Route 6 is jammed going east toward Provincetown, so we go the back way. We drive down Ocean View slowly, Jay’s left hand loosely on the steering wheel, his right hand interlaced with mine on my lap. I stare at our hands—the way my small fingers fit between his huge ones, the way my pale skin blends with his slightly darker skin. I’m thinking about how strange it is that something as simple as clasping hands together can feel so good, inside and out.
And then a flash of silver catches my eye. Donny Lash’s truck—possibly my future truck—is turning into the Cahoon Hollow Beach parking lot. I’m pretty sure I can make out Rafe’s bald head in the driver’s seat. But it’s the shadow in the passenger side that makes me sit up straighter and lean forward for a better view. It’s Mom’s profile, her wavy hair in a ponytail bobbing up and down, her hands gesturing as she speaks.
“Wait. Turn around,” I say to Jay.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Can we just—will you pull into Cahoon? I think my mom—I just need to see something.”
“What is it?” But he turns the car around and pulls onto the dirt road.
“There, go right, to the Beachcomber lot,” I say.
The truck is parked right next to the restaurant, but its engine is still running.
I point at the far end of the lot. “Just pull up over there,” I say, still staring at the two heads in the truck.
Jay does what I ask, but I can tell he’s reluctant.
“Are we spying on your mom?”
“Sort of, I don’t know. She said she’d be home all afternoon with Sue and Ron planning the meeting.”
“Maybe she’s just getting dinner and bringing it back.”
Rafe and Mom are looking at each other—I can see their profiles perfectly now.
“Maybe. But he isn’t a survivor. He’s from before my mom moved to Detroit. He’s in the letters. He was my father’s friend and—”
Just then Rafe lifts his hand and puts it on the side of Mom’s face. I can’t see Mom’s expression, but she definitely doesn’t move away. In fact, it looks like she leans into his hand.
“Rach,” Jay says. “I don’t know—this is weird. Can we leave?”
I nod because I have no voice.
Jay drives out of the parking lot, back onto Ocean View.
“I need to get back to my house,” I say when my voice returns.
I need to read the last letter. I need to know exactly what happened between Mom and Carson, and who Rafe is to my mom. Because if she was in love with Rafe, and Carson wasn’t her soul mate, then my mom has been lying to me my entire life.
Jay doesn’t push back about changing our plan. He doesn’t say anything. He just nods and turns toward Route 6.
We ride in silence for a few minutes.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I just need to do something.”
“It’s okay,” he says.
When we pull into my driveway, Mom’s car is gone but Ron’s and Sue’s are there. So she must have met Rafe somewhere and left her car there while she was in the truck with him.
“What do you want me to do?” Jay asks, his voice even. “Should I go?”
I hesitate.
“It won’t take long, if you want to come in.”
Jay puts his car in park, but he doesn’t move to take off his seatbelt. My door is already open, one foot on the sea shell gravel.
“I’ll come back in an hour,” he says. “Is that okay?”
I pull my foot back into the car, lean over, and kiss him on his cheek, which is rough and warm. I want to keep kissing him, but I know I have to do this first.
“Thank you,” I say.
I try to sneak into the house, but I’m not quiet enough.
“Naomi?” Sue calls out from the back room.
“No, it’s me,” I say, poking my head into the room where she and Ron and Angela, who just arrived from Virginia, are on the couch, a bunch of papers on the coffee table in front of them.
“Hi, Angela,” I say. I try to make my voice sound excited to see her since it’s been a few months.
She comes over and gives me a hug. Her perfume smells like peonies.
“Hi, sweetie. It’s so good to see you,” she says. I can tell by the pity in her eyes that she’s about to say something about Reed.
“Naomi just ran out for takeout,” Sue says, saving me. “We thought you were her getting back.”
“Just me.”
They smile at me and I rush off to Mom’s room and close the door. I pray the traffic is bad enough to keep her away a little longer.
I pull out the box, which is right where I left it, and reach for the envelope at the bottom of the stack.
THIRTY
If you read somebody’s diary, you get what you deserve.
—David Sedaris (writer)
Just as I pull the envelope out of the box, I hear cars in the driveway. Mom. I slide the envelope into the waist of my jeans, and put the box back.
I walk to the back room, hoping I appear calmer than I feel. Mom’s pulling takeout food from a bag as Ron, Sue, and Angela ooh and aah over everything she’s gotten.
I hear a bang from the garage.
“Rafe is here fixing the garage door,” Mom says, and, though no one else would notice, I see a little pink on her neck.
“Great,” I say, trying to make my voice sound normal.
“You want fried clams? I got a couple of extra orders.”
“No thanks,” I say. “Jay’s supposed to be here any second.”
I go out the front door, thinking I won’t see Rafe if he’s by the garage, but just as I slide the door closed, he’s walking back to the truck.
“Hi,” he says to me. “It was stubborn but that overhead door should be running smoothly now.”
“Thanks, that was really nice of you,” I say.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere? I know how Donny feels about you riding your bike out on the roads.”
