3
“Amen.”
Gran opens her eyes, releasing my hand in order to scoop turkey casserole onto our plates. Grandpa slices a loaf of crusty bread while I fill our water glasses. He thanks her for the food, I thank him for the bread, she thanks me for setting the table. Cardboard silence follows. I blow steam off my fork and think about the mouth-scalding enchiladas Leah’s probably eating right now. The whole Fromowitz clan, roaring with laughter at her dad’s goofy jokes, the five of them cuddling up on the couch for family movie nights. Or Gabby’s family, frying up dumplings and playing strategy board games till midnight. The meals I share with my grandparents are more like bran flakes—dull and soggy after about a minute.
See, here’s how it is: Ever since our first playdate in kindergarten, Leah’s parents have described me as Little Miss Polite. Even Gabby says her manners are only that good when she’s with her grandparents in Kingston. Which kind of sums it up. It’s as if I’m on vacation visiting my grandparents. For my whole life.
“Fixed that leak under the bathroom sink today,” Grandpa says after a while.
“Oh, wonderful,” Gran says, but there’s a familiar hesitation in her voice. “Light bulb off the back porch started flickering yesterday. Did you notice?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll get to it tomorrow.”
“Yummy casserole,” I say, guiding a wilted leek around my plate. “Thanks.”
A quick smile curtsies on her lips. “You’re welcome, sweetie. In fact, it’s a recipe from that cookbook you gave me for Christmas. I ought to be thanking you.”
I bat butterfly lashes in response, and both of them chuckle. The conversation veers toward the fundraiser Gran’s chairing at the Baptist church, and then Grandpa says something about sandpaper, his benchmark for awesome since retirement. I watch him breathe laboriously through wide nostrils, the way he nods as Gran reels off a list of tomorrow’s chores.
Across the table, he winks at me, sensing my epic boredom. I wink back. Nothing ever changes around here but the housework. Not our lifeless calamine-pink walls, not Grandpa’s bird feeders or Gran’s needlepoints of former presidents. Not the ratio of protein to carbs on our plates. Nutcrackers and kachina dolls line the mantel above our fireplace, but no photographs. Nothing to remember my mother or honor the daughter they lost. If they think about her at all, they don’t do it out loud or in any measurable way. I mean, God forbid I get to see Mom’s face framed on our walls. God forbid they tell me what kind of person she was or if I’m like her. God forbid.
“Johanna?” Wrinkles jut out like cracked glass from the corners of Gran’s eyes as she squints. “Everything all right?”
My gaze follows hers all the way to my hands, clenched into fists on the table, my breath tight and shallow in my chest. A wave of adrenaline bursts through me, and I want to scream that I miss her. Mom thoughts always come fast and unpredictable and sting every time, but more and more, I realize I’m forgetting her, and it scares me.
Only … now.
Now there’s Robert Newton. I try to imagine what would happen if I told Gran that he’s found me, after all these years. In my mind, I explain the letter and how it filled me with a hope I never expected. I want to tell her that I know she means well, shielding me from him, but I can’t go on like this, being forbidden from even thinking about my parents because he makes her mad and she makes her sad. I’m sixteen, and I have a right to find out for myself. I deserve to know.
Before I can stop it, a tiny sliver of truth slips out. “I’m forgetting her.”
Have forgotten her already.
Grandpa smiles. His hearing aid is a piece of crap. But Gran’s body goes rigid. A few times she blinks—Morse code? An apology? Rage? She opens her mouth, and I think, This is it! The moment she finally opens up! But something invisible pulls her back.
“God rest her soul,” she says softly. After another few seconds, she reaches for the pitcher. “More water?”
Oh.
My balloon heart deflates. I’m such an idiot. Of course she’d chicken out, same as every other time—me scurrying after her like some desperate kitchen mouse, begging for crumbs she’ll never drop. Only, now. Suddenly everything’s dusty rose and shimmering. Robert can give me more than crumbs.
So I say, “Yes, please,” like a good granddaughter.
I flash a plastic smile and hold out my glass, then turn back to my plate, succumbing to my thoughts. With each warm, salty bite, I swallow Robert Newton’s name and imagine the color of his hair, the tone of his voice. Picture him cradling me as a baby, cooing over me and pinching my cheeks. The two of them together, loving me side by side.
