Page 27 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 2
It’s not until a few pages later, when Ian has reached an approximate age of three, that there are more noticeable red flags. Ian looks pale, gaunt. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes. The child is skin and bones. Clearly, he’s not thriving. I refrain from stating the obvious, but based on the tightness in Ian’s expression as he stares at the photos—his pinched lips, hiswhite-knuckled grip on the album—he sees it, too. A shudder ripples through him.
I slowly sweep my thumb back and forth against the back of his neck.I’m here, babe. I’m right here.“You don’t have to do this, Ian.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice shakes. And then he turns the page to see a photo of little Ian sitting on his bed, clutching a Batman doll in his thin little arms, staring at the camera with haunted eyes. Ian gasps. “I wasn’t sure if he was real or not,” he says in a hushed voice. “I thought maybe I dreamed him up.”
He means Batman, of course.
Shortly after Ian and I first got together, he told me that, when he was young, he used to fantasize that someone would come rescue him—Superman or Batman or a cop. Those childhood fantasies took on a whole new meaning for him when we met. Suddenly, he had his very own cop—me—his own superhero. A real-life protector.
Ian tears up as he stares at that photo. He traces his finger over the faded image. “I always wondered what happened to him.”
“What, to Batman? It didn’t go with you when you left Rhonda?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I never saw it again. I would have remembered if I’d had it at the Alexanders’ house.” He chuckles tearfully. “If I had, I’m sure I’d still have it today.”
The rest of the photos are pretty much the same—that of a small, malnourished, sad little boy with dark circles under his green eyes. There are no more pictures of Rhonda in the album. Just Ian. It’s a photographic record of a neglected child. Abruptly, we come to the final page of photos. The album is maybe a quarter full. There are maybe two dozen photos in all. That’s the only record he has of his life before the Alexanders took him in.
In contrast, the Alexanders have an entire bookcase filled with photo albums featuring their two adopted children. I know, because Ruth made me look through them all.
Ian slams the photo album shut. “How could any parent do this to a child?”
I take the album from him and draw him into my arms. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to banish those painful memories.
Just as I feared, seeing these photos has opened up a floodgate in Ian. The words tumble out of him.
“She’d lock me in my room upstairs, for hours and hours, all night long. In the dark. The windows were boarded up, so I couldn’t see outside. There were no lights in my room. It was justdark. I’d cower in the closet with my toys, hungry and thirsty and cold, listening to theawfulsounds coming from downstairs. Sounds I didn’t understand. Sometimes I’d hear her screaming. Sometimes she’d be crying. Some of the men would yell.”
When Ian looks at me, the pain in his eyes takes my breath away. “Sometimes I’d hear the doorknob to my room rattling, as if someone was trying to come in. I always thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me, but now I’m not so sure.”
I stand and pull him to his feet. “Come with me.”
He follows obediently as I lead him up two flights of stairs to the spacious rooftop greenhouse—to his happy place. Hissafeplace. While I turn on the baby monitor, he stands gazing up at the night sky, at the stars above, and at the lights coming from the high-rises that make up the city skyline.
I cross over to him and turn his to face me, firmly gripping his jaw. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” It’s a promise, an oath, that I’ve made many times before. And I’ll keep making it as often as he needs to hear it.
Ian swallows hard as he nods. “I know.”
“Because you’re mine, and I protect what’s mine.”
Tears spring into his eyes. “I love you. You accept me for who I am, and you’ve never once tried to change me.”
My eyes narrow. “Change you? Why in the world would I want to change you?”
“Because I’m a hot mess,” he says with a shaky laugh. “I’m emotionally high maintenance. You know I am.”
I cup his face in my hands. “
No, you’re perfect.”
Epilogue
Three months later
Tyler
Ian’s sitting cross legged on the living room carpet, one baby propped up on each thigh. They’re leaning back against his torso as he reads them a story about baby bunnies. Will keeps trying to make a grab for the book, probably because he wants to chew on it. Lizzie is relaxing, lounging back against Ian, content to sit on her Daddy’s lap, her thumb tucked into her perfect little rosebud mouth.
Every single day, I am amazed at Ian’s parenting skills. He has an endless supply of patience. It’s like he can read their minds—he knows what they need, when they need it. I love watching him with our kids. I love how attentive he is, how gentle. I do my share, too, when I’m home, because I want to be a good father. But it comes naturally to Ian, whereas I constantly feel like I’m second-guessing myself, unsure, afraid of making mistakes.
