Chapter 3

Micah

It's been a week since my kid brother, Dr. Garrett Davenport, broke down the genetic findings of my blood test into bite-size chunks while we fished the Saint Joe River in north Idaho. And even still, I was banking on a lab error. There had to be some other less life-altering explanation for the results. Run it again, I'd told him as I'd cast, you know that can't be right.

Without argument, Garrett had agreed.

But now, as I lean against the kitchen countertop in the house I grew up in, phone in hand, I know by the slow breath Garrett exhales before he speaks that the fear keeping me up at night is about to be realized.

"I'm sorry, Micah. I wanted there to be another explanation as much as you did. I ran the test multiple times. It's confirmed." Pause. Breath. "Frank Davenport is not a blood relation of yours."

I'm not my father's son.

Just like that, I'm teleported to another fishing trip only a couple weeks ago. Three months to the day we buried Mom, to be exact. The trip when Garrett first suggested we should both go in for a simple screening to determine if either of us showed any pre-markers of the kidney disease that took our mother. Only, instead of being given a clean bill of health, inconsistencies surfaced, and another round of tests was suggested.

One that has been run multiple times, according to my brother.

I'm not my father's son.

Despite the number of workshop trainings I've taught and attended for the school district on how to reconstruct old narratives and create new neuropathways in the brain, there is no reframing technique in the world powerful enough to remove the barbed wire of betrayal slicing me open at present.

Garrett drops any trace of his doctorly voice in exchange for the brotherly tone I know best. "Where are you right now?"

"Mom and Dad's."

The tense silence that follows creates a boomerang exchange back to my ears. Our mom has been gone for three months, and now, according to a DNA test, my dad is ... not my dad.

"Okay, listen," he says, "I'm going to cancel my last appointment at the hospital and meet you out there. I don't think you should be alone." My brother is a hero to many, myself included, but I don't want to be rescued tonight. I need to think, to plan. I need to follow through on the reason I came. Now so more than ever.

"I appreciate that, Gar, really. But I'll be fine."

"Fine is a four-letter word. You're the guy who taught me that, remember? Nobody is ever just fine."

"You shouldn't listen to everything I say."

"You're my big brother. It's written into the bylaws of life."

I know he's only trying to lighten the mood, but suddenly I'm consumed by the second part of an equation I hadn't put together until now. If our dad is not my blood relative, then Garrett is not my ... he's not fully related to me, either.

We're half brothers.

"Don't cancel on your patient," I repeat as a sledgehammer strikes my temples. "It's been a trying week." Understatement. "I'm not planning on staying out here long."

My gaze catches on the infamous houseplant we nicknamed Jumanji inside Mom's office where I've been sorting a mountain of paperwork so Dad won't have to when he returns home from Alaska.

"What about meeting up for a quick bite to eat, then? Or better yet, why don't you come over tonight. You know Kacy would be happy to have you join us."

"Kacy needs a break when you get home from work; twins are a four-handed job. Probably double that most days." I pause, picturing the mischievous grins of my twin nieces. "I'll call you tonight once I'm home. I don't want you worrying about me."

"What are you even doing over there?" Something close to suspicion laces his tone, but I pretend not to notice. "Dad said he put the garden sprinklers on automatic before he left, and the mail's been stopped, right? I don't blame you for wanting to search for answers wherever you can, but this isn't your burden to bear alone, brother. I'm here, too."

"Jumanji needed water." A half truth told by a half sibling. "I've been coming out every couple of days."

A knock sounds in the background of our call, and a female voice interrupts a moment later with news that Dr. Garrett's next patient has been checked in and is waiting for him in exam room number five.

"Listen, Micah, as far as Dad's concerned—" his sigh is heavy—"I think it would be best if we waited until after he comes home to—"

"I'm not going to interrupt his fishing trip. It would be nearly impossible to get a message to Dad out at sea anyway." How strange that such a simple word like dad can inflict so much pain each time I say it. "This can wait until he's back."

Garrett's voice dips low. "I'd bet my medical license he doesn't know about this, Micah."

It's the same conclusion I've come to in the dead of night, as well, but a second opinion from a reliable source is always appreciated when dealing with life-altering information.

"So your working theory is that Mom managed to keep her pregnancy with me a secret from him until after they eloped?" I ask.

"That's what makes the most sense to me, considering the timeline involved."

So Garrett had been up at night thinking, too.

