A photo of him playing an electric guitar.
My hands shake, palms sweating profusely causing the phone to almost slip from my grasp.
I swipe again.
Another photo of him playing yet another guitar—acoustic this time.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: You’re not with the right family.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: This is your real dad.
I swipe back to the picture of him at the car dealership—Chevrolet. It looks like a big lot. Most likely the one by Midway Airport. I key in another search. Xavior Xavion, Chevrolet dealer. Right away, his business profile pops up with a link to the dealership phone line. I take a deep, calming breath and click the link to make the call.
“Auto Nation Chevrolet?” A perky woman’s voice booms through my phone speakers.
“Oh, um, may I please be connected to Xavior Xavion?”
“Sure,” she replies. “One moment.”
Omigosh. Omigosh. I slump down under the shade of the tree and place my head between my legs, confident that this will be the moment my head actually explodes.
“Xavior speaking.” A deep voice interrupts the hold music and my thoughts of internal combustion.
I’m frozen. Not sure what to do or say or even why I’m calling. Why am I calling?
“Hello?” he says. “This is Xavior.”
“Hi. Um...” I pause. “It’s Tiffany.”
“Tiffany?” He says my name as if he’s saying the name of the most important person in the whole world. “Wow. It’s so amazing to hear from you. How did you find me here?”
“I Googled you.”
“Ahh. Clever. Everything...okay?”
“Yes. No. I mean... I’m in California. Living with...my...you know.”
“Your dad?”
“Yeah. That.”
Silence. Deafening silence. Is he mad now?
“Hey, what’s your favorite Beatles song?”
“Excuse me?” he replies.
“The Beatles. You like them, right?”
“Not really a big fan of the Beatles. I mean, they’re okay.”
“Okay?” I frown. “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is like the best album ever made.”
“I don’t know that album.”
“Omigosh, that’s tragic. Go buy it.”
“Okay, Tiffany. I’ll do that today.” He laughs. “Is that all? You only called to tell me to get Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?”
“And get The Wall by Pink Floyd. And The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars by David Bowie. These are all concept albums. Don’t get the CDs. Gotta listen to them on vinyl and just, like...escape for a few hours. Go to Disco Kings. They have the best records. They have everything. On Second and Lincoln?” There’s silence on the other end of the line again. Did he hang up on me? Was I talking too much? Am I talking too much? “Xavior?”
“Sorry. I’m here. Writing. David Bowie. Second and Lincoln. Okay. Got it all. I’ll go this evening.” There’s that deafening silence again. “Tiffany?” he finally says. “I thought you wanted me to go away forever?”
“I did. Are you going to?”
“I don’t want to disrupt your life or your plans. It’s just... I think you’re my daughter. And I want to be your dad. I really do.” He sighs. “My lawyer will be in contact. Have you spoken with your grandmother or—”
“I should go.” And I should. Especially as I’m suddenly remembering this call was a really bad idea.
“Wait. Tiffany, can we talk again? I mean, after I listen to the music? Your number came up on caller ID. Would that be okay if I contact you?”
“Sure. I guess. Yeah. I think.”
He laughs. “Okay. It was so nice to get your call. Made my day.”
I hang up.
I made his day. He’d like to talk to me again. Says he wants to be my dad.
I lean my head back against the tree. What if he is my dad? Things might go back to normal. I’d return to Chicago. My old school. All my friends. I’d be with Grams again. Away from all this sun.
I close my eyes and feel tears sliding down my cheeks. No idea why the thought of Xavior and returning home makes my broken heart break just a little bit more.
10
Darryl and I ride home in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The slow pace allows me to somewhat relax for the first time all day. But as we approach Margaret and Anthony’s giant mansion, I notice flashing police lights. There’s a squad car in the driveway.
“The police are here?” I bolt up, grabbing my backpack and unhooking my seat belt. “Do you know what’s going on?”
Darryl shakes his head in confusion. “No, miss. I—I don’t.”
I push open the car door. I can hear Pumpkin screaming—bloodcurdling, pained screams. Something’s wrong. Oh, no, something’s really wrong! The police officers seem to have just arrived. I race past them, unlock the front door, shove it open and throw my bag to the side.
“Margaret!” I yell.
Pumpkin’s screams are amplified within the house. It sounds like she’s hurt. I speed through the living room and down a hallway. “Margaret? Pumpkin?” I can hear the screams, but I can’t quite make out which direction they’re coming from. I race back into the living room, around a corner and through a small den, finally pushing through a door at the end of another long hallway. I find myself in what must be Margaret and Anthony’s master suite. The room is enormous and Pumpkin is definitely in here. The cries appear to be coming from behind a closed door at the far end of the room. I pause. Dear God, what could be behind that door?
Thump-thump, thump-thump: Margaret’s unconscious, bloodied and bruised.
Thump-thump, thump-thump: And Pumpkin’s tied to a chair.
I push aside my fears and hurry across the bedroom, shoving the door open, and rush into an adjoining bathroom where I see Margaret. Not unconscious, bloodied and bruised like I imagined, but standing in an extralarge Jacuzzi bathtub, dressed in a bathing suit, holding Pumpkin’s head under the running water. I gasp. She’s trying to kill her!
