Oceans Apart Read Online Free PDF

lifeless form beneath the tarp. Was this how the scene would look when his father died, some not-so-far-off day? Gone without warning, no family around even to identify his body?
    He took his time heading back, and skipped Home Depot.
    Michele was on a stool working an off-shade of yellow onto the kitchen wall. The cordless phone was tucked between her shoulder and her cheek, and she was saying something about the school car-nival in May.
    “That’s why we buy the tickets early, the savings is unbelievable.” Pause. “Yes, I’m telling you, have her call the school office and . . .” Connor stopped listening.
    Pungent paint fumes filled the room. He took the seat at the kitchen table closest to Michele’s stool and locked eyes on the back of her head. She hadn’t heard him come in, but at the sound of the chair she spun around and waved her paintbrush at him. She gave him a crooked grin, rolled her eyes, and pointed to the phone.
    Normally at this sort of moment, he’d find a way to rescue her, yell that he needed her or that someone was at the door. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He smiled at her with his eyes as he sat back and waited.
    “Okay, Sally, right . . . yes . . .” She glanced at him over her shoulder again. “Mm-hm, Connor’s home. Okay, gotta go.” She hung up, balanced the paintbrush on the can, and took a slow step down from the stool. “Connor . . .”
    “Hi.” He met her eyes and saw her concern. He dropped his gaze to the floor. If only he could shake the image of the man’s face, but he couldn’t. Not when the resemblance was so striking.
    31

    – Oceans Apart –
    “What is it, baby?” She came to him, touching his face as she pulled up a chair. “You look awful.”
    He lifted his eyes to hers again. “I just watched a guy die.”
    “What?” Her eyes grew wide and she took hold of his arm.
    A slow breath filled Connor’s lungs and the story spilled out. He told her about the burgundy sedan, about the deafening impact.
    “The people in the minivan were fine.” He lifted one shoulder and tried to sound unaffected. “But the old guy in the sedan . . . he was dead before they hit. Heart attack.” Michele searched his face, clearly looking for more.
    “It wasn’t the accident.” Connor let his head hang, and with his free hand he massaged the muscles at the base of his neck. Not even international flights left him this tense.
    “Okay.” Michele slid her hand down his arm and wove her fingers between his. “What is it?”
    He looked up once more. “The guy was a ringer for my dad, Michele. He looked just like him.”
    She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “He wouldn’t be here, would he?”
    “No.” Connor rested his forearms on the table. “It wasn’t him.
    But for a minute . . .”
    Silence joined them at the table and dominated the conversation. Michele released his hand and stood, studying him, an odd sadness in her gaze. Connor knew what she was going to say before she said it.
    “Maybe this is God’s way, a reason to call him and—”
    “Don’t!” He regretted the sharp word as soon as it left his mouth. A low moan escaped him, and he felt like an eighty-year-old man as he struggled to his feet. For a long time he faced her, hating himself for the fresh pain in her eyes.
    She took the slightest step backwards. “You never even hear me, Connor.” Tears glistened in her lower lashes. “The man’s your father.” 32

    – Karen Kingsbury –
    “The man’s a stranger.”
    “Because you let him be.”
    “No.” His voice rose a notch. “Because he wants to be.” She pressed the palm of her hand against her forehead and grabbed at her hair with her other hand. Her words were a desperate hiss. “I hate this.”
    He hated it, too. He watched her and wanted to say so, wanted to tell her how awful the whole mess made him feel. How he hated the silence and bitterness and empty, wasted years. Hated the way his own father hadn’t cared enough to