On the one hand, this explanation makes the pain slightly more bearable. But on the other hand, if Dad knew my mother had become pregnant with me by another man before they married, then I'd have someone to direct my questions to, a full story instead of the tiny crumb I've been handed at the age of twenty-nine. But while Frank Davenport is many things to many people, a secret-keeper he is not. The man can't hold an ace in his hand without biting his lower lip or breaking out into an anticipatory sweat. There's not a chance in this world he could have been hiding something this large from me or my brother.

Before Garrett married Kacy, the three of us Davenport men spent time outdoors together nearly every weekend. If we weren't out hiking a trail near Camp Selkirk or singing our hearts out on the open road, then we were fishing on the Saint Joe River and prepping our catches for Mom to grill. Dad gave Garrett and me his passion for nature, but really what he gave us was himself.

He wouldn't have hidden something like this from me. Nor would he have allowed my mother to. He loved his family too much to hide the truth.

"I'll talk to him when he gets back," I confirm for a second time. "He deserves this time away to clear his head. Thanks again for funding his charter passage."

"My part was easy," he offers. "You're the one who had to convince him we'd be okay if he actually left."

To some, spending a month on a deep-sea fishing excursion with an old friend in Alaska while grieving the love of your life might sound detrimental, but I can't fathom a better activity for my dad to be doing in this time. His mind and heart work best when he has a fishing rod in his hands.

"You'll be okay, too," Garrett adds quietly. "Just please don't do anything ... impulsive."

Like quitting your job without securing a new one, is what we both know he doesn't add.

I make no promises as I flick on the light in my parents' kitchen. "You should get to your patient, doc. I'll call you later."

As soon as we hang up, I go in search of the real reason I came over today. It wasn't only to water Mom's beloved houseplant—that thing could survive a year outside in the Sahara. I came for the old-school answering machine I used to make fun of when I was a know-it-all kid in middle school. My parents were never fans of the ever-changing technology of cell phones. Dad kept his old flip phone until it drowned in the river one glorious day a handful of summers back, but he refused to give up their landline or the answering machine that still sits atop their counter. Last week was the first time I appreciated the thing in my life.

I tap the faded Play button and lean my back against the fridge door to relisten to a recording that has puzzled me for the past five days. The instant Luella Farrow's voice fills the room, the image of her waiting on my parents' front porch with sorrow-rimmed eyes and an overnight bag clutched in her hands pushes all else aside.

When working with my students at school, I encourage them to find alternative terminology when speaking of the villains in their stories for the same reason I don't encourage the label of victim, either. It's too easy to slip into the mindset of either extreme. Both are equal in their danger. But I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought of Luella Farrow as the villain in my mom's story for most my life, which is precisely why I'm still struggling to reconcile the woman I met three months ago with the version of her I grew up secretly despising whenever I saw her picture in supermarket magazines or heard her name whispered behind closed doors. And yet, a deathbed summons from an estranged best friend is hardly the time to be psychoanalyzing someone's true character.

"Hi, Frank ... it's Luella. I've been wanting to check in on you. I know you have your boys nearby, but if you ever need to talk, I'd answer day or night. I know how hard these first few months can be. After Russell died, I couldn't sleep more than two hours at a time. Sometimes I still have trouble staying asleep in an empty bed."

I've memorized the Southern cadence of her phrasing and the way she pauses for breath right before she launches into the reason for her call.

"Anyway, I'm calling because I found something of Lynn's I think you should have. It didn't feel right to send something of hers to your doorstep unannounced. So I'll keep it safe until I hear from you. I pray for you and your boys daily. I wish ... I wish..."

The line goes quiet for so long one would think the call had disconnected. Only, when Luella's husky voice returns, her raw words prick my eyes.

"I wish I wouldn't have waited until good-bye was all we had left. She deserved better than that. Maybe we both did. I loved her, too."

This time, when she drawls out her unlisted phone number, I jot it down. And before I can talk myself out of it, I punch in the numbers and make the call. The superstar herself answers on the third ring.

"Hello?" she asks, her accent bright and full.

"Hello, is this Ms. Farrow?"

"I suppose that depends on who's asking, sugar."

"This is Lynn and Frank Davenport's oldest son, Micah." I hate how the introduction leaves a strange residue on my tongue.

"Oh dear, is Frank ... I mean, please tell me he isn't—"

"He's in Alaska for most of the summer, ma'am. Deep-sea fishing."

