by Julie Clark
Beverly shakes her head, begging me to stay quiet. My mind is blank, any believable lie outside of my reach. I press my lips together, wishing I had left when I had the chance, wishing I had convinced Jackie to cancel the piano lesson and let Nick come home with us instead. But we would have arrived at this moment eventually. If not today, then some other day.
“Paige, just say it,” Jackie says.
I look at Beverly again, but she refuses to catch my eye. I don’t have a choice. “Aaron was Miles’s biological father.”
Confusion flits across Jackie’s face, and she shakes her head. “That’s impossible. You used a sperm donor.” Her eyes shift from me to Beverly. “Right?”
“I did. Aaron was the donor.”
Jackie bursts out laughing, sinking into a chair. “Impossible,” she declares. “Aaron never donated sperm. I would have known. He would have told me. Beverly?”
Beverly stares at her hands, folded in her lap, not looking up.
Piano music swirls around the room.
When it’s clear Beverly isn’t going to tell her I’m wrong, Jackie whispers, “Are you serious?” The confident facade slips off her face, replaced by horror. She looks at me. “Did you . . .” She trails off. “Did you come looking for him?”
“No. I found out by accident.”
“When?” Her voice is faint, shadowed with fear. “Did he know?”
I nod, unable to admit my betrayal aloud. “After the Turner House beach party.”
Shocked, she looks between me and Beverly, as if she’s hoping one of us will break down and tell her it’s all a joke. “You’ve known since November? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He said he was going to.”
I can see her mind running through the events of those last weeks and her realization that he didn’t have time to tell her. She buries her face in her arms. I make a move, but her hand shoots out to stop me. “I need you to leave.”
“Jackie,” I start, but she interrupts me, her voice shrill.
“I need you to leave.”
Beverly speaks. “Sweetheart, he never meant to deceive you.”
Jackie barks a laugh. “Really, Beverly? Seems to me he had ten years to bring it up.” She glares at me, and I shrink away. “When you told me you’d used a donor, I kept that to myself. It was your business, and it wasn’t my place to tell anyone—not even Aaron.” She gives a bitter laugh. “And all this time, you knew my husband was the father of your child.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe how fucking stupid I’ve been.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Dammit!” she yells.
The piano notes stop.
“Jackie, listen. I had no idea when I met you.” I fight back tears, desperate to make her understand. “He was worried about having the Huntington’s gene. He asked me what his ethical obligation was in relation to the clinic and what it meant for any kids conceived with his sperm. I only put it together because he donated to the same clinic I used.”
She explodes off her chair. “Get out of my house!”
I can hear Mrs. Snyder murmur something to Nick, and he resumes playing, jumbled and off-key.
“Both of you,” Jackie roars. “Get out!”
“Mom?” Miles stands in the doorway to Nick’s room, his voice scared and uncertain.
Jackie looks toward him, then at me, her eyes cold.
“Go to the car, honey,” I say, trying to sound normal, but my words are strangled. I can’t leave until I can make Jackie see that I never meant to hurt her.
Beverly’s cool hand lands on my arm. “Come on,” she says. “She needs some time.”
She guides me away from Jackie. Miles stands at the front door, waiting, and Beverly falters. She looks like she wants to hug Miles, but then glances at Jackie and steps away.
“Why is Jackie yelling like that?” he asks.
“She’s just sad,” I tell him.
“I’ll stay with her and try to talk to her,” Beverly says. “She’ll be okay.”
I glance back through the arch that connects the entry and the living room, where Jackie is slumped over, sobbing into her hands, her coat still on and her purse spilled open at her feet.
“Give me your number,” Beverly says. “I’ll call you.”
I search my bag for a card and hand it to her.
“I’ll be in touch,” Beverly says, opening the door and ushering us out.
Outside, the sun is bright, and I have to squint. Nick’s piano lesson fades away as we walk to our car, the distance between Jackie and me growing with every step.
—
The next day, despite a full day in the lab, teaching a class, and preparation for phase two, nothing can quiet the echo of Jackie screaming at me to get out of her house. I know Beverly said she needed time, but I can’t focus on work while Jackie is out there, hating me. I have to fix this. I slip out and drive back to her house.
The curtains are drawn. Either she’s not home or she’s hiding.
I ring the doorbell, straining to hear any sound from inside. I knock, softly at first, then louder. Finally, I hear shuffling and step back as the door opens. Jackie peeks out at me, her red-rimmed eyes squinting in the light.
“Go away.” She swings the door closed.
I hold my hand against it, pushing it back toward her. “We need to talk,” I say.
She lets out a bark of laughter that might also be a sob. “Now you want to talk about it? You kept this enormous secret from me, allowed our friendship to grow around it. You intended to hide it from me forever. But now you want to talk.” She swings the door wide-open and gestures with her hand. “Fine. Come in. Let’s talk.”
She’s wearing dingy socks and a long T-shirt that hangs to her knees. She glares at me, challenging me to say something as she curls her legs under her on the couch. I stare at my knuckles, turning white in my lap, searching for something to say that will fix this.
