by LS Hawker
The rifle clattered to the wooden porch.
“Your daughter.”
Mr. Bellandini rocked on his feet, then his knees buckled and he sank to the porch beside the gun. “My . . . what? How . . . I don’t understand what—”
“Michael Rhones took Anne Marie and moved to Kansas and changed both their names. He raised her as his own and never told her about you. We don’t want anything from you. She just wanted to meet you. Michael passed away a couple of days ago, and we found all this out by reading his letters to Marianne.”
“His . . . ?”
“Right,” I said. “Michael sent her a ton of love letters. Like a hundred and fifty of them.”
“Is she here?” Petty said.
“Marianne?” The shadowed form on the porch covered its face with its hands. The dog ran to his side and sniffed him.
“Yes,” Petty said.
I felt a little choked up, in spite of all the shit that had gone down between me and Petty in the last two days.
“Can she—can you uncover your face?”
Petty dropped her hands to her sides and squinted at the dark figure.
“Oh, my God,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “You could be Marianne.”
“Is she here?” Petty’s voice was vehement.
The noises coming from the porch sounded like Mr. Bellandini was trying not to cry and failing.
Petty took a step backward, and I wondered if she was going to bolt.
“Where is my mom?” she asked.
“I’ve searched for years,” he said. “I never stopped.” He wiped his face and hoisted himself up.
“For my mom?” Petty said.
His hands dropped to his sides. “What?” he said.
Nothing anyone was saying made any sense at all at this point. I could not imagine how the stress of this situation must feel to these two people.
Petty’s breath hitched and she started to fall. I caught her before she hit the ground.
“Please,” Mr. Bellandini said. “Bring her inside.”
I led Petty up to the porch and Mr. Bellandini held the door open for us. He was even taller than me—around six-foot-five maybe. I was still a little blinded from the klieg lights outside, so it took a minute to adjust. The cabin was rustic, a little dingy, but better by far than Motel 9.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Bellandini said. “I think I’m in shock.” He pointed in Petty’s direction. “Her too. Let me get her a glass of water.”
I helped Petty sit on a green couch. She had a dazed, faraway look in her eyes, and my heart broke for her. She seemed smaller now, deflated.
Mr. Bellandini returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, which he held out to Petty. His hands were huge, the backs of them covered in black hair.
Petty didn’t move, just stared, so I took the water for her.
“Poor thing,” Mr. Bellandini said. He had thick lips that covered small teeth. His black hair was wavy, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses with chunky lenses that miniaturized his eyes, making them look almost artificial. The contrast between the tiny eyes and teeth, and the giant proportions of the rest of him, was striking. There was absolutely no resemblance between father and daughter that I could see.
He let out a big breath and sat down in a chair. “I always knew we’d be reunited one day,” he said. “I knew that nothing could keep us apart.” He stared at his hands. “How did you find me?”
“It’s kind of a long, convoluted story,” I said, “but the upshot is we found Petty’s grandmother in a nursing home in Denver.”
He sat forward again, the expression on his face sharp, as if I’d said something insulting.
“You know she has Alzheimer’s,” I said.
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Bellandini said, casting his eyes downward again. “Jeannie.”
Hearing him say that name had the same effect on me as biting on tinfoil with a metal filling. A painful shock jolted through me, because it was all true. This was Petty’s father.
Shit just got real.
Mr. Bellandini did not look at Petty, but I could tell he wanted to. Maybe he believed she was a mirage he could only see out of the corner of his eye. It must have seemed like a dream to him.
“So . . . Jeannie couldn’t have told you where I was, am I correct? With her condition, she didn’t remember me. Did she?” Mr. Bellandini snuck a glance at Petty then looked back at his hands.
“She remembered your last name, that’s all,” I said. “She only remembers that something sad happened, not that—well, that Petty is your daughter, and not Michael Rhones’s.”
Mr. Bellandini let out another big gust of breath. “Well. Yes. It’s probably better for Jeannie that she doesn’t remember.” His eyes only briefly met mine, and then they flitted up.
I felt Petty’s body shake violently beside me. I turned to her and saw that her face and eyes were a deep shade of red, as if she’d been holding her breath this entire time.
Mr. Bellandini noticed too.
“Is she all right?” He rose from his chair.
Petty shrank back. He was so large and overwhelming, I understood this involuntary reaction.
The big man now stared openly at his stolen daughter. “Where have you been all these years?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Petty of course needed time to adapt to these new circumstances before she’d be able to talk or even process what was going on. It would be like the slow rise from the ocean floor to avoid getting the bends.
“Kansas, sir,” I said.
“Call me Mitch,” he said, sitting back down. “And who are you?”
I introduced myself.
“And you’re her . . .”
I didn’t know this man, and it was obviously an emotional moment, but he sounded wary.
Embarrassment heated my face. “Her friend, sir. I’m just her friend.”
Mitch shifted his gaze to Petty and said, “Is that true?”
She nodded.
“And how old are you now?”
She cleared her throat. “Twenty-one.”
“That seems right. She was about three the last time I saw her.”
Before Michael Rhones whisked her away.
Mitch was still staring at her, looking her up and down. “You’re taller than she was.”
Petty squirmed under the scrutiny.
“But of course you are,” he said, with a big smile. “I’m your dad! You’re just a chip off the old block.” He chuckled, although it sounded a little forced. He must not have any other kids, because the words I’m your dad seemed unnatural coming from him.
“Well,” I said. “We’re sorry for coming here so late, but circumstances kind of forced us to. Would it be all right if we came back tomorrow and spent some more time with you?”
“You have a place to stay?” Mitch said. “You know people up here?”
“No sir,” I said.
Mitch decisively rapped both arms of the chair. “You’ll sleep here. Dekker, you take the guest room, and you can have my bed, Marianne. Anne Marie, I mean.”
“My name is Petty,” she said, in a tiny voice, startling me.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Bellandini said.
“I’d never even heard that other name until today,” she said, her voice stronger. “My name is Petty.”
Mitch snorted. “Petty. That’s not a name. It’s an adjective.”
I was shocked by this pronouncement, and his casual denigration of Petty’s name irked me.
Petty bristled. “It’s my name,” she said, sounding like herself again.
“Oh, well,” Mitch said. “My apologies. In any event, you’ll stay here.”
He wasn’t wasting any time taking control and telling everyone what to do. The thought
of spending the night in that cabin helped me understand how Petty must have felt when faced with the prospect of sleeping at Ashley’s place. Disoriented. Uneasy.
“We don’t want to impose,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a motel nearby.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Mitch said. “No daughter of mine is going to a motel with a boy!”
He gave a laugh, but I knew he was deadly serious. It would be a bad idea to tell him that we’d stayed in a motel together already.
“I work the night shift, so you can sleep while I’m gone. I’m a security guard at the old Black Star mine.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go move your car up to the house and get your luggage.” To Petty, he said, “The bathroom’s just down the hall if you want to freshen up.”
Petty shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself.
I rose and followed Mitch out the door. The dog came running, but I realized this one wasn’t like Sarx and Tesla. He didn’t know how to attack; he was just an outside animal, aggressive and out of control. So I ignored him and sniffed the air—which was filled with the scents of pine and wood smoke—and gazed at the dark sky overhead. I’d never seen such brilliant stars. Once we hit the yard, they were drowned out by the blinding motion-sensor lights.
I walked down the embankment to where we’d left the Buick on the access road, got in it and drove up to the front of the house where Mitch waited. I got out and opened the trunk to get our stuff from it, and handed a few of the Walmart bags to Mitch.
“Mr. Bellandini—Mitch—why did you come out of your house with a gun?”
Mitch paused for a minute in the alpine chill, the bright light behind him obscuring his features. “We’ve had a lot of vandalism and theft up here in the past year or so,” he said. “Had to buy a gun and a mean dog. People out creeping around in the middle of the night make you jumpy.” He set the bags on the ground. “So tell me. Are you a student? A working man?”
“I’ve been saving money to go back to school,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “What’s your major?”
“Geology.”
“Geology! How would you like to tour the Black Star mine tomorrow?”
“That would be epic,” I said, and I meant it.
“So you’re saving money to go back,” he said. “What do you do?”
This was Petty’s dad I was talking to, so I didn’t want to answer “delivery boy.” I wanted to sound more impressive.
“Well, actually,” I said, “I’m the drummer for a band and we’re playing at a big show in Kansas City in about a week.”
“Really? So you’ll need to leave soon?”
“Yes, sir.”
He tilted his head toward the sky before turning back toward me.
“Tell me something. Anne Marie seems a little . . .” He made circles in the air with his hands, seeming unable to reach for the right words.
“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”
I told Mitch a little about Petty’s life in Kansas under lock and key. He frowned and nodded as I talked, as if this confirmed everything he knew about Michael Rhones.
“He could never love Marianne the way I did,” Mitch said. “He thought he owned her.”
“He was looney tunes,” I said. “His letters were totally obsessive and crazy.”
Mitch seemed to get taller, but I couldn’t see his face with the light behind him. “Well, I’m sure they sound strange to an unintended audience. Imagine how personal love letters you’ve written would sound to Michael. Or to me.”
I couldn’t decide if I was suddenly flooded with shame because I’d read letters that weren’t addressed to me or because maybe Mitch sensed how I felt about Petty. Was it that obvious? The whole father-daughter-potential-suitor dynamic hadn’t occurred to me. I felt chastised, which pissed me off and intimidated me at the same time.
“I need to hear more,” he finally said, looking at his watch, “but it’ll have to wait. Can’t be late for work.” He picked the bags back up and walked toward the house.
I followed him up to the porch and into the cabin. Petty sat staring on the couch exactly where we’d left her, and I hoped she hadn’t heard our conversation. I tailed Mitch down the hall to the bedrooms. Mitch switched on the light in what appeared to be the guest room and set down my bag, then led me to his own bedroom. I set down Petty’s bag and left Mitch alone to get ready for work, joining mute Petty in the living room.
I walked to the fireplace mantel, on which some “Precious Moments” figurines were arranged, big-eyed sad kids doing cheesily adorable things. This was more than a little weird. What bachelor collected Precious Moments? Creepy. Of course, maybe they’d been Marianne’s.
Mitch reappeared wearing a blue wool jacket and a matching cap. He had a utility belt on with a flashlight, a huge brass key ring, and a small-caliber pistol.
“I’ll be back around six-thirty A.M.,” he said, glancing again at his watch. “You kids get some sleep.” He kept his eyes on Petty, but his hands looked like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Finally he shoved them in his pockets and turned to the door. “Guess I’ll be going. Good night.”
Mitch closed the door behind him, and Petty sat staring, an unfocused look in her eyes. I hoped her shell shock would wear off by tomorrow so she could find out what she needed to know and we could leave.
“You okay?” I said to her.
She shrugged. “Would you help me find a real bandage for my shoulder?”
We walked down the hall. Bathroom on the right, guest room on the left, master past the bathroom. I went in the bathroom, turned on the light then opened the linen closet, where I found a first-aid kit with some large Band-Aids, cotton, and disinfectant spray.
Petty pulled off her hoodie and the towel came off with it, starting the wound bleeding all over again.
“Great,” she said. “I’ll just bleed all over my dad’s bathroom.”
I squirted disinfectant on the cotton, swabbed the ragged cut and placed the big Band-Aid over it.
“Would you mind sleeping in Mitch’s room?” she said. “It feels a little weird to me.”
I was relieved she felt the same way I did.
“Absolutely,” I said.
While she used the bathroom to get ready for bed, I stowed the bloody towel in my Walmart bag, switched my stuff to Mitch’s room and hers to the guest room. Then I snooped around a little. The guest room was dusty but looked like it had never been used—the bedspread pristine, still with the creases from the package it had come in.
I checked out the rest of the house, and when I returned to the living room, a thought hit me. There were no pictures on the walls. No landscapes or paintings, or portraits or plaques. I walked around once more to be sure, but all the walls were perfectly bare.
This struck me as odd, but I realized something else bothered me more. Mitch had never answered Petty when she’d asked where her mother was.
Chapter 25
Friday
I DIDN'T KNOW where I was. I tried to position things in my mind so that I was in my room in Kansas, but it was all wrong. Was I in Motel 9? And then I remembered. I was in my father’s house in the Colorado mountains, six hundred miles from my prison.
In the house my mother had lived in.
As I lay staring at the ceiling, I remembered that Mitch hadn’t answered my questions about Mom. It must mean she was dead or had left him. It had been foolish to get my hopes up. Now I had to bundle all my hopes and pin them on Mitch. Maybe he had some other children—some siblings for me, maybe some other grandparents. Maybe I’d still get to have some sort of family. I had to focus on that.
But for a little while I let myself imagine my mom cooking breakfast in the cabin’s little kitchen. I imagined her waking me up for school. I imagined us watching
Offender NYC together and eating popcorn. This lovely daydream was interrupted by the fact that, try as I might, I couldn’t picture her with Mitch. I immediately felt guilty at this thought, because I’d only recently been able to picture her at all. Mom must have loved him, and I was the result.
I sat up and looked out the window. Sunrise was a ways off, but I could make out mountains and trees. I smelled wood and pine in the sweet, clean air. It was chilly in the room, but I liked it. Not like Kansas, where your sheets and towels never feel quite dry. Maybe I wouldn’t go back to Kansas at all. Maybe I’d stay here with Mitch for a while. I could cook and clean for him like I did for Michael Rhones. I could make a home for us.
But that was a crazy thought. I’d only just met him.
Maybe he could get me a job at the mine, or maybe there was a shop down in Paiute where I could work, waiting on tourists. Maybe I’d make friends with some of the local girls. Maybe I’d go to movies and shop in the supermarket.
Did I really think Mitch would just invite me to move in with him? Did he believe I was his blood? Maybe we should get a DNA test to confirm our relationship so he wouldn’t think I wanted anything from him. I needed to find out about my mom, but did I want more than that? What exactly did I want from Mitch?
I knew what I needed—more time. But Dekker needed to go back, and the pressure to find out everything I could as quickly as possible was giving me vapor lock.
Plus how would Mitch react to all the drama surrounding me? The theft and murder warrants? The commitment papers Mr. Dooley had so thoughtfully drawn up? If Mitch knew everything . . . anybody in his right mind wouldn’t want me to stay. He’d be afraid I’d kill him too.
I walked to the bathroom, closed the door and checked the shower and the closet before using the toilet. A clock sat on the vanity, saying five-fifty. Mitch would be getting off work in ten minutes, and then he’d be home. Realizing this, I had an overwhelming urge to wake Dekker up and talk to him.
I went into the hall and turned the master bedroom doorknob slowly before pushing the door open. Dekker was sprawled on the bed, and I looked at him for a while—his unruly dyed black hair, his big Adam’s apple, his long fingers. I remembered the dream I’d had at the motel, about Dekker and me kissing. Maybe it was just hormones, but I couldn’t help feeling attracted to him at this moment. It was gratitude too. He’d put up with a lot of crap from me this past week. He’d let me into his world but never made me feel like a freak. Well, hardly ever.