"Oh goodness sakes, that's a relief. You had me worried for a minute." She seems to switch mental gears. "You and your brother have been in my nightly prayers. How are you doing, darlin'?"

It's been months since I heard a maternal voice dote over me, and for a moment, the knot of grief wedged in my throat won't allow me to answer. When I do, it's far more honest than I intend. "I'm ... doing the best I can, thank you."

"You're a school counselor, correct?"

Technically, I'm an unemployed therapist for the school district, but for the sake of brevity, I simply say, "Yes, ma'am, for the past five years."

"That sounds like commendable work."

Commendableis not one of the labels I'd give myself at the moment.

"What can I do for you, Micah?"

"I've been taking care of my parents' house while my dad's been away—trying to lessen the stress load on him by sorting through some of her things before he returns. I heard the message you left and was hoping to inquire after what you found of my mother's."

"That's thoughtful of you," Luella says with a touch of nostalgia. "I used to tease your mother about all the things she used to collect when we were young. She was forever hanging on to scraps of paper and pressed flowers when we were on the road. Once she scolded me for nearly tossing out the gum package we purchased in some tiny town in Oklahoma. Like everything else, she wanted to save it for Chickee."

My mind flashes back to the picture my mother kept of her grandmother—Chickee, as she called her—on her nightstand. The woman had died long before I was born, but Mom had grieved her absence until her own last breath. Chickee had taken on the impossible role of trying to make up for my mother's two neglectful, abusive parents. She'd been the one to give my mother a home, the same home I'm standing in now. As well as a family. And I suppose, in a way, she's partially responsible for giving Garrett and me the same.

"They had a special relationship," I state with care before realizing Luella would have known that. She would have known Chickee, too. I'm hopeful she knows far more than that.

Luella clears her throat. "I recently had an old tour bus remodeled. It was in storage for quite a while. When the crew demoed the bunk room, they uncovered a stack of travel journals that belonged to your mother. She always documented our travels for Chickee—started with our first cross-country trip from Idaho to Nashville. I figured your family would appreciate having them."

I work to connect the hemispheres in my brain until I can recall the detail I'm searching for. "Would this bus you restored be the one called ... Goldie?"

Luella gasps. "You know about Old Goldie?"

I know a lot more than that."The last tour you took with my mother was in 1994 aboard that bus, correct?"

"Yes, yes, that's right. Goodness, I ... I didn't realize she spoke about those days much with anyone but your father."

Truthfully, she hadn't spoken much about them, which is why I've been conducting my own research since Garrett first noted the discrepancy within our family blood types. I wove a loose timeline of events through commentary online and stories about an old band that broke up just as they were about to strike gold. Yet lurking underneath it all was a story problem needing to be solved, one circling a secret conception that dates back to the summer of '94. The same summer Luella and Lynn went their separate ways after an unknown scandal did them in. The same summer Frank the bus driver eloped with a woman who had actively sworn off ever becoming a wife or a mother.

"Are you headed out on a tour soon?" I ask the question casually, as if I'm seated across from a student and not speaking to a three-time CMA Award–winning artist.

"Not a full tour; it's a three-day country music festival not too far away from your neck of the woods. I'm headlining the Watershed Festival at the Gorge Amphitheater in Washington. It will likely be my last time performing for a live audience, and I've always dreamed of playing there again." She says this with a confidence that surprises me. But with a hit single that's still making waves, it's hard to imagine her stepping off the stage anytime soon. Of course, I never would have imagined her sending the award she won for Song of the Year to my mother nearly five decades after they cowrote it, either—information I only learned after the ornate box was delivered and opened.

Not too long after Luella sent it, she had stood on my parents' doorstep.

"But before that," she continues, undeterred by my mental twists and turns, "I'm taking my girls on a special road trip. I'm planning to stop in many of the same places I stopped with your mother when we first left Idaho in the '70s." She sighs. "Time is a strange thing. I can still remember the smell of our old Lima Bean VW Bus. Of course, those were the days before we could even dream of affording something like Goldie. We loved Old Goldie—that gold pin stripe down the center of her all-black body. She was the prettiest thing we ever laid eyes on." She chuckles then. "I recall your father staring at your mother as if he thought the same about her." Her chuckle is softer this time. "Franklin was smitten with Lynn years before she gave in to his charm." There's something sobering in her tone. "Your dad may have driven us around the countryside, but he was so much more than a bus driver to us. My Russell used to say Frank was the glue that held the lot of us together. What I wouldn't give to have him with me and my girls this summer."

