by Lacey Dailey
Unblinking, I read the description over and over, logging every detail of the old photo that captured the couple. With their hands linked, Simon and Alise are smiling proudly at the camera, each holding a plastic bucket of cotton candy by their sides.
My mind dances, inserting a modern day Rumor into the picture. He’s standing between them, devilishly handsome with a bucket of sugary goodness in his own hand. The smile he’s giving the camera is more bashful than the toothy one his father is sporting, but the merciless curves in their cheeks are exactly the same. With hair the same shade as Simon’s, and a nose as slight as Alise’s, he is the perfect blend of them both.
“A, that’s her,” Echo says, giving my shoulder a shake of excitement.
I barely register the movement.
Rubbing my arms absently, I sit back in my seat, eyes on the photo, convinced it will disappear if I look away. If it weren’t for sweat on my temples and the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up, I’d think this whole moment is the climax of a very vivid dream.
My brain sort of feels like a pan of scrambled eggs. After weeks of searching and staring up at the stars, Rumor’s mother is right in front of me.
A stuttered, watery breath escapes my lips.
He gets to keep his heart.
“That’s an odd way to spell Alise,” Arthur mumbles. “With an S instead of a C.”
“Typo, maybe?” Echo suggests.
“Could be.” Arthur hums. “Alise Copeland. Is anyone in school named Copeland? Maybe Rumor has a sibling.”
I almost fall out of my chair.
“One thing at a time, Art. Yeah?” Echo giggles and steadies her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know anybody with the last name Copeland.”
“Me eith–– wait." I hold up my hand, silently asking the world to slow down. “Reginald’s last name is Copeland.”
“Girl, what?” Arthur coughs. “Old man intern Reggie?”
“Yes.”
Is my tongue dry? My tongue is dry.
"His last name is Copeland. I’m positive of it.”
“So?” Echo’s eyeballs do a dance in her head, the same dance my brain is now doing. “It’s possible Reggie knows Alise?”
“I could ask him.” I shake out my arms. “He mentioned a few nieces and nephews once. He isn’t big on talking about himself.”
“What about kids?” Arthur props his elbows on the table. “Did he mention those?”
“Yeah. He has a son named Davis and a daughter named––" My hand moves to cover my mouth, the blood beneath my skin vibrating. “Allison.”
“Holy shit, it’s not a typo.” Echo's eye size doubles. “That’s why her name is spelt with an S. It’s not Alise, it’s––"
“Allison.” I tap the side of my head to make sure it’s getting enough blood. “Allison Copeland.”
Arthur chokes on a pork rind. “But if Allison is Reggie’s daughter that would make––"
I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut, not ready to turn down the abrupt bend in Rumor’s road, but unable to stop myself from candidly gasping the words anyway.
“Rumor is Reggie’s grandson.”
19
Plot Twist
Alma
There are so many ideas in life I can’t wrap my head around; fire breathing squirrels, the practicality of a coconut bra, the function of a spleen, Justin Bieber, mushroom pie, zebras...
So. Many. Things.
But even the idea of flying fish doesn’t make my brain whirl the same way seeing that photo did.
Rumor is Reggie’s grandson.
Like… what?!
It’s the biggest plot twist since Darth Vader revealed he was Luke Skywalker’s father. Except, instead of the entire country being left in dismay with thousands of questions and jaws sweeping the floor, it was just the three of us.
Echo, Arthur, and I sat there like three wind-up dolls whose voice boxes were never installed. I’m not sure if I took a breath until the bell rang and forced us out of our chairs in a haze. I don’t remember the rough feel of the dial beneath my fingers as I entered in my locker combination. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder and walking to the parking lot is all a blur, and I can only just recall getting into the car with Lenox, lying to her about what was wrong with my face and the color that had left it.
I lied.
Lied to my sister for the first time in forever.
The whole way home I stayed mute, my gaze fixed on a crack in the dashboard while my mind sorted through a reel of what ifs.
What if we have it all wrong?
What if Alise isn’t actually Allison?
What if there’s no relation and it's just a mere coincidence?
What if I get Rumor’s hopes up and totally crush him?
What ifs are my new least favorite things in life.
The print out of the article has been burning a hole in the pocket of every outfit I’ve worn over the last two days. Twice I almost cracked and told Rumor before envisioning myself in an ice bath, cooling my excitement for something I wasn’t sure warranted it.
I refused to pump him with flawed optimism before I was absolutely sure.
“Rooms two and four aren’t going to clean themselves. You’ve been staring off into space for long enough. Up and at ‘em.”
I palm my back pocket at his gravely demand, the article wrinkling in the tight denim. The last forty-eight hours passed by in a cloud of questions while I struggled to keep my mouth shut, strategically planning my words and how I would confront Reggie.
This entire situation and the possibility of who Reggie is has my brain throbbing and the area around my eyes fogging. I could’ve walked right into the motel after school that afternoon but I wanted to tread carefully.
“Young lady, are you listening to me?” I make out the click of his cane against the floor. “Teenagers and their daydreaming. Back in my day, we didn’t have time to daydream. If we weren’t working, we got thumped.”
