16 Things I Thought Were True

by Janet Gurtler

  She reaches up and moves my hair from my eyes. “Your blond hair is his too.”

  She smiles but it’s low voltage and never reaches her eyes. “I loved him. It was different than with the twins’ father. Than with any other man.” She shakes her head and stares off again, caught up in her own memories. Ones I’ve never been privy to. She loved him? My dad?

  “I was so young when I had the boys.”

  I don’t want to hear about Josh or Jake but don’t dare interrupt.

  “He swept me off my feet.” She reaches up and traces her fingers over her lips.

  Footsteps traipse by outside the hall, and I glance over and see a nurse hurry past.

  “He asked me out at work. Before he knew I was a mom. I mean, he found out eventually, of course, and he met the twins. He liked them enough, but the boys were two and kind of a handful. When we spent time together, the twins usually stayed with their dad, with George.”

  I hold my breath.

  “He didn’t want to be a father.”

  I strain to keep my emotions off my face, to hide the wound, the puncture she pounded into my chest. “When I realized I was pregnant…” She sniffles. “Well, he didn’t want to be a father,” she repeats and closes her eyes and folds her hands over her chest.

  I wonder if the old men are listening through the curtain, hearing the truth about me—if they feel sorry for me that my dad didn’t want me, or if they wonder if I got what I deserved.

  “Do you ever talk to him?” I ask softly. “About me?”

  “He’s never asked,” she says without opening her eyes.

  Boom. Right through my heart again—an even bigger puncture.

  I lift my chin. “Is he dead now?”

  “Dead?” She opens her eyes, frowning. “Of course he’s not dead. Why would you think that?”

  As if I haven’t imagined ways he’s died hundreds of times. As if I never wondered about him just because she didn’t want me to. “You never told me anything,” I whisper. “I didn’t know what to think.”

  “He’s not dead,” she repeats.

  The pain in my chest expands. I hope I’m not close to having a heart attack too. I have a father. It wasn’t immaculate conception.

  Mom presses her lips tighter and then turns away from me, staring out the window. “I’m the one who’s dying.”

  “No, you’re not.” I fight to keep bitterness from my voice—and the fear. If she leaves me, I’ll be all alone. The twins aren’t exactly responsible-adult material. I reach for ChapStick in my pocket, pull it out, yank off the lid, and jab my lips. “You’re having surgery. You’re going to quit smoking, and you’re going to be fine.” I shove my ChapStick back in my pocket and stand.

  She turns back to me then, her face panicky, and shakes her head. “No. I’m dying. My dream…”

  “Mom,” I say, placing my hand on her hip. “You’re not going to die,” I say firmly.

  “But…” She stops and glances around the room and then whispers, “The insurance won’t cover all of this. Not all the tests they’re doing. The surgery.”

  For a second, I think about grabbing her hard, physically jolting her and shaking sense into her. We’ll have bills whether she dies or not. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to die. We’ll figure it out.” For a brief second, I imagine the worst-case scenario. If she dies, Jake and Josh have their dad. Is it possible I could have mine too?

  “The boys need you,” she says, as if a death warrant with her name on it has already been scribed.

  But who’s going to be there for me? An image of the father I don’t know tries to form in my head, but I can’t see a face.

  “Mom,” I repeat. “You’re going to be okay. And don’t worry about the money.” I have money in my savings account. I’ve been saving for years. There’s a nice chunk. It’s supposed to be for college. But if she needs it, I know I’ll hand it over.

  Silence in the room thickens. I try to say something…I love you…I’ll help you. But I don’t. Her eyes water, and I can see the fear swimming among her tears.

  There are footsteps around us, and then the boys walk into the curtained area and the air returns to normal. Mom glances at me, puts a finger to her lips, and sits up a little higher. She pastes a brave face on for her boys. While Jake settles on the side of the bed, Josh takes the chair by her feet and I back away.