And just like that, my mind hits a series of speed bumps, slowing down my thoughts long enough to glimpse a detour sign up ahead. With all the times I've been on the open road with my father, sharing the wheel and the drive time after he retired from the school district and took on contract tours whenever he "needed to gain some fresh perspective," I know the value of a good driver. And I can picture exactly what Luella means about my father being the glue. She isn't wrong. He was the one who inspired me to go into psychology.

"I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing that," I reply. "I'll be sure to pass it along."

Unlike the stereotype, I didn't become a licensed therapist because of a messed-up home life when I was a child, or because of some need to right the wrongs of a past generation. I became a therapist because my parents loved hard, fought fair, and modeled the healthy boundaries and communication skills they attributed to their faith in God. At least, that's what I'd grown up believing, anyway. Now I can't decide what's worse: believing the wrong narrative about my childhood or being blindsided by a backstory I never saw coming.

I'm not my father's son.

"I'd really like to get those journals from you, Luella."

"Of course, darlin'. Just let me know where you'd like me to send—"

"Actually, I'd rather not risk them to a mail carrier. They're too valuable." I take a breath and formulate a plan I know Garrett would label impulsive if given the chance. "If it's not too much to ask, I'd like to collect them from you in person."

There's a muffled sound on the other end I can't quite decipher, followed by, "I'd love nothing more than to have you visit. I used to dream about what it would be like to have Lynn's boys over to introduce to my daughters, as well as to eat some proper Tennessee BBQ. But of course, dreams make everything seem simpler than it is." Another pause. "Please know that anyone in your family is welcome to come with you."

Her statement pricks goosebumps down my arms. A week ago, I never would have imagined such a reaction over meeting Luella's family members, much less that I'd be traveling to her home. But a week ago I still believed my family didn't have any skeletons in their closet.

"Garrett and his wife, Kacy, have two-year-old twin girls, and he's recently taken a promotion at the hospital where he works. He's not in a place where he can get away easily."

"That's understandable. Unfortunately, we're planning to hit the road this coming Saturday. I don't suppose you'd be able to come this week for a night or two, would you? You'd be welcome to stay at my home in Brentwood. Otherwise, I'm afraid such a trip might have to wait until we're back from Watershed in August."

"I'm in a bit of a job transition this summer, so my schedule is fairly flexible." Job transition? More like gainfully unemployed. But before I can backtrack my response, the impulsive thought returns. If there's one regret I've heard most often in my line of work, it can be summed up in two words: missed opportunity. "At the risk of sounding too presumptuous, may I ask if you've already secured a driver for your road trip?"

There's a short silence on the other end of the phone. "At the risk of sounding too presumptuous, are you asking because you might know a driver who'd be interested in taking a two-week cross-country road trip fueled by more estrogen than a sorority house?"

I can't help but smile at that. "I should disclose that I'm hardly as qualified as my father, but I have clocked a lot of miles with him at my side in all different kinds of rigs, and on many road trips. He used to volunteer us boys to drive for choir competitions and basketball tournaments. It was his way of giving back to the community—by farming his sons out for community service work."

"Why, Micah Davenport." Her voice is pure Southern sunshine now. "I do believe this phone call has just crossed the line into providential territory. If you're serious about driving for us, I'll cancel the company driver my daughter hired the second we hang up. I'd be absolutely tickled to have you join us. I can't think of a better tribute to your mama than to have you along." She sniffs and coos into the phone. "I'm so glad you called today."

"Glad I can be of service to you, Ms. Farrow."

"Luella. Please call me Luella."

We spend the next few minutes talking through the logistics, including a phone call I'll need to have with her eldest daughter regarding paperwork, but all the while my mind never stops running the hypothesis that started the instant Garret first flagged my screening test for discrepancies. Once we hang up, I push inside my mom's old music office in search of any tidbit of information I can get my hands on. If I'm going to drive their bus, then I need to figure out how to steer the narrative in the direction I need it to go.

There are two people who know what transpired on that summer tour in 1994, which resulted in a country girl from out west becoming pregnant by one man and eloping with another within the same month. One of those people is in heaven, and the other is Luella Farrow.

I may not be my father's son, but I think she could know whose son I am.