“I’m planning to fix the rocking chair this weekend. You up for helping a doddering old man?”
“What?” I blink twice at Grandpa. “Oh. Sure, I guess. Can I be excused?”
“Take Magic out, will you?”
All three of us look down at the dog, curly and beige and panting on the rug by my feet. Poor Magic, with his halitosis and his bad hip. He was a gift from my grandparents just before I turned three. Right after we moved to Santa Fe, right after Mom’s car accident. Magic was my consolation prize. Your mom is dead, but look, a poodle! Yeah—no. Mostly, he’s a smelly reminder of the human life he replaced. Still, sometimes a smelly reminder is better than nothing.
In the hallway, Magic nudges his wet nose against my thigh as I pull on my boots. He whimpers with anticipation as I zip my coat, twirl my scarf. We head out into the starry night, and I welcome the crisp air into my lungs. Let it recalibrate my psyche.
The two of us walk along the quiet sidewalk and a calmness settles over me, overpowering my grandmother’s silence. That’s all it takes—the balance scale inside me tips all the way over, clanking heavily in my father’s favor. Toward my future. Toward us.
Instantly, I yank my phone out of my pocket, waiting impatiently for the power to flicker back on. And then I see it: a text.
He. Wrote. Back.
Johanna! I’m so glad you replied! I can drive to Santa Fe by this weekend. Does Sunday work? Tell me when and where and I’ll be there. I can’t wait to see you.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod. I click Reply.
I’ll meet you at Bluebell Café on Galisteo Street. Sunday at 10 a.m.
Holy crap. I’m actually going to meet my father.
4
Sunday morning can’t come fast enough, and when it does, I have a closet fit. Sewing is the only way I feel like me sometimes, but right now, there’s a little too much me to choose from. Miniskirts and cutout jumpsuits, pleated shorts, mod dresses. Plus, regular old jeans and T-shirts. I’m sorry, but there is a lot riding on this outfit.
In the end, I slither into my favorite flared skirt and this wooly, gray sweater with sparrows embroidered on one shoulder. In the mirror, I can’t help lengthening my neck and tilting my head, mimicking my mother’s senior portrait from high school. It’s the only picture I have of her—maybe the only one in the whole house. Gran gave it to me after I begged her on my eighth birthday, after some bitch in third grade made fun of me for not having parents. The picture came with no anecdotes, no context, just a melancholy observation that my eyes were bright green like hers. I glance at the photo now, centered on my wall between Debbie Harry’s headshot and a CBGB poster for a ’74 Ramones show, and I wonder if Robert will recognize me right away. If it’ll be like seeing a ghost.
“Knock, knock?”
Shit. Super fast, I fling my bathrobe around my shoulders and dive under the covers, propping my head languidly against the pillow. This is the plan. A three-part strategy Gabby and Leah helped me devise. Step 1: Fake sick in order to miss church. Step 2: Meet my estranged father for a presumably super awkward and stressful coffee date. Step 3: Slip back into bed before the olds return. Easy-peasy. I hope.
“Your forehead is a bit warm,” Gran says, sitting on the edge of my bed in a pale-pink dress and matching blazer. It’s her favorite ensemble, though n
ot super flattering. I guess God doesn’t care about stuff like that.
“I’m sorry, Gran.”
“Oh, hush.” She gently kisses my forehead, grimacing as she pulls back. “I’m not sure about leaving you. There’s a meeting about the fundraiser after services, but … Jimmy, maybe you ought to go without me. I’ll stay and—”
“No!” I try not to scream. “I just took some cough medicine, I’ll probably be asleep soon. You go. Pastor Thompson is expecting you.”
“You sure, darlin’?”
“I need to rest.”
Grandpa stands in the doorway, tucking a blue collared shirt into his belted slacks and straightening his tie. He pouts a little, then chuckles. “Must have been all that hard labor you did yesterday.”
“Ha-ha, Grandpa.”
He means the rocking chair. The one I said I’d help repair and then basically sat around texting Gabby while he sanded and refinished it. I’m sorry, but it’s a rocking chair. It’s not like Parsons School of Design cares if I can use wood glue. Or, shit, what if they do?