Running my hands along the handle of my maid cart, I peer over the piles of linens, studying Reggie and the way he hobbles across the lobby, toward my position in the doorway of the laundry room. If there is a resemblance between him and Rumor, I don’t see it.
Maybe it’s all the wrinkles, the salty hair, or the scowl he’s got creeping up his lips. When I picture Rumor seventy years from now, I don’t see him with subtle cheekbones, long earlobes, and thin lips.
“You aren’t going to find any treasures standing there with your thumb up your butt.”
“I’m sorry… what?”
“It’s a figure of speech. It means you’re being pokey.” Crooked fingers scratch the top of his head, fluffing the smokey locks.
And that’s it.
The similarity between Reggie and Rumor.
Despite the century age difference and the age spots above his temples, Reggie’s hair is still full. His gray is a stark constant to Rumor’s rich brown, but the volume and slight wave are alike.
I shuffle through the dates in my brain, looking for a moment I might have seen a picture of a teenage Reginald. I’d be interested to know if the locks he exhibited back then are the same as Rumor’s right now.
Unless…
“Is your hair real?”
He flounders in his trek to me. “Excuse me?”
“Your hair. Is it real or is it a toupee?”
“Is this another old man joke?” He stabs his cane at the floor. “Young lady, this hair is all real. My grandfather was the same way. Died with a full head of hair.”
“So, it’s genetic then? Your son must be happy about that.”
“Davis?” He bats his hand. “That boy started balding in college. They say young men take after their mama’s fathers.”
That bodes well for Rumor.
“Do you believe that?”
“I sure do. Eleanor’s father was balder than a baby’s bottom.”
“Eleanor is Davis’s mother?”
Rumor’s grandmo
ther.
The corners of his eyes pinch. “Why are you asking me so many questions? You have a job to do. Those clean sheets aren’t going to put themselves on mattresses.”
I run my hand along the seam of the pale blue sheets. Not the standard white for a motel but my parents have this thing about wanting our guests to be one with the Great Lakes. “I suppose I’m just curious.”
“Well don’t be,” he gripes, knocking his cane off the top of my cart. “I’m not paying you to be curious.”
“You aren’t paying me at all.” Giving the cart a small push, it slides past the doorway into the lobby. I pull the laundry room door shut behind me. Much to Reggie’s displeasure, I give the wheel its usual rapid kick and position the hunk of plastic against the wall adjacent to his desk.
“This is not the front door, young lady.”
I lean back against the wall beside my cart, folding my arms across my chest in a gesture that’s supposed to be nonchalant. “I bet your grandsons love the whole hair thing.”
“Why are you still talking about my hair?”
“I’m doing a genetics project for one of my classes,” I lie.
He lifts his cane off the floor and points it at my chest. “I am not your project. Do it on your own family.”
“That’s totally lame.”
His blank face and even features tell me he couldn’t care less. Pivoting cautiously on his loafers, he turns his back on me and begins the trip back to his desk. Fingering the article in my pocket, I open my mouth and verbal diarrhea pours out, drowning my carefully rehearsed words.
“I bet Rumor will love the idea of never losing his hair.”
Reggie pauses, his cane slipping from his hand in surprise. The clank it makes is indistinct against my words and their meaning.
He looks over his shoulder at me, eyes hooded, masking the disbelief I know is there. “What did you just say?”
“Rumor.”
“What about him?” With a hand on his lower back, he bends at the waist, stretching for his cane.
Shoving off the wall, I race across the lobby and sweep his cane off the floor. He takes it from me tentatively, grasping the dome handle with both hands. I’m a foot away from him yet he doesn’t look at me. My throat is dry as dust when I say, “he takes after you in the hair department, doesn’t he?”
“Young lady, I’m not sure why you would think that.”
“Because it’s true.” With hesitant movements, I pull the article free of its confines. Reggie’s leer is heavy as he observes me from the corner of his wary eyes, tracking each motion my quivering fingers make as they unfold the article.
I smooth it out against my chest and hold it out to him. His knuckles whiten where they are, making no moves to grasp the paper.
I lift it in front of his face.
“He takes after you,” I whisper. “His mother’s father?”
My accusation thickens the air and the pressure is almost too much. Reggie assesses the article briskly, and then his eyelids slam shut like old shutters. His bunched up cheeks and the wrinkles around his lips are his tell.
He still sees it.
Because that’s the thing about the truth. It’s most prominent in the dark.
“Alma.” Running his hands along the handle of his cane, I see the sweat there. “Where did you get that?”
“I printed it off a computer at the school’s library.”
“Why?”
“To bring to you. For, uhm, confirmation.”
“Confirmation?” His eyes finally open. “Confirmation of what?”
“Is it her?” I point at the grainy photo. “Is Allison Rumor’s mother?”
Everything stops.
The intensity in his eyes, the anxious flex of his hands, the purse of his lips, the bob of his Adam’s apple. Time.
It all ceases and hovers in the air with my question, thick enough to rob us of air as we stand there–– not speaking, not blinking, not breathing. Time moves slow enough, I see more than I ever have. Colors are brighter, sounds are sharper, and the molecules in the air are visible as they float between our noses.