“What’s happening?” I scream. “What are you doing to her?”
Surprised, Margaret turns. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face tear-streaked. I take a step forward and see the open bottle of shampoo tipped over and spilling into the tub, Pumpkin’s naked body flailing about in the water as she howls, kicking and thrashing about with water splashing everywhere.
Margaret gives me a polite tilt of the head. “I’m so sorry. I only wash it once every three days. This is normal. Not to worry. She’s completely fine.”
She’s getting her hair washed. My knees buckle, still shaking from the sheer terror of what I thought was happening.
“You look spooked. Did we give you a scare?”
“Margaret...” I’m still trying to catch my breath.
“Don’t worry. She’s afraid of the water. She’ll be fine as soon as I’m done.”
“No—someone must’ve called the police. They’re here. They’re outside! The police are here.”
She nods, not shocked or surprised in the least, and pulls the naked and crying child from the tub, quickly wrapping a towel around her body. She hands her to me.
“You want me to take her?”
“Please. Our neighbor Mrs. Lieberman must’ve called the police. Child Protective Services stopped coming. So, I suppose the police is her only option now. I’ll go and talk to them and explain the situation.”
I take Pumpkin into my arms; she howls even louder, thrashing about in a panic.
“No! Want Mommy! Don’t want you. You get outta here!”
Her sopping wet hair drenches my Curington uniform and my sneakers slip on the wet marble floor. I catch myself before we both tumble over.
“Are you okay?” Margaret
asks, grabbing a robe off a hook behind the bathroom door and sliding it on.
I nod, strengthening my grip on Pumpkin.
“Mommy will be back, Pumpkin.”
I wince as Margaret slips through the bathroom door. My ears ring as Pumpkin takes her screams up an octave. She’s writhing around in my arms, trying to free herself, so I move out of the bathroom and carefully set her down on the edge of Anthony and Margaret’s bed. I get close to her face so that I look scary and intimidating, grab the towel wrapped around her body with one hand and pull her close, giving my most threatening whisper, imitating what my grams used to do when I was small.
“Pumpkin, if you do not stop that screaming...! Do you hear me? Stop it. Now!”
Her eyes get big and round like a cartoon character’s. “I don’t like you! You get outta here!” She backs away to a far corner of the bed, like I’m a superscary monster she’s running from.
I don’t care if she doesn’t like me. She’s not screaming anymore. Now I can hear myself think. I slump down onto the floor beside the bed. A few moments pass and thin, wet arms lie over my shoulders.
“You sad?”
Pumpkin’s hanging over the edge of the bed. A sincere look of concern on her adorable face, her blue eyes wide with concern.
“No. I’m not sad.”
“You fus-tated?”
“Frustrated? No. I’m okay.”
Her sopping wet hair is dripping on me. I slip the towel from around her shoulders and wrap it around her head, squeezing out as much water as I can.
“Ow! That’s hurt me!”
“Sorry, Pumpkin.” I give one final squeeze and place the towel back around her body. She’s cold now and shaking, so I sit her in my lap, placing my arms around her in an effort to warm her.
Margaret returns, two police officers trailing behind her.
Pumpkin climbs off my lap and rushes to her, the towel falling to the floor, exposing her tiny, little naked body. Margaret scoops her up and covers her with her robe.
“Hey, kiddo,” one of the officers says to Pumpkin. “How you feeling?”
“I very, very sad,” Pumpkin replies seriously. “I so scary.”
“Why are you so scary?” the officer asks with a warm smile.
“I get water in my ear. It’s very owie.”
The officer and his partner exchange bemused looks.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” the other officer says. “We’re sorry to have disturbed you.” He looks at me and waves. “How are you today, miss?”
My only experience with cops is when the local Chicago police would follow us home from school, shouting through their car speakers for us to get out of the street and stay on the sidewalk. I give the man what I mean to be a smile but what probably looks more like the gaze of a mentally deranged person.
“It’s totally understandable that she would have called you,” Margaret explains in her eerie polite manner. “I’m positive she was only concerned for Pumpkin. But as you can see, she’s fine.”
“Absolutely, ma’am. Again, we’re sorry to have disturbed you. You ladies have a wonderful day.”
“Let me walk you out.” Margaret turns to me. “Tiffany, can you take Pumpkin for me? Get her dressed? Her clothes are hanging in the bathroom.”
I stand, moving to retrieve Pumpkin. Margaret exits with the police officers, leaving Pumpkin squirming and screaming once again in my arms.
* * *
“There.” I kneel beside a large, cushy chair in the bedroom as I finish buttoning up Pumpkin’s colorful dress. “You look very pretty.”
“Don’t like pretty. Don’t like dress! I want princess dress!”
“I...I don’t know where that is, Pumpkin. Maybe you can wear the princess dress later.”
She balls her hand into a fist and hits me across my shoulder. “Ow!” Strangely enough, her hand feels like a tiny hammer. “That hurt!”
She does it again. Harder. Slamming down on my shoulder.