  “I’m going to get a coffee,” I say. Jake is telling her about a nurse Josh hit on in the cafeteria, and I wander out, unnoticed. I head down the hallway to the elevator and find my way to the coffee shop on the main floor. I absently watch visitors, patients, and hospital staff all hurrying around in different directions as I order the hospital’s version of an overpriced vanilla latte and sit at a table for four all alone. When I take a greedy sip of coffee, my lip burns.

  I try to imagine life without my mom in it, but it’s impossible. Instead, I imagine the faceless man. The man who didn’t want kids. The man who never wanted me. I sip at the coffee and try to swallow back my emotions.

  “Daddy!” a little girl screams. She runs past me, her face streaming with tears and terror. No one pays attention, so I stand and run and catch up. I place my hand on her arm, and she stops and I kneel down in front of her.

  “You okay, honey?”

  Her lip quivers, and she shakes her head. “I can’t find my daddy.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll help you find him.” I put out my hand, and she fits her teeny one inside mine. I smile. I’ve always loved little kids. I’ve been researching degrees that lead to careers working with kids. We walk to the information desk, and there’s a man standing beside it. The little girl drops my hand and runs to him, hugging his legs. He bends over and scoops her into the air, swinging her around and planting a kiss on her cheek.

  “Where did you go, my little monkey?” he says. “I was so worried.” I turn and walk back to the coffee shop. “Thank you, miss,” the man is calling, but I ignore him and go back to my table and pick up my full coffee. I walk to the garbage can and pitch it in the trash. Five bucks down the drain but what does it matter? I probably won’t be going to college now anyhow.

  When I get back to my mom’s hospital room, the nurse is inside checking Mom’s vitals. Josh and Jake are standing by the window. The nurse pointedly looks at each of us and tells us Mom needs to rest. The boys kiss Mom on her cheek and I pat her arm, and we leave.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Jake says as we wait for the elevator in the hallway.

  “We need to get her a truckload of Nicorette gum. Hopefully, she’ll go through most of the withdrawal while she’s here,” I say. “She has to quit smoking.”

  Jake agrees, and then the elevator door opens and we all pile inside. Josh presses the parking lot button, and we ride down without a word.

  “My car better not have a scratch on it,” Josh says when the doors open again. We walk toward the spot where Adam left his car, but instead of answering, I take out my phone and turn it on. I go straight to Twitter and punch out a message.

  My dad isn’t dead after all. #truestory

  I don’t check my messages or even look at my follower status. I shut off the phone and leave it off. When we get home, I go straight to my room, curl up in a ball on my bed, and let the sadness I’ve been holding off pour in and then back out. I consciously let myself feel. Instead of fighting it, I embrace and let it in. Remorse. Self-pity. So. Much. Fear. About the dad I don’t know. For my mom.

  I don’t want her to die.

  Finally when I’m emotionally and physically done, I roll onto my side, sit up, and reach for my phone. I turn it on and my phone pings with texts I missed. I have dozens of @ interactions in response to my last tweet. Notes from friends.

  More new followers.

  An @ message catches my eye. From @therealMcSteamy.

  Do you want me t
o kick him for you?

  I squint and look closer.

  I click on the profile.

  The user pic is Adam.

  He’s following me on Twitter.

  I feel more exposed than I did when my video went viral.

  chapter four

  3. Rocking out to “Sexy and I Know It” in my underwear is a totally good idea.

  #thingsithoughtweretrue

  Josh drives Jake and me to the hospital the next day, but Mom is cranky and insists we leave. She says she’s tired and wants to sleep. The nurses assure us she’s fine, and frankly we’re afraid to disobey her, so we leave.

  Josh and Jake both work in construction, at a development not far from Tinkerpark, so Josh drops me off at work. I end up walking through the entrance gate half an hour before my shift starts. I force myself to smile at a couple of girls setting up their entrance kiosk. One rolls her eyes at me but the other says hi. I have to pass the office on the way to the gift shop and pick up my pace.

