CBA Record January 2019

He spoke again, this time in English. “Yes, yes. My God. Marissa? What are you doing here?” He stared at her, unmoving. Like he’d seen a ghost, the blood drained from his face, rosy cheeks fading pale. Marissa’s anxiety betrayed another giggle. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, I wanted to catch you on your lunch break, and your receptionist said I could find you here. Such a cute place! I didn’t know—“ “Marissa, what the hell is going on?” God damnit. Pull it together. “Right, sorry again. Look, Isak, we need to talk. I know this is strange, and I know it’s been so long. I just, can we go somewhere? Is there a place—” “My office.” With the abruptness of someone accustomed to receiving impor- tant news without delay, Isak stood up, threw on his overcoat, and walked out the door. This is going swimmingly. Marissa sighed and looked around the café. It was a small, self-contained room. Four walls of exposed brick, half-full with twelve people, all staring directly at Marissa. Quickly, head down, she strode for the door and found Isak outside. Ten years since Marissa last saw him. A decade of upheaval, a decade of refusing to send so much as an email to the man unknow- ingly responsible for turning her life on its head. Ten years of wondering about him, his marriage, his life. Maybe I should have called before ambushing him at a Swedish coffee shop. Isak set a brisk pace, Marissa trailing silently behind as they walked two blocks to an old-seeming cottage-style building just outside of Stockholm. But for the Swedish law firm it housed, the building wouldn’t have been out of place in a New England hamlet. They walked into the lobby, past the receptionist and admin- istrative staff, and into Isak’s office. Marissa closed the door, and Isak hung their coats. He leaned onto a large oak desk and looked her in the eye, gaze sympathetic but unwavering, waiting for her to speak. “My God, he looks just like you Isak.” Oh come on Marissa. She couldn’t help it. It was the only thing on her mind. Isak’s nose, smallish and thin, Nordic in every sense. The elongated face, cheek- bones so prominent they looked ready to burst from his skin at a moment’s notice. Even the hair, beautiful and blonde and youthful, just like it was when they’d first met. She reached into her clutch, retrieved a picture, and handed it to Isak. Voice aquiver, she said, “He’s ten. Franklin, after my dad. Everybody calls him Frankie. His middle name—he’s yours, Isak. Franklin Isaac Keller.” Isak held the postcard-sized photograph not six inches from his eyes, concealing his face fromMarissa. Two minutes ticked away on the clock above his desk. Ten years of not knowing. In two minutes. Sweat trickled down Marissa’s forehead. Isak lowered the pic- ture—Marissa’s favorite, Frankie in his baseball uniform, holding his hat in his first baseman’s mitt—an inch or so. Eyes still glued to the image in his hands, Isak muttered, “He has my nose. Your eyes though, definitely your eyes. None of my blue.”

Despite herself, Marissa laughed. “And he already has to wear glasses. Blame me for that one, too.” Isak looked up, eyes locking ontoMarissa. He looked back to the picture, then again at Marissa. She could feel Isak’s mind churning at warp speed, eyes darting from picture to woman and back again, trying to process the events before him. After an eternal minute of uninterrupted contemplation, he said, “Marissa, am I to understand that this is my child? For ten years, you have been raising my son?” Her heart clenched, jolted to the core. He wasn’t angry, and he certainly wasn’t loud. Marissa could have handled that. Hell, she found herself almost hoping for it. Instead, Isak spoke gently, his tenor warm and familiar, his questions direct. It crushed her. Marissa breathed deeply, searching for something to say. She came up with little. “I’m sorry Isak. I—yes.” Isak looked down once more, at the picture of Frankie. His son. He spoke slowly, weighing the propriety of each word as it escaped his lips. “You will understand if I ask you to leave now? I would like some time alone. I will cancel my dinner plans so we can speak over a meal, yes?” His accent, unlike his mannerisms, had undergone a drastic transformation. Where once he stuttered and skipped over articles, refrained from using contractions, and had the unintentional but amusing habit of employing the wrong verb to wildly inappropriate effect, now his English was crisp and precise, nearly bereft of Swed- ish influence. Except for that contraction thing. Marissa noticed he had yet to use even one. Through the lump in her throat, Marissa forced an answer. “Yeah, yeah of course Isak.” “Thank you, I will have a car pick you up this evening. Leave your address with my receptionist. I will see you tonight.” The words he spoke to Marissa, but his eyes had long since returned to the picture. “Oh, okay, yeah. Thanks. See you tonight.” As Marissa stood up to leave, Isak looked at her. Softly, he asked, “I may keep the picture, ja?” Marissa smiled. “Yes! Isak of course!” “Tack. God dag, Marissa.” Isak rose from his chair, walked around the table, kissedMarissa deftly on both cheeks, and returned to his desk. She lingered a moment. With both hands on the table’s edge, Isak leaned over the photo and stared, transfixed by the image of a boy he created, but did not know. Eyes welling up, Marissa shuffled soundlessly to the door, opened it without a word, and stepped out of his office. She hurried to the firm’s front entrance and burst outside, her tear-strewn face greeted by a chilly Stockholm wind.

Thomas J. Sotos is a Chicago Litigator with Greenberg Traurig, LLP

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