“Pumpkin, stop that!” I grab her wrist but she uses her free hand to slam down on my other shoulder, so I clutch both wrists tightly. “Pumpkin! You can’t hit me.”
She throws her body onto the floor. Cue another epic tantrum. Shrieks, shrills and screeches so loud my ears are ringing again. Thankfully, Margaret pushes through the door to rescue me from the attack of the two-year-old monster.
“Pumpkin!” she bellows. Pumpkin’s kicking and pounding the floor with her fists like she’s possessed by the devil.
“I want princess dress! Don’t like Tiffany dress. I very, very not happy!”
Margaret kneels at her side and wraps her arms around the toddler, gripping her so that Pumpkin is unable to move. “I will not allow this behavior! Do you understand?”
Like a pint-size Houdini, Pumpkin frees herself from Margaret’s grasp, hits her in the face as hard as she can and races out of the room.
Margaret sits on the edge of her bed, nursing the spot on her face that Pumpkin smacked. She looks up at me, eyes watering. “I’m sorry for Pumpkin’s inappropriate behavior.” Then she places her head in her hands and sobs.
“Omigosh. Margaret? Please don’t cry.”
“I apologize. I’m so overwhelmed.” She tries to pull herself together, wiping her eyes with the corner of her robe. “Hair day is always like this. Well, maybe not this bad. The police have never come.”
“Have you considered cutting her hair off?”
Margaret’s crazy eyes get as big as saucers. “Oh, my goodness, Tiffany. Anthony would never allow that. Your father...he prefers the girls’ hair long and natural.”
“But this is a disaster. Make him wash it, then.”
She gives me a polite tilt of the head. “Oh, it’s fine. I don’t mind. Really. It’s just one of those days. I should get dinner started. The girls will be home soon.” She stands, her personality flipping back to supersweet with that creepy, strange calm. “I promise this won’t happen in three days when I have to wash it again. The next time will be better.” She moves into the bathroom and I hear the door click shut.
She has to do this again in three days? I shake my head.
Dear Life, please help Margaret.
* * *
I move into the all-white kitchen. Margaret is dressed now, in long, flowy pants and an equally flowy button-up flower-print shirt. Her hair is wrapped in a neat bun as she stands at an island with a white marble top, chopping up something green. Pumpkin is strapped into a high chair watching her iPad peacefully, as if she didn’t rain down a special kind of horror-movie-style terror on this house.
I’ve slipped out of my Curington uniform and am now in a pair of jeans and a Bob Marley tank top. My new hair tied back with a black-and-white bandanna. One thing about weaves...they hurt and they itch. The coolness of the cotton bandanna feels nice and soothing on my head.
“Don’t you look so adorable?” Margaret says as I enter. “You’re so trendy, Tiff. I love your style.”
Margaret seems as cool as a cucumber. Like Terminator: Judgment Day starring Pumpkin Stone didn’t happen. Nope. She’s just...chopping up a salad.
“Now I feel silly getting you those Anthropologie dresses. You’re so not Anthropologie. You’re more Urban Outfitters. Or Chaser. Or Free People. Oh! I would love Free People on you. Their clothes are so you. I hope you let me take you shopping. It’s probably my favorite thing to do. How sad am I?”
I decide not to answer that. “What are you cooking?” I sit at a square kitchen table next to Pumpkin, who is so engaged in her iPad it’s like I’m not even there. No idea what she’s watching. A bunch of bees are doing the hokeypokey. And of course, now I see why Pumpkin’s mound of curly hair is so massive. Margaret washes it and lets it air-dry. Doesn’t even look like she took a comb to it. Yikes.
“Sautéed kale with a bit of garlic a
nd chopped scallions,” she starts. “Turkey loaf and sweet and purple potatoes. Oh, and apple spice bread for a sweet treat after.”
“Wow. Do you always cook a lot?”
“I love cooking, yes, and Anthony likes for the family to have variety, so I try to come up with interesting dinners. We have the chef on Wednesdays and Fridays, so I do get a break. Plus, cooking makes for such a nice family bonding time. How was school?”
Margaret is probably the one paying for my school. How rude would that be to tell her I sort of hated it? “It was great.”
She beams. “Isn’t it a fantastic school? Your father and I love it.” She pauses and gives me a polite tilt of the head. “Oh, Tiffany, you have no idea what it means to me that you like it there.” She sighs. “That makes me really happy.”
I nod, happy to make Margaret happy, wondering if it will make her equally happy when Maury Povich declares that Anthony Stone is not the father. “Hey, Margaret,” I start apprehensively. “Don’t you wanna go over to your neighbor’s house and tell them exactly where to go?” Like straight to hell?
“It’s Mrs. Lieberman. Jehovah God bless her. Her husband died last year. Her only child lives overseas. She’s all alone in that big house. I don’t fault her.”
“Really? I’d want to strangle her for calling the cops on me.” I put my hand over Pumpkin’s iPad to block her view. She looks up and I give her a silly grin.
“Hey!” she says with a dramatic frown.
“Bees don’t hokeypokey,” I whisper. “They only do the chicken dance. Everybody knows that.”
“Wanna play by myself.” Pumpkin moves my hand away and returns to watching her show.
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 12