  “Morgan!” a voice calls out as I’m speed-walking to get past.

  I sigh and slow my steps. Pretending none of the hospital stuff happened and ignoring Adam as usual is perfectly fine with me. I’m happy to go back to the boss/employee relationship. Honestly, I’m embarrassed, but he rushes out of the office and damn if my heart doesn’t beat a little harder. I grab my phone like it’s a security blanket and arrange my face into a suitable imitation of a smile as he jogs toward me. “Is your mom okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned. It cracks off a layer of my wariness.

  “She’s tired. Her surgery is in a couple of days. So. Yeah. Nervous, I think.” I lift my hand to block the bright morning sun from my eyes.

  “Understandable. Don’t worry though. She’ll be fine.” He smiles.

  “Hi, Adam!” a female calls. A couple of girls are walking toward us, and he waves without even glancing over, but I see them—two girls each with a perky ponytail, dressed in red Tinkerpark T-shirts. They’re whispering to each other as they pass to go to the gaming area; they giggle and one of them wiggles her hips in an exaggerated dance motion. I glance back at Adam, but he’s watching me and misses it.

  “So,” he says. “She told you about your dad?”

  I blink, but my mind is on the girls.

  “Your post. On Twitter last night.” He gestures to my phone.

  “Oh,” I say, as if I haven’t been tortured by the fact that he’s following me on Twitter. “That’s right. You’re @therealMcSteamy.”

  He blushes, but he’s the one who picked that name, so I smile. Suddenly I’m feeling slightly less vulnerable.

  “You post on Twitter a lot,” Adam says.

  The sun disappears behind a bank of dark clouds that seem to be moving toward us. If it rains a lot, they’ll shut down the park. I wouldn’t mind a day off.

  “If it weren’t for Twitter, most of my best thoughts would be forced to stay in my head,” I say.

  “No Facebook though?” he asks.

  “Not anymore.”After the video blew up, I deleted my account. “Are you stalking me?” I joke. Without thinking, I punch him on the arm as if he’s one of my brothers.

  “Ow.” He rubs his arm, but I hardly put anything in it. And I’m a wimp. So I roll my eyes.

  “Please,” I say. “That didn’t hurt.” A day ago, I wouldn’t have thought that I could tease him or have a real conversation with him. The sun emerges from behind a cloud and lights his face.

  “You calling me a wimp?” he asks, smiling.

  “You said it, not me.” I glance down at my phone—another three followers. I smile.

  “Can you go more than ten seconds without checking your phone?” he asks.

  “I’m pretty sure I can go at least twelve.” I tuck the phone back in my pocket and wait while he opens the gift shop door. He holds it while I walk inside. I remove a cloth cover off a row of breakable toys on a gift stand and head behind the counter to tuck it away. The checklist for opening the store hangs on a clipboard by the cash register. Each task has to be completed with times noted.

  “Are they going to do the angiogram through her arm vein?” Adam leans against the other side of the counter, watching as I go through the motions of opening.

  “Ugh. I have no idea.” The thought of anything going through my mom’s arm to get to her heart turns my stomach

  “You know what they do? With an angiogram?” he asks.

  “Well, she mentioned the dye, but I’m not sure really.” I grab a feather duster from under the counter and run it over the glass case that holds crystal toys and other Tinkerpark souvenirs.

  “They inject a dye to flow through her veins. It checks for blockages, like blood clots or thinning.”

  I stop what I’m doing and stare at him.

  “I read up on the procedure last night,” he says. “She won’t even be put under anesthesia. It’s not risky. The worst thing that can happen is usually an allergic reaction to dye.”

  I feel a little guilty for not doing more research myself.

  Adam continues, “If they do find something, they can deal with it right away.”

  “I don’t know if I want the details. I just want her to get better.” I glance out the window to the clouds in the sky. They’re getting darker and moving closer. It probably won’t be busy at Tinkerpark.

  “I guess you don’t have a future in medicine.”

  “Not unless I become a drug addict.”

