by Amber Garza
Then how come the main thing I want is acknowledgment from my dad?
I only saw my dad once. It was when I was sixteen. Cal and I drove all the way to the Bay Area where my dad used to work as a professor. He’s retired now, but I had his address from the birthday card he sent me that year. It was full of cash, but I handed it directly to my mom the same way I always did. I didn’t want his money.
I wanted him.
But that was the one thing he couldn’t give me.
He had his own family. A son and daughter who are grown-ups now. They were raised by him. By my dad. They lived in the same house. They saw him every day. They got a lot more than a measly card once a year and cash in the mail. To his credit, he’s always taken care of me financially. He sends money to Mom anytime she asks. It was the agreement they made when she told him she was keeping the baby.
Keeping me.
Even then he told her that he wouldn’t leave his wife. He wouldn’t be my dad in the way that mattered. He wouldn’t be a part of my life. Mom agreed to his terms, and I guess I can’t fault her for that. She didn’t have any other choice. It’s not like she could have made him be with her. But sometimes I wonder about the fairness of it. About how I had no choice in this decision. A decision that affected my life so drastically.
The main reason I made the drive to the Bay Area was because I wanted to see what he looked like. Sure, I’d seen pictures, but that was years ago. Also, I wanted to see what his house looked like. So Cal and I skipped school one day and I drove us out to my dad’s. On the way he asked if I was going to go up to the door, if I was going to talk to him. I told him I wasn’t sure. But when it was merely a fantasy I did entertain the idea. I pictured myself marching up to his house and introducing myself. I imagined him hugging me, pulling me close, calling me his son.
However, when we got there all my courage waned. It was one thing to think about it, and quite another to actually do it. Instead, I parked across the street. Cal and I sat in the car staring up at the house where my dad lived. The house that under different circumstances could have been mine.
It was hours before he came out. He was old, hair white and patchy on his scalp. Using the help of the railing, he made his way down the steps of his porch. I knew he was older than my mom, but I had no idea how much older. I tried to imagine what he looked like when Mom fell for him. It was hard to picture my mom ever going for this old man. But he must have been more attractive back then.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed a nearby hose, turned it on, and watered the flowers in the yard. About five minutes passed before a woman with dark hair stepped outside. She was older too, and I surmised that she was his wife. Her lips moved as if she was speaking to him. He looked up at her and smiled. She grinned back before disappearing inside the house.
Then a car pulled up to the curb, a young adult man stepping out of the vehicle. When he approached the house, my dad set the hose down and greeted the man with a hug. By the looks of the exchange, I took a wild guess that it was his son. He helped my dad up the stairs, and together they went into the house.
My stomach ached, and I wished I’d never come. I wished I’d never had that glimpse of what could have been. Of the life that was stolen from me.
Today the card arrives in the mail like clockwork. I don’t bother opening it, but I hand it to Mom so she can deposit the money. I’m not sure what she does with it. I used to think she spent it on herself, but now that I’m older I’m fairly certain she’s stuck it all in a bank account somewhere for me. Not that I want it.
“I can’t believe my son is an adult,” Mom gushes, her eyes shining.
I roll my eyes at her emotional display.
“Just remember that you’ll always be my baby.” She reaches for me, wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug. I may be an adult, but I don’t fight my mom on this. Truth is, I’m grateful for the affection. Hell, I’m grateful one of my parents wants me at all.
There’s a knock on the door and Mom releases me. I give her a funny look when she hurries to answer it. The Fishers are coming over this afternoon, but we’re not expecting anyone this early. It feels like someone sits on my chest when I spot Mr. Easton standing on our front porch.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask.
“Relax,” Mom says. “He’s only dropping something off.”
“Happy birthday, Christian,” Mr. Easton says while handing Mom a box.
“Thanks,” I mumble, eyeing him skeptically.
Mom whispers a goodbye to him, and then closes the door, clutching the box to her chest. “He’s really trying, Chris. You could stand to be a little nicer to him.”
I shake my head.
“Anyway, I have something for you.” She holds the box out like a peace offering.
I lower my gaze to it. “I don’t want anything from him.”
“It’s not from him.” She bites her lip. “Well, not technically.”
“What does that mean?” I breathe out.
Mom moves around me, sitting on the couch in the living room. She sets the box on the coffee table and lifts the lid. “All of this stuff was my dad’s. He and Dan were close, so he gave Dan this box before he died.” Mom smiles, a wistful expression passing over her features. “Dan used to love to go through my dad’s baseball cards and stuff.”
It’s one of the first times I’ve seen my mom smile when mentioning this part of her past. Losing her dad at such a young age was hard for her, and talking about Dan used to be difficult for her too. Seeing a contented smile on her face cuts to my heart. Some of the hardness on my heart chips away. Moving forward, I sit next to her and peer into the box.
“Man, he had a lot of baseball cards, huh?”
She nods. “He loved sports. Baseball especially.” She looks at me. “You remind me of him. Especially as you get older.”
It’s the first time she’s compared me to any man other than my biological father. I swallow down the emotion that rises in my throat.
“He would’ve loved you.”
“You never talk about him,” I say.
“It was a tough time in my life, Chris. That whole period of time when my dad was sick and dying was too hard to think about, so I buried it. But along with that, I buried memories of the good times too.” She smiles, but her lips quiver. “Lately Dan has been reminding me of those good times, and I’ve found my heart opening up again. I’ve been remembering things about my dad that I hadn’t really let myself remember before.” She touches my arm. “And it feels good. Healing, even.”