“That’s okay, my friend is picking me up soon.”
“Good, that’s good.”
He looks uncomfortable. And I can tell it’s not a feeling he’s used to. My idea of asking him about Carson and my mom—I can’t do it. He’s standing right there and he probably has answers, but I can’t do it.
“That’s an interesting necklace,” he says. “Is it from the beach down here?”
I reach up and touch the necklace—the scallop shell.
“I’m not sure. My mom gave it to me.”
He nods. “It’s a pretty one.”
I smile. “Thanks again for picking up the stuff and fixing the door.”
“Anytime,” he says. “See you soon.”
He gets in the truck and drives away.
I walk to the end of the driveway and sit on a grassy spot. I pull out the envelope and hope I have enough time to read the letter and get it back into the box before Jay comes.
Naomi,
I know I wasn’t being fair this morning. I thought after everything we’ve been through, after all these years, there’d be nothing left to stop us from being together. I know we’re young, but I thought we could’ve gone to Detroit together, had this baby, and started our family. I was picturing us with a baby in that second room of the apartment I leased.
But I want you to know I heard what you were saying. It took me a couple of hours before I allowed myself to understand, but I do now. I know you’re not ready—we’re not ready—to have a baby. I know you’ve been trying to figure out who you are since the lightning—aside from my soul mate, aside from the girl who can see soul mates. I get that now. And I get how having a baby at this point in our lives would just make it even harder for you.
I went to your house, but you were already gone. I drove straight to Hyannis, to the clinic. I was hoping to catch you before you went in, so I could take you in for the appointment. I heard the protesters chanting their judgments, saw their awful anti-choice signs. And then I saw you. You were with Rafe. You were h
olding his hand.
I went toward the two of you. I was going to push him away and take you in myself.
But as you walked by the protesters, I saw Rafe pull your head into his chest and cover your other ear with his hand so you wouldn’t hear the nasty chants. I saw you put your arms around him. I saw him kiss the top of your head as he opened the door to the clinic and walked inside with you.
You broke my heart, Naomi.
I don’t understand. All these years, everything has been about you. The lightning told you we were soul mates and I believed you. I’ve waited for you, waited for you to say it’s the right time for us to be together. It was inevitable that we’d end up together, you said, but you weren’t ready to start the rest of your life yet. Is this why? Because you love someone else? I believed you when you said the baby is mine. Then why aren’t we having this baby together? Or at least, why aren’t I at the clinic with you right now? Why are you with him and not me?
I’m afraid of the answer. I’ll admit it. I’m afraid I’ve wasted the last seven years waiting for you. I’m afraid to ask you if you love him. Because I think I know the answer. I saw the way you looked at each other.
I’m done waiting for you, Naomi. I’m done.
I’m leaving for Detroit tonight. I’m not waiting around for you to decide whether to join me there. I’ve decided for you. Don’t come.
I’m packed up and ready to go. I’m leaving this box of your stuff and the letters I’ve kept. My mom will drop it off at your house when she has a chance.
I’ll go my way, you go yours. I won’t be like your dad—I won’t tell you you’re crazy. I believe that getting struck by lightning gave you this power. I was there. I saw something change in you right after you were struck, when you said that we were soul mates. I still believe you saw it. But I’ll say this: The lightning must have gotten it wrong this time.
Please don’t contact me.
Carson
I’m numb as I put the pieces together. Carson must have died hours after writing this letter—Mom told me he was killed by a drunk driver on his way to start a new job in Detroit.
Mom had an abortion and then Carson was killed later that night.
Carson couldn’t have been my father.
It’s possible Mom had a fling and I was just a fling baby, but something about the way she and Rafe looked in the truck today—I just know. Mom and Rafe were in love with each other.
Rafe Zamora is my father. He has to be.
Mom lied to me. About everything.
I put the letter back in the envelope. I run into the house, calling out that I forgot something, and return the letter to the box, which was never meant for me to open. When I get back out front, out of breath, Jay’s car is there, idling.
THIRTY-ONE
Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away.
—Elvis Presley (musician)
For days since I read Carson’s letter, I can’t think about anything else. But I can’t talk to Mom about it. I want the truth, and I know she’s not going to give it to me. I don’t want her lies anymore.
I wish I could talk to Serena, tell her everything, and ask her what to do. I can picture the glimmer of anticipation in her eyes, like she’d be excited about the adventure, a truth-seeking mission.
And that’s when I realize exactly what she’d say. It’s so obvious. There’s someone other than Mom who knows the truth.
Rafe Zamora.
Serena would say to start there. So I do. I look for him. The man who was with Rafe the night Mom and I first saw him said they’d be at The Wicked Oyster pretty much every night after work. On Thursday night, I go, but he’s not there. He’s not there on Friday night either.
On Saturday, the third night I go to the restaurant, Rafe is there, sitting at the bar eating a burger, watching the Bruins game. I want to turn and leave, not do this at all. But I need to. I need to know for sure.
As I approach the barstool next to him, the bartender raises his eyebrows at me. Don’t even think about ordering a drink, little girl, his eyebrows warn.
