Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
I grinned and said, “Sure, let’s hope for that. How sad that it seems like the only thing that’d actually let Lucky return to San Francisco.”
Chapter 11
Two days later, Owen and I found ourselves home alone, which didn’t happen very often. It was close to lunchtime, and I was debating the idea of a picnic in the park. It was hot out though, and since Owen was way too active these days to sit in the shade, we’d probably roast if we went out there.
While I tried to think of something else for us to do instead of sitting in the stuffy house and sweating, my son babbled happily and distributed his wooden blocks all over the living room. He was dressed in nothing but a diaper, and I was very glad he kept that on, because he’d decided in the last couple of days that he wanted nothing to do with clothes. At least his timing was good. Better to go on a clothing strike now than in December.
I almost wanted to join him because I felt sweaty and gross, but I stuck with my old tank top and ratty gym shorts. When I took a drink of ice water from a plastic sports bottle, Owen rushed over and proclaimed, “Banabee, Dada.” Then he took the bottle from me and began shaking it to rattle the ice cubes.
I had no idea what that meant, since it wasn’t his usual word for “bottle.” But I wanted to be encouraging, so I told him, “Way to string together a sentence, kiddo.”
A few moments later, there was a knock at the door. I picked up Owen and brought him with me, and opened the door to a grim, well-dressed couple who were probably around sixty. My first thought was that they were about to hand me a religious pamphlet, but the man surprised me by asking, “Are you Logan Genardi?”
“That’s right. Who are you?”
“Doctor and Mrs. Wilson. Katherine’s parents. Is this Owen?”
“Kathy’s parents? What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Wilson looked at me with distaste as she informed me, “We’ve come to get our grandson.”
Wait. What the hell was happening right now? I stared at her incredulously and asked, “You don’t honestly expect me to hand over my son to a couple of strangers, do you?”
Dr. Wilson gave me a business card as he said, “I assure you we’re who we say we are.” The card read Gary P. Wilson, D.D.S.—so, a dentist, not an M.D.
I exclaimed, “That doesn’t prove anything!”
Gary was growing impatient. “Why make this more difficult than it has to be? We’re doing you and the child a favor by taking him off your hands.”
“No, you’re not! How is trying to separate a baby from his father doing anyone a favor?”
“You’re in no position to raise that child. We’ve looked into you, boy,” he snapped. “You’re an unemployed twenty-three-year-old college dropout, living in what’s clearly an unfit environment—”
He half-turned and gestured at the Pride flag jutting from the porch as he said that, and I cut him off with, “Excuse me? You don’t get to call my family unfit!”
“Fine, but—”
“You know who owns this house? A pediatric nurse. You know who else lives here? A retired firefighter who spent fifteen years with the SFFD. There’s also a librarian and two business owners, in addition to my brother and me. Call me a college dropout if that helps you justify what you’re trying to do right now, but the fact is, I took a leave of absence from UCLA to raise my son, and—”
Gary raised his voice as his sallow cheeks turned red. “We know exactly who you’re living with. We hired a private investigator to find you after we learned our daughter had a child out of wedlock, and we found out all about your brother, the former stripper, and the rest of the degenerates living crammed into this dilapidated hovel.”
“We’re done here,” I said, as I tried to slam the door in his face.
He stuck his foot in the doorway as his wife pulled a thick envelope from her purse and handed it to her husband. “Not so fast,” he snapped, as he thrust the envelope at me. I grabbed it as Owen started to fuss, and Gary told me, “We expected you to be as stubborn and short-sighted as our daughter, so we’ve already hired the best lawyer in Los Angeles. If you need to do this the hard way, we’ll see you in court.”
“See you there. Now move your foot or lose it,” I growled. As soon as Gary pulled his foot back, I slammed the door and locked it.
I was reeling as I carried Owen back to the living room and put him on his playmat. My hands shook as I pulled a legal document from the envelope and looked it over. It was a summons instructing me to appear in court in L.A., just about six weeks from now. I whispered, “Oh god,” and sank onto the edge of the couch.