  He turns around and smiles, and it shines from the inside out.

  “Why do you want to be a doctor?” I ask.

  “Truthfully? I got hooked on Grey’s Anatomy when I was a kid.”

  I’m at the cash register now and press buttons in a memorized sequence, and it opens. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No. Seriously. I had the same science teacher in my freshman and sophomore year. Mr. Stade. He was hooked on Grey’s like me,” Adam says. “Before classes, we’d talk about the medical stuff after every episode, whether they got it right or not. He took premed courses in college but switched to education. He’s the one who encouraged me to think about a career in medicine.”

  I lean back against the counter, watching him. “Really? A teacher talked to you about stuff like that?”

  “Teachers love me.” He smiles, but it’s fake, and he stares out the window.

  My teachers never really encouraged me to do anything except hand in homework on time. I’m pretty sure most of them didn’t even remember my name. Well, that’s not true. I’m sure they know my name now.

  “So. You’re okay with blood?” I ask. “Cutting into flesh with a sharp knife? Pulling out organs with your hands?” I wrinkle up my nose and cringe. I’ve seen Grey’s Anatomy, but I watched to see who was hooking up, not for the graphic stuff.

  He nods. “I rock at dissections. You should see my mad skills taking apart frogs. And pig hearts.”

  I pretend to gag.

  “Dissection is not for everyone.”

  He glances out the window again. “Here comes Theresa with your cash drawer.”

  I look up, almost sad she’s coming to interrupt this. She walks inside the gift shop, holding the steel cash drawer in the air.

  “Dissections? That’s what we’re talking about this morning?” She walks toward the cash register. “Hey, Morgan.”

  We perform the morning ritual of counting bills and coins as we place them in the till. When we’re done, she shuts the cash drawer and looks at Adam. He’s still by the window, but he’s watching us.

  “You done your opening?” she asks.

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be in the office in a sec. I’m talking to Morgan about something.”

  “Dissection?” She glances back and forth at each of us, raises her eyebrows, and then shrugs. “Okay. But hurry up,” she says and stares at me for a
moment and then leaves.

  Adam walks to the front of the cash counter. He leans forward on his elbows, watching me. I grab a cloth and start wiping things down and glance at the clock. Ten minutes until the park opens. I want my phone now.

  “So what about you?” he asks.

  I glance over my shoulder, frowning. “What about me?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I turn my body away and wipe a counter I’ve already wiped. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean do you have a college you’re dying to get into? Or are you going to go to take a year off and travel? Or get a job.” He laughs. “I mean a real one. After high school.”

  “I’m thinking of taking child psychology or something. We’ll see.”

  I wonder if he knows about the insurance coverage, if he knows I’ve been thinking about giving my mom my savings. “What about you?” I ask not wanting to dwell on me. “What school do you want to get into?”

  “The University of Washington has a solid med school and seems the most doable. Columbia or Stanford are out of my price range.” He shrugs.

  “I’d love to leave Washington,” I say with far too much passion and then scrub the already-clean counter even harder. “Go far away where no one knows me.”

  “Run away?” he asks softly.

  I stop wiping and close my eyes, glad I’m not facing him. I have no idea why I said that out loud and wish I could snatch my words back. “You know, don’t you? About the video? You probably saw it?” I wait, gripping the cloth in my hand.

  “I heard about it.” He clears his throat. “I never watched it.”

  I breathe out and slowly turn. “Then you’re one of a few people at this park, heck, probably one of the few people in Tadita who hasn’t.”

  He takes his elbows off the counter and stands straight.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I bite my lip and glance purposely at the clock on the wall. He should be going back to the office now.

  “You didn’t post it. Did you?” His voice is low.

  I bend my head and swallow and pick at imaginary fuzz on my T-shirt. It’s the truth. I didn’t post the video. But that’s not the whole story. And it still haunts me. “It was my best friend.” My voice breaks and I take a big gulp of air. “She did it without telling me.”