I cough again, for effect. Guilt stirs in my chest over the way I’m lying to them—what I’m lying about—but not enough to stop me. Not even when Gran squeezes my hand.
“We’ll be home by lunchtime,” she says. “There’s homemade chicken soup on the stovetop in case you find your appetite sooner.”
“Thanks,” I croak. Okay, croaking is overkill. “Tell Pastor Thompson I’m sorry.”
“Of course, dear. And call Grandpa’s cell phone if you need anything. I forgot to charge the battery on mine.”
“I will. I promise.”
Finally—finally—they leave. As soon as they’ve pulled out of the driveway, I make a beeline for it. The fastest route to the café is down Agua Fria, but I’m feeling kind of sleuthy, so instead, I weave through side streets—a covert, Camry-driving ninja—until I end up on a long, wide street lined with touristy cowboy shops and cozy New Mexican restaurants. I find a metered spot on the road outside the café’s cobalt-blue awning and dig around for loose change with trembling hands. This is it. Time to meet my biological father. Half my DNA. The only willing link to my mother, my past, maybe my future.
No pressure.
I push through the door, combing my hair with charcoal-painted fingernails, and doubt swallows me. My eyes sweep. Every guy is on a laptop, but which one of them could be a dad-who-isn’t-really-a-dad-but-kind-of-is-a-dad? The tattooed one? The guy laughing into his webcam?
And then … there he is.
No question. It just is Robert. Rising from a table in the center of the room, surrounded by three empty sugar packets and one coffee—which either means he loves sugar, or he’s been here a while. He smiles tentatively as he pulls a baseball cap off chin-length, wavy, blond hair. My knees lock. Unfamiliar heat tightens behind my ribs.
“Johanna?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
A goatee stretches across his chin as he grins, lips closed, brow furrowed. Warm but hesitant. It strikes me that he doesn’t look the same as most dads. Not buttoned up or balding or potbellied. Dads don’t wear bomber jackets or cool jeans, and yet this guy’s are skinny and distressed. We’re both pale. Similar hair, sort of a peachy, golden blond, but his is bushier, disheveled in a kind of rock-star way. One eyebrow is pierced. Dads do not have piercings!
“I’m so glad you came.”
I nod, inching toward the table.
Experimental jazz thumps wildly through the speakers, and we stand there. Eyes fixed and petrified. Not a standoff, exactly, but not comfortable.
“Can I get you something?” he asks.
“Oh. I can get it.”
“No. Let me. Please.”
I tell him I’ll have a chai latte, and he speeds off, relieved to have an objective, maybe. I take a seat and think about his voice, the record player warmth of it. Somehow, I’d imagined him sounding older. Gravellier.
“I’ve never had chai,” he says, resting the mug in front of me. “Is it good?”
“Yeah, I like it.”
“So.” He coughs.
“So.”
This silence could win awards for its awkwardness. A walking-on-graves kind of quiet. All around us, conversations spread their wings and take flight, but not ours. Robert and I only sit, swallowing air and shifting on rickety wooden chairs. He looks young. Not, like, young young, but the grown-ups I spend the most time with are seventy, so, yeah, young. No gray in his hair, no sagging skin. I put him somewhere in the forty zone, which is probably right. Mom was about twenty-five when she died.
Robert bites into a cheddar-and-chive scone, wiping crumbs away as they land on his cable-knit sweater. “Thanks for coming,” he says again.
I nod. Again.
“Do you want to go first?” he asks. “Or should I?”
“Oh, um, what?”
“You know, tell me about yourself? Or—”
“You. Definitely you,” I sputter, right as he’s biting into his scone again.
He chuckles, chewing faster. “Sorry. Um, let’s see. I live in Houston. But I already told you that in the letter, didn’t I? Originally, I’m from Fresno. That’s where you were born—California. My parents, too. They’re both passed now, unfortunately. What else? I went to CSU Fresno to study computer science. Actually, I’m in IT now. A systems manager. Y’know, hardware upgrades, maintenance. That sort of thing. It’s cool because I can work remotely. Hence the impromptu trip to Santa Fe.”