Yeah, yeah, okay.
The wooden barstool wobbles as I pull it out and climb up on it awkwardly.
The bartender fills up a water glass and puts it on the bar in front of me.
Rafe takes a sip from his beer. I feel him look sideways at me. He must be wondering why someone would sit right next to him when there are plenty of other open seats at the bar. When I meet his eyes, they widen slightly.
“Rachel,” he says. His voice is easy, as though he says my name every day.
“Hi,” I say.
I’m trying to act normal even though there is no normal when you’re about to basically accuse someone of being your long-lost father. I want to get a better look at him now—would I be able to tell just by looking closely? Is his forehead a little too short like mine? Are his earlobes attached or detached like mine? I wonder about my sanity. I feel like I’m on the verge of hysteria.
He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns and looks behind me.
“She’s not here,” I say. “It’s just me.”
He seems to recoil a little, and I suddenly realize what a seventeen-year-old girl sitting next to a middle-aged man at the bar might look like.
“Oh my god, I’m so stupid.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but obviously I have because Rafe looks very confused. All of my planned conversation openers go out the window. My words ram forward like a bulldozer.
“So I’m here to ask you one question,” I say.
He nods, taking a sip of beer.
“Are you my father?”
He freezes, swallows, then starts coughing uncontrollably.
I push my water glass toward him and watch him, helpless. Rafe takes a sip, holds his finger up to me—hold on—pounds his chest with a fist and clears his throat.
“Why are you asking me that?” His voice is hoarse from the coughing.
“Well, are you?”
He clears his throat again and shakes his head no slowly, so slowly it’s almost imperceptible. It could be a no, I’m not your father shake or a no, this can’t be happening shake.
This goes on for 3,700 hours, and then he finally answers.
“No. I’m not your father.”
I feel like a balloon has popped in my chest and all the air has been let out. But I don’t know whether it’s relief that I now have an answer or disappointment in the answer itself. Had I wanted Rafe to say yes? And what if he had? Then what? We’d quickly catch up on the last seventeen years, go to a father-daughter dance, and live happily ever after?
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice cracking.
His face changes then, like he’s super sad.
“I’m sure,” he says quietly.
Rafe looks into my eyes, like he’s carefully weighing a decision.
“Hasn’t your mom told you about your father?” he asks.
“Yeah. But not much. Nothing at all, really. Just his name and that he died in a car accident.”
“So, if you knew that, then why did you think—”
“Because I know that my mom had an abortion right before he died. And you took her to the clinic.”
Rafe coughs again, takes a sip of water, then clears his throat.
“If your mom told you about the clinic, then you must know what happened.”
I shake my head no. “She wasn’t the one who told me.”
“I’m not sure I understand, but you should ask her about it,” he says, wearily. “It’s really between the two of you.”
“Please,” I say. “Tell me the truth.”
“I can’t be the one to tell you, Rachel. I’m sorry your mom hasn’t told you everything.”
He stares straight ahead, takes a long swig of beer, swallows. He looks at the TV for a minute, flinches when the Bruins miss a shot on goal. That’s it?
I slide off the stool and walk about three feet before I hear Rafe s
ay, “Rachel, hold on.” I’m not even positive he’s said it because he’s still staring up at the TV.
I go back and stand next to him, watching his profile, the haphazard scruff on his neck going up and down as he swallows, and then finally speaks.
“I’m not your biological father.”
My eyes sting. “Yeah, you mentioned that already.”
He made it clear. I don’t have a father. My father is dead.
“But,” he goes on as if I hadn’t said anything, “but I wanted to be your dad. I begged her. And I’m not someone who begs. I wanted to be your dad more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Even Naomi.”
I can barely get my next question out. “Then why weren’t you?”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“It was complicated and it wasn’t my decision to make.”
I stare at a splotch of ketchup on his plate. After a few moments, I feel him looking at me.
“Let her tell you,” he says. “She owes you an explanation.”
I leave the restaurant and keep walking. I walk to the Harbor, watch the moorings bob in the little swells. I don’t stop for too long, I need to keep moving. It doesn’t matter how much I walk, though, because I can’t digest any of it. I can’t make the right connections in my head. I feel empty and stupid. I can’t believe I allowed myself to think for a minute that I had a father who was alive. Of course Rafe isn’t my father. That would’ve been too perfect, right? Too neat. The storybook ending—he was right under my nose the whole time!
I walk. Sweat trickles down my spine.
Jay’s on an EMS shift, so I can’t call him. But it’s Serena I really want to talk to anyway. I imagine telling her about Carson and Rafe, the surprised look she’d have on her face—her eyes wide, her head shaking back and forth. I don’t know what she’d say, though. And that makes me want to tell her even more.
As I cross back into town, someone in the street shouts my name.
It’s Sawyer Baskin in his shiny black RAV4.
“Hey, do you need a ride somewhere?”
I wipe sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “That’s okay. Just walking off some steam.”
Soulstruck Page 15