Time is at a standstill and doesn’t resume until he blows out a tortured, “yes.”
His verification is a ray of sun between two dark clouds. My jaw loosens and my shoulders sag, the article falling to the floor while my hands occupy themselves by resting over my warming heart. “Oh my God.”
Rumor has a mother.
Reggie’s foot covers the article. “Does he know?”
“Rumor?” I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Does he know you’re looking?”
“Yes.” I bob my head, some of my happiness dimming with the look in his eyes.
I can’t read it, and that frustrates me. Is he angry? Bewildered? Overcome with joy? He looks the same portraying every emotion.
“Reggie, Rumor asked us for help.”
He cocks his head. “Why would he need your help internet searching his father? That makes no sense.”
“Not his father.” I look down, making contact with the half of Allison’s face that isn’t covered by Reggie’s foot. “His mother. He’s, uhm, he’s looking for his mother.”
Reggie vibrates. “What?”
“Rumor is looking for his mother.” I meet his eyes. “That’s why I made the search, that’s why I printed the article, and that’s why I’m here. Because I––"
“Because you didn’t want to tell Rumor until you were positive.”
I rest my fists under my chin and nod. “Did you know who he was the first time you met him?”
“I had quite an inkling. There aren’t a lot of one-handed teens with a name like Rumor Rawlings and eyes like his. It wasn’t until he told me he came from Chicago with a father named Simon that I was absolutely certain.”
“Why wouldn’t you say anything?” It makes no sense. “Don’t you want to know him? He’s your grandson, and he’s wonderful!”
His eyes are untamed, jerky movements as he looks around the motel, confirming what we already know. We’re alone. “Alma, that isn’t how Rumor knows me. He’s never known me that way. I can’t just explain something like that to him while he’s cleaning my ceiling fans.”
“And why the hell not?”
He steps closer to me, proof of the truth tearing beneath his rubber shoe. “Simon would have my head on a stake if I went spouting off things about Alise.” He taps my ankle with his cane. “Don’t be sticking your nose in this, young lady. It’s more delicate than you realize. If Rumor has questions, tell him to ask Simon.”
Oh God.
“Reggie.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, heeding the burn in my eyes.
He doesn’t know.
Of course he doesn’t know.
“When Rumor said he moved because his dad got a new job, I wondered if it was coincidence or if he finally planned to tell that boy who his mother is. I’ve thought about reaching out to Simon. Actually, I’m surprised I haven’t heard from him. Unless Rumor doesn’t tell his dad about the old man he does chores for.”
“He’s dead, Reggie.”
“Who?”
“Simon died months ago.” My lip quivers. “He lost his only parent and came all this way to find another one. He doesn’t want to be alone.”
There’s a tremor in his hand when he presses it against his pale face. “No.”
“He said his dad told him his mother’s first name and where she was from. He came here to find her, Reggie. We’ve been searching for the right Alise for more than a month.”
A puff of air rocks his chest. “Who on earth is he living with? I didn’t know Simon had family here.”
“He doesn’t.”
Reggie’s thick, silver eyebrows dip in confusion. “Family friend?”
“You could, ah, say that.” Wringing my hands together, I feel dizzy.
“Alma.”
I meet his steely gaze. “He lives with me,” I squeak. “Rumor lives with me.”
&n
bsp; I don’t consider the consequence of my words. I bask in the veracity, desperate to show Reginald that while Rumor searches for his blood family, he has a chosen one keeping him safe.
“Nice try, girl. Tell me the truth. Your parents would never take in a teenager without–– Christ.” He rubs at his forehead. “They don’t know.”
“I had no choice, Reggie.”
His eyes narrow in a way that says explain.
So I do. I pace back and forth, my overwrought movements twisting up the floor, while I babble Rumor’s truth. The words spew out of me, tasting pungent. The guilt that follows is heavy and thick, the way it wraps around my body and constricts, leaving me breathless and weak.
Each moment I reveal–– from Mo, the pizza bed, Josh, and his lack of family–– there’s a voice echoing in my mind chastising me because these aren’t my moments to disclose.
“You’re telling me my grandson is sleeping on a heap of plastic with only a bag full of clothes and a dead cell phone to his name?”
With a weary sigh, I rub at my arms, feeling drained and hollow. My eyes are wet yet burn like they’re dry. “He thought when he found his mom he’d live with her.”
“And you and the rest of your siblings thought it best to help him on this journey?”
“I promised him I’d find her. Where is she, Reggie?”
His eyes blur, finding a focal point above my head. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? From Michigan? Can you call her or something?” Determination to give Rumor what he came for has been burning inside me since I met him. The flames grow higher now as I stare at Reggie, resisting the urge to shake him. “We have to tell him who you are, Reggie. And you need to call Alise. He has all these questions for her about why she left and why she didn’t want him.”
“It wasn’t like that, Alma. Allison loved Rumor.” His eyes, always filled with snark and a mischievous glint, fill with water and he places a hand over his chest. “She loved him so much.”
“Loved?” I ache with that word. “She doesn’t love him anymore?”
With a gentleness I didn’t know Reggie was capable of, he places a hand on my shoulder. “She will always love him right from where she’s at.”