“Well?” she asks. “You begged to talk, so talk.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, the words slipping out.
Her eyes are hard. “Just tell me. When you figured it out, why didn’t you walk away?”
I came here to fix things, but all I can offer are slippery excuses. “I should have. But you’re my best friend. The boys are best friends.” I’m crying now. “I should have walked away, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want Miles to lose the only friend he’s ever had.” I press my fingers over my eyes, trying to compose myself. “Jackie, please just let me—”
“What?” Her voice is harsh. “Think for a minute what has just happened to me. To my child. My husband lied to us—for years. He left me to discover, in the most horrific way possible, that he had a child with another woman. Many other women, actually.” Her voice cracks, and I try to jump in, explain that he never had a child with me. But she keeps talking, louder now so that any words I might say wouldn’t be heard. “I wanted more kids. I craved them. And to discover my husband has them, just not with me—” She wipes away the tears falling down her cheeks. “You can say what you want about how it all happened, that you picked him from a database and how the rest was just coincidence, but it doesn’t erase the fact that you have a child with my husband. It doesn’t undo the fact that he kept this from me, hid it like a dirty little secret. And now you want to talk about it, to figure things out so that everything will be okay.” She laughs. “Paige, this will never be okay.”
“It has to be,” I plead. “Miles and I need you.”
She looks at me with pity. “I found his ACB file, you know. I made a call to the clinic. He fathered nine children. Nine. Miles isn’t the only one.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “And now I have to be the one to clean up the mess.” Tears tumble down her cheeks, and I want to go to her, hug her, but I’m frozen in my chair.
Jackie closes her eyes. “Aaron is ours. Mine and Nick’s. He’s supposed to belong to us. But now he belongs to nine others.”
She’s right. Miles, Nick, an
d those other eight children all share Aaron’s genetic code. Jackie has nothing.
I can see her shutting down, but I can’t let the conversation end until she understands. “It’s my fault Aaron didn’t tell you. I was angry that he refused to get tested, and I threw it in his face. It was unfair to tell him that way, with no warning, no context. He was stunned. But his first concern was you.” I think about the conversation on the side of the hill at Nan’s party and the way he smiled when I talked about Miles. I take a ragged breath. “Go ahead and be angry with me, but please don’t shut us out.” In a softer voice I say, “The boys are brothers. Don’t punish them for a decision Aaron made.”
“Get out,” she says in a low voice. This isn’t the hysterical yelling of yesterday. This is a woman who has reached her limit. Her anger rolls over me, and I step sideways, trying to stay strong.
Desperate, I say, “You said you’d have forgiven Aaron anything.”
Jackie’s expression is hard and uncompromising. “I forgive him. I don’t forgive you.”
Her words pierce me, slicing through any hope I had. “I was just trying to protect you,” I whisper.
She stares at me, saying nothing, and I have no choice but to leave.
Two days later, she’s pulled Nick out of school and disappeared.
PHYSICAL SYMPTOMS IN THE LAST TWO TO THREE MONTHS OF LIFE
* * *
Fatigue: Try to balance rest with activity. Only undertake activity if you’re feeling up for it or if it’s very important. Remember, your energy gets spent more quickly and takes longer to build up.
Pain: Stay on top of your pain medications and be as specific as you can with your doctor about where you’re feeling pain, how severe it is, and what makes it feel better.
Appetite changes: You’re moving less, and probably eating less too. You will get full faster, and your body will not get the complete benefits of nutrients because your healthy cells are competing with the cancer cells for important resources.
Problems breathing: Sometimes you will feel like you can’t get a full breath or that your lungs have fluid in them. Try sitting up with pillows propped behind you. Sometimes a fan blowing in your face helps make you feel like you’re getting more air. Breathing and relaxation exercises also help.
* * *
Chapter Thirty
Bruno has kicked me out of the lab. Figure your shit out, he said. Stay on email, and I’ll do the rest. I learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to argue with him.
Ever since Jackie left a week ago, I’ve been useless. She just took off. No goodbye. She unenrolled Nick from school and disappeared. Miles is devastated and spending recess alone again. When I try to engage him in conversation, he tires quickly, slipping back into one-word answers. Gone is my curious child who would talk for the entire ride home, barely pausing for breath. I blame Jackie, but most of all I blame myself.
The only ray of hope is what Rose tells me is happening at her house. “He and Liam work on the solar-powered lamp together. They don’t talk,” she clarifies. “Just work. But I think Miles is going to be okay.” I want to be grateful that my son is finding comfort in spending time with Liam, but it’s left me feeling stranded and alone. “And what about Dad?” I’d asked, and she shrugged. “It’s dinner. Dad mostly just watches the kids play. They don’t pay much attention to him.”
I twirl my empty Danish plate in a circle and curse Bruno again for forcing me to do my job from a coffee shop. The soft clatter of cutlery and conversation swirls around me as I try to focus on work.
I hear the door open and close but don’t look up until I feel someone’s presence next to my table.
My dad.
“Hey,” I say.
“May I join you again?”