He’s talking like everything is normal, but I’m not sure my smile has the same vibe.
“I bet IT sounds boring to you, huh?”
“What?” I squirm. “I mean, I don’t know.”
“I’ve always been super into computers.”
“Cool.”
He launches into this long programming story, and sweat dampens my palms, my heart thumping. I mean, this is my father. My own dad sitting across from me. How am I supposed to have any chill right now?
“How about you? Do you like computers?”
“Uh, what?” I gulp. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I have a laptop. But I don’t, like, do stuff with it.”
“Right. No, totally.” He sips his coffee, and we veer toward silence again. “Um, but, yeah. Coding’s pretty fun. I could teach you sometime. See how you like it.”
A shriek wells up inside me. My dad wants to teach me coding?! But I swallow it back down with hot tea.
“How about you?” he asks. “What kind of stuff are you into?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“Come on.” He grins playfully.
“I’m really not—”
“You must have hobbies, or—”
“I said, ‘I don’t know,’ ” I grunt. A couple of seconds go by. “Sorry. But this is a lot for me. And you’re acting like we’re taking Buzzfeed quizzes.”
He nods, letting out a tight exhale. “I’m trying too hard, aren’t I? I just figured, you’re a teenager. I thought you’d want to start off casual. Hang for a while.”
“Hang?” My jaw drops. “How can you expect me to hang when I haven’t heard one single word from you in thirteen fucking years?”
Yeah, I f-bombed. My cheeks full-on roast as several eyes whip over to me, probably wondering if they should intervene. Blink twice if you’re trapped in a hostile situation. These are definitely weird circumstances, but not abduction weird. I flash the table next to us a spring-break smile and look back at Robert.
“I have a lot to explain,” he admits. “I know that. And, believe me, I’ve wanted to reach out to you for a long time.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
“It’s complicated.”
I squint at him.
“I realize that sounds like an excuse, but—”
“You’re right. It does.”
“You have every right to hate me, but I really, really hope you wo
n’t. You have no idea how sorry—I mean, I owe you a whole world of apologies. But I’m having a hard time getting past the fact that I’m sitting across from my teenage daughter. In my mind, you’re still two years old, you know?” He pauses, eyes and expectations bobbing up. “I hoped we could make up for lost time. Get to know each other? You must be into all kinds of cool stuff, same as Mandy. God, it’s wild how much you remind me of your mom.”
Your mom.
A punch to the gut. I have to look away to catch my breath. Hearing her name centers me, though. Injects me with a ripple of calm. “You really think so?”
“That you’re like Mandy?” he says. “Absolutely. That can’t be a surprise, though. You must see the resemblance in pictures. I bet your house is full of ’em. Mandy was like the second coming for your grandparents.”
I shiver.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I hesitate and bite my lip. “Actually, that’s not how it is at my house. With pictures and stuff. We don’t even talk about her.”
“Seriously?” Robert seems stunned at first, then he shrugs. “I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. Her death was devastating for all of us.”
My whole body fills with this weird mixture of sadness and relief. “Thanks for saying that. I mean, not about them being devastated. But you wouldn’t know it by looking at them. Whenever I try to talk about her, they get so quiet. Sometimes I think they want to pretend the car accident never happened and my mom didn’t exist.”
Robert’s face pales. “The car accident.”
I look away to rub my nose, swallowing a teary, tingly ache. When I look back, he’s frowning, squinting into his coffee. “You miss her too?”
It takes him a second to respond, to get past the shock of being asked. “Oh, God,” he says. “I mean, not a day goes by …”
His words fade away, and I get this urge to squeeze his shoulder. Which I, of course, ignore. But it makes me want to punish him a little less. Open up more. Be humans together. “Do you think—I mean, I was hoping you’d tell me a little bit about her.”
“About Mandy?” He blinks a few times, shoulders releasing. “God, where do I start? She was immensely cool. Funny, smart, beautiful. And I’m not kidding, you look exactly like her. Your hair, your smile. Even little things—the way you’re chewing your lip, and those sparkly, curious eyes. That was so Mandy. She was this lightning bolt of a person. I can tell you are too.”
Accidental Page 3