I dip my hand inside the box and snatch out a faded photograph. It’s a black and white photo of a teenage boy wearing a baseball uniform. “Is this your dad?”
She nods. “Yep. That’s your grandpa.”
I stare at the grainy photo, into the eyes that resemble mine, and for the first time I feel like I truly belong somewhere. Like I have a history, a connection to something, to someone other than my mom. And more importantly, to a man.
A man who I’m sure wouldn’t have abandoned me.
One who would’ve been proud of me.
Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe he even would’ve loved me.
EMMY
Chocolate cake is Christian’s favorite.
Honestly, he’ll eat anything with chocolate. One Halloween he ate through all his chocolate candy before we even finished trick-or-treating, and he got so sick he missed school the next day. That’s why Mom and I bake him a chocolate cake every year for his birthday.
That’s also why I get so upset today when I trip and fall, dropping his chocolate cake into the grass outside of his house. Dark brown frosting paints the yard, coating the edges of the blades of grass. I’m sprawled out on the ground, my new pale pink dress hiking up my thighs. And I’m sure my body is now covered in dirt and cake frosting. Hoisting myself up to a seated position, I glance down. Yep, I’m a mess. But at least I’m not hurt too badly. Just a scrape on my knee and a few on my forearms.
Groaning, I wipe frosting and cake crumbs from my arms and off the front of my dress.
Cal chuckles from over my shoulder. “Only Emmy,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Glad you can find enjoyment in this.”
“Be nice to your sister,” Dad says, but I can hear the amusement in his tone. “You all right, Em?”
I nod, frantically attempting to clean myself up. A car drives by, and I hide my face, hoping it’s not someone I know. The chances of that are slim though. This is Prairie Creek, after all.
“Oh, Emmy.” Mom sounds as flustered as I feel. Probably because she spent the past hour baking the cake with me. And now all our hard work is splattered across Olivia’s front lawn. “I’ll go get a towel or something.”
As Mom races toward the front door, Dad and Cal at her heels, I reach up and cringe, realizing that the cake is in my hair too. Great. I had spent a considerable amount of time trying to look nice for Christian’s birthday party. Cal’s right. This kind of thing only happens to me.
“Emmy?” My head snaps up at Christian’s voice. He’s heading toward me, holding a towel.
Great. Why did Mom send out Christian? As if this isn’t humiliating enough.
“You okay?” He lets out a light laugh as he hurries down the stairs.
“Stop laughing at me.” I pout, staring dejectedly at the ruined cake.
“I’m sorry.” He kneels in front of me. “It’s just that you look so cute.”
My lips tremble a little as I assess the situation.
“Don’t cry.” Christian looks mortified.
“But I ruined your cake. Your chocolate cake that I made special for your eighteenth birthday.”
“It’s okay. I don’t need cake,” he says.
“But you love chocolate cake.”
He studies me, his eyes growing serious. “You’re right. I do.” His face nears mine. “And I like it even better…” his voice trails off. Moving closer to me, I feel warm breath on my cheek. Then his tongue slips out, sweeping over my skin. I shudder. “on you,” he finishes.
“Did I have it on my face?” I ask in horror.
“You did.” He smiles, licking his lips. “You don’t anymore.” His gaze lowers, his eyebrows jumping up. “You do have some here though.” Dipping his head, his mouth softly nips at my neck, his tongue sliding over the sensitive flesh. A chill runs down my spine as his mouth trails down my neck. A car drives by, but I hardly register it. My whole body heats up like it’s on fire. It takes all of my effort to hold myself upright. My arms tremble, my stomach quivers with desire. He smiles when he draws back, and I take a steadying breath. Holding the towel in his hand, he reaches out and wipes cake from my arms. Then he pries my fingers from where they are gripping at the earth. One by one he swipes the towel over my fingers. “Let me get this too.” Lifting his hands, he picks some crumbs out of my hair. With every motion, his flesh brushes against mine. I know it shouldn’t be sensual, but honestly it’s the most intimate experience of my entire life. Holding my breath, I scarcely move. He’s so close our faces are almost touching, and I feel each puff of air, each breath as it fans over my skin. Before finishing, he brushes his lips over mine.
My heart beats manically in my chest. “Was there cake on my lips?” I asked, wondering how it got there.
“No. That was just because I wanted to.” He smiles. “But I gotta be honest. That’s the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had.” He winks. “You better watch out, because next year I might trip you.”
A giggle bursts from my throat. “You better not.”
After standing, he extends his hand. I glance at the cake on the ground.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says as if reading my mind. “The neighborhood dogs will get to it.”
Taking his hand, I allow him to help me up. “I’m sorry.”
Once I’m standing, he hooks an arm around my waist and tugs me forward. Our chests bump, and then he wraps both arms around my middle. “I don’t need the cake. I’ve got everything I want right here.”
****
Christian may have been okay with not having cake, but no one else was. And since I ruined the first one, my mom sent me to the store to get a replacement. The cake from the store can never compare to the one I made, but I figure it will have to do.
When I return back to the house, I take deliberate steps up the walkway. For added insurance, I grip the railing as I make my way up the front porch steps. Clutching tightly to the edges of the cake box, I press open the front door and step inside. Olivia’s house smells like pizza, Christian’s favorite food. I figