“Roger that. And now you’ve got me curious, so let me know if you find out anything else about poor old Hudson, will you?”
He scoured the internet for an Emily DeRosa who would have been fourteen in ’02, which would have made her around thirty-five now, and he felt a flash of regret when the only online citation he found was an obituary in theBirmingham Newsfor Emily DeRosa Palmieri, who’d died in 2019 of breast cancer.
Reading the obit, he noted that Emily’s survivors, besides a husband and son, were two other siblings, including a twin sister, Jessica DeRosa Womble, of Coral Springs, Florida.
He easily found Jessica Womble. She owned a real estate franchise called Jess Sells ReMax. He called her number and got a recording telling him that it was a great day to buy or sell a house. He left a message with his name and number, saying he had some business to discuss, in hopes that she’d call back what might be a hot prospect.
Whelan got to thinking about obituaries, and the peculiar art and science of what they included and what was left unsaid.
Out of morbid curiosity, he typed Hudson’s name into his phone’s search engine. Seconds later, he was reading the paid funeral notice that had run inThe Atlanta Journal-Constitutionon July 31, 2002.
Henry Hudson Moorehead, age eight; beloved son of Bradley H. and Kasey Ann Moorehead of Atlanta, died this week in Saint Cecelia, Georgia, after a tragic accident.
Hudson was a bright, inquisitive third grader. He loved riding his bicycle, playing Nintendo, and cuddling with his cat, Boots.
Survived by parents, paternal grandparents Henry and Sybil Moorehead of Highlands, N.C., and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins. The family will receive close friends on Sunday at the Ansley Golf Club, from 5–7 p.m. In lieu of flowers, remembrances may be made to the American Red Cross.
Whelan’s name wasn’t included among the survivors.
His memory of Hudson’s funeral was hazy. He’d stayed with a high school friend, because he knew, without asking, that Brad probably wouldn’t welcome him at the Buckhead faux chateau.
Or, that’s what he’d told himself at the time. Thinking back now, he forced himself to face facts. He hadn’t stayed at the West Wesley house because of Brad, but rather because he couldn’t face Kasey, her raw grief and despair. Her neediness.
The uncomfortable truth was, he’d been jealous of Hudson, of what Whelan felt was his mother’s abandonment of her older son in favor of her new husband, new son, and affluent new lifestyle.
Whelan’s face burned with shame now thinking about that day.
He’d arrived at the country club thirty minutes late, half-wasted on Jaeger shots, had stood awkwardly by his mother’s side for a scant hour, then retreated to the patio, where he’d gotten so drunk that Brad had sent a cousin out to suggest that it was time for Whelan to leave.
Not a pretty scene. He hadn’t seen Brad Moorehead since that day. The marriage to Kasey was over within a year, and by that time, Whelan had joined the marines and shipped out.
Whelan hadn’t held any kind of service for his mother after she died, because she’d deliberately walled herself away from anyone who might have cared that she was gone. So what was the point?
Now that he was halfway down the rabbit hole of his unhappy family history, Whelan decided to dig deeper. He typed his stepfather’s name into the search engine.
And that’s how he found it—Bradley H. Moorehead, not of Atlanta. No. This Brad was a retired minister, who lived in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and helped run a street ministry for homeless veterans with addiction issues, called Fishers of Men.
Skeptical that this could be his late mother’s husband, Whelan clicked on photos of the Myrtle Beach Brad. After all, his stepfather had been a big-time real estate developer, scratch golfer, indifferent and irregular churchgoer, and martini aficionado.
A newspaper photo showed him there was no doubt. It was Brad. He was nearly eighty now, his posture somewhat stooped, but there was the square lantern jaw, the chiseled cheekbones, a full head of white hair, and the piercing dark eyes. He’d traded in the hand-stitched Italian loafers and custom-tailored suits of his past for baggy dad jeans, no-name sneakers, and a T-shirt proclaiming him a Fisher of Men.
Whelan watched a two-year-old video clip from a Myrtle Beach television station, showing Brad soliciting blankets and warm socks for “his guys” for Christmas. The station ran a crawl across the bottom of the screen, listing a phone number viewers could call to make donations.
Without stopping to think, Whelan tapped the number into his phone.
Two rings. And then that voice. “Hello? This is Brother Brad.”
He recognized the voice, that soft, cultivated Southern accent that spoke of prep schools and country clubs, not double-wides and honky-tonks.
Whelan found himself momentarily speechless.
“Hello?”
“Brad? This is Kasey’s son. Whelan.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Scott Whelan. Kasey’s son.”