I think about how I felt after the sleepover—jealous and left out. “Sure.” I clear away my computer and files.
He slips into the seat across from me, wincing as his body settles.
“How are you feeling?” He doesn’t look well. I haven’t seen him in several weeks, and it really hits me that his time is slipping away.
“Not too bad.” He grimaces, adjusting himself in his seat. “Not great though,” he admits when he looks up at me.
“Do you want anything to eat?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not much of an appetite these days. My morning toast can carry me all the way through lunch.”
“What are the doctors doing for you?”
“Keeping me comfortable,” he says. “Though to be honest, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like comfort.”
“Can they do anything else?”
“Not without hospitalizing me, and I don’t want that.” He signals the waitress and orders tea. “So. Trying to clear your head again?”
“Something like that,” I say.
He arranges his silverware next to him.
“Sometimes, it helps to get an outside opinion,” he offers.
I think about what’s happened, how much I’ve lost. At the root of it all stands my father and his choices. And because I have nothing left to lose, I tell him about Aaron and Nick, and Jackie leaving town.
“You can’t blame her for going,” he says.
I sit back in my seat and stare at him. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
He shrugs. “It’s a lot to look at every day, that’s all. People only want to live with lies of their own creation.”
His tea arrives, and he carefully doctors it with cream and sugar. “My father used to say the way a person took their tea was an important litmus test for their personality.” He spends a few more moments, stirring and pausing, stirring and pausing.
“What did he think about the way you do it?” I ask, feeling bad that I know almost nothing about his own father, other than what he told us at Thanksgiving.
My father shrugs. “I don’t know. I was never invited to have tea with him.” He taps his spoon against the side of the cup and sets it in the saucer. His hands tremble as he lifts the cup to his mouth, and for the first time in my life, I see him as a person with his own story, an accumulation of joy and pain and life experiences that have defined him. If pressed, I don’t think I could tell you a single one of them.
“Tell me more about your parents,” I say.
He sets his tea down again. “My father worked and drank. My mother was emotionally unavailable. They taught me to be self-sufficient and essentially left me alone.”
“That must have been hard.” I try to imagine him as a lonely little boy instead of the man who derailed my childhood.
“I don’t remember thinking much of it. It was just normal.”
I’ve never asked my father why he left us, afraid of what he might say, convincing myself that it wouldn’t change anything anyway. But now I realize time is slipping away and soon I’ll never have the chance to find out.
“So if your own father was so awful, why didn’t you do a better job?”
He looks across the café, through the scattered customers in various stages of their meals, their conversations low and steady. “I wanted to be different,” he says. “But I didn’t know how. I couldn’t trust myself not to become my father.”
“But in not trying, you did just that.”
He takes another sip of tea. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that despite our very focused efforts, we end up like our parents anyway.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m like Mom.”
He gives a short raspy laugh, which evolves into a cough. Once he’s recovered, he says, “Rose has turned into your mother. You, though, have turned into me.”
I nearly leap out of my seat. “Hardly,” I say, trying to keep my temper in check. “I haven’t abandoned my child.”
“You’re the opposite side of the same coin.” When he sees I’m about to argue, he holds up his hand. “I mean no offense. I understand why you don’t want to be compared to me. You’re certainly a better parent than I was. But look at how you isolate yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t trust yourself to let people in. You don’t want them to see that you’re flawed. You think they’ll only love you if you’re perfect.” He holds my gaze, and I can’t look away.
“Maybe I’m afraid they’ll get up and walk out on me,” I say, and my father has the grace to flinch. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to him, of all people. But it’s disconcerting that a man I barely know has such a handle on me, and that makes me worry that maybe we are more similar than I’d like to admit.
He takes a sip of tea before continuing. “Fear kept me from parenting you girls. Fear I would ruin you. Break you. And yet, that’s exactly what I did. You can’t protect people from pain. It’s inevitable.”
This is what everyone’s been telling me. First Liam and Rose, then Jackie, and now my father. “So now what?”
He gives me a wry smile. “You keep trying.” He drinks the last of his tea. “You keep coming back.”
His cell phone buzzes, and he pushes his cup to the center of the table and slides to the end of the booth. “If you’ll excuse me, my Uber driver’s here. But I know you’ll sort this out. You’ve always been resourceful.”
In the span of twenty-five minutes, my father has explained why he left us and informed me that I’ve grown into my own version of him. I watch him walk toward the door, his words echoing in my head. You keep coming back. Is that what he was doing every time he returned? Trying again to make a place for himself in his family?
I never thought about what it cost him to return again and again, always wondering if this time it would stick or if he would be rejected once and for all.
—
Over the next couple of weeks, my father becomes the most consistent thing in my life. I return to the café every morning and set up my laptop, telling myself I’m getting out of the office so I can think, when really I’m hoping my dad will show up for his tea and Danish.
I don’t know if he comes looking for me or if it’s a routine he’s developed and I happened to slip into it. We don’t discuss it, and I try not to think too much about why I keep showing up. Mostly, we talk about unimportant things.
