Chapter 17: The Dock

I left my son with Greet and a plate of crackers, and I walked Joost out to the dock.

I did not want him in my kitchen.

I did not want him anywhere my son slept.

The lake was gray and flat, with a skin of ice along the pilings, and the boards were slick underfoot.

Joost stopped at the end, where the wooden rail gave out.

He stood with his back to me for a long moment, looking at the water.

"He's three," he said.

"Yes."

"His birthday is in June."

"The twelfth."

"The twelfth of June." He turned. His eyes were red, and he did not hide it. "Is he mine?"

"You can count."

"I'm asking you."

"You said you'd never ask me anything."

"I said I'd never ask where you are." His voice shook. "I'm asking whether I have a son."

I looked at him for a long time, at the man who had stood at a microphone and said another woman's name.

"Yes," I said.

He closed his eyes.

His hand came up to cover his mouth, and I saw it shake.

It was a big hand, scarred across the knuckles, and it shook as if it belonged to an old man.

I told myself it was the cold.

"Does he know me?" he said, through his fingers.

"He knows a picture in my head, that I don't show him. He doesn't know your name."

"What does he call himself?"

"Brandsma. It's on his birth certificate. The line for the father is blank."

"Because of Pieter."

"Because of you, too." I made myself say it.

"You gave my chair away, and you didn't say my name."

"I know."

"I wasn't going to hand you my son so you could do the same to him. I gave him my name. You didn't."

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