanted Bridget back. They were the reason Adam had kept his head low in the pen.

  As the counselor had said, Adam deserved happiness like anyone else. This time he wouldn’t run in fear from what Creator offered. And Creator was offering Adam a second chance—his son and a new life with Bridget.

  Chapter Three: On Parole

  The pristine Catholic neighborhood on a tree-lined cul-de-sac and her brother’s grand two-story brick house shingled with cedar shakes, stately windows, two-door entrance, and a full basement was a metaphor of his life, mocking Bridget.

  She could’ve have had this life, too, if she’d used her brain instead of relying on her vagina to do the thinking.

  Kyle skipped up the stone walkway to the home bookended by matching houses and manicured lawns. The light-blue sky and the puffy white clouds had drawn out the children who rode bikes, bounced balls, and skate-boarded along the big cement circle at the end of the street.

  Bridget rang the doorbell and entered the two-story foyer with its majestic staircase winding up to the second floor. Kyle scrambled to the family room, doing what he always did, searching for his cousins, while she trounced to Jude’s study, where he’d be buried in his perennial mound of work.

  When she entered her brother’s sanctuary, sunlight streamed in from the French doors leading out to the patio and the glass fence surrounding the pool.

  Jude sat behind his mahogany desk and glanced up.

  “You’re on summer vacation. Even principals are allowed time off.” Bridget plopped into the plush arm chair facing the desk.