Learning to Swim by Sara J Henry Page B

mind that I would be acting as judge and jury; never mind that the culprits would never pay for what they had done. This child would be safe.
    I was showing Baker more of myself than she’d ever seen and admitting to things I didn’t want to admit. But a tiny part of me was aware that opening up like this was the only thing that could sway her into watching Paul while I went to Canada. There’s a fine line between sharing and manipulating, and part of me knew I was dancing close to that line—like a kid deliberately crying hard over a broken window so Mom won’t get mad. But I didn’t tell her about Janey, the little blond girl at the children’s shelter who had begged me to adopt her, and who one day was just gone.
    Maybe I was manipulating her, maybe not. Sometimes I think Baker sees into my skull, past the bones and into my brain. She probably had a pretty good idea what was going on.
    She looked at the clock and then at me. “If you’re going, go.”
    If I were a hugging kind of person, I would have hugged her. I brought in the bag I’d packed for Paul, and we walked over to Holly’s so I could tell Paul I was leaving for a day or two and that he would stay with Baker and Mike.
    He clung to me, his eyes glistening.
“Ne partez pas,”
he whispered.
“Ne partez pas, je vous en prie.”
Please don’t leave.
    “I have to, Paul.
C’est nécessaire.
” And maybe my eyes were glistening, too. “
Ce n’est pas pour longtemps. Seulement un jour ou deux
. One or two days. No longer.”
    But I had to go, and I couldn’t take him with me. He’d be fine here.

N OW I WAS DRIVING NORTH TO OTTAWA, TRYING HARD NOT to think about Paul’s face as I’d left.
    It was a crisp spring day, the sky clear and a more vivid blue than I’ve ever seen anywhere. Trees were coming alive after the long winter, shooting out sheaves of green. You could see gaps in the tree line where acid rain had killed off trees, but the air still seems fresh and clean.
    Did I know that what I was doing was risky? Of course I did. But so was jumping off the ferry, which had saved one small boy’s life.
    I had built a comfortable world for myself here in the Adirondacks: rental house, rotating roommates, freelance work, family a thousand miles away, a sort-of boyfriend, friends but none I really confided in. Baker was the closest, and I’d let her see more of me today than I ever had. It was a simple and safe existence: no mortgage, no lease, no steady job, no committed relationship. Not a whole lot at risk.
    It had seemed like a pretty good life to me, and I thought I’d been content.
    But from the moment I sat on the rock at the edge of the lake with Paul on my lap, I’d felt a bond I’d never experienced. Something had changed for me, as if a switch had been thrown. I had taken responsibility for this small person, and now life from before the ferry seemed in the distant past.
    I had distilled it down to two things: If Paul had a father who loved and deserved him, I would turn him over. If he didn’t, I was keeping him.
    I’d brought along my voice-activated tape recorder and business cards I’d printed this morning with a fake name and fake address. Baker would most likely tell her husband, Mike, a slimmed-down version of the truth, that Paul was an abandoned Canadian boy and I’d gone to try to find his father because it was simpler than involving the authorities.
    I’d dressed with care, assuming the closest I could to a businesswoman persona: cord slacks, pullover, Eastland leather shoes, and black linen blazer on the seat beside me. I’d braided my hair into one long neat plait down my back. Not precisely the image of corporate success, but I figured the blazer would make it work.
    I hadn’t figured out how I would get in to see Dumond, but I had plenty of time to think on the drive. It’s about eighty miles to the Canadian border, and the route meanders through small towns so undeveloped that if it weren’t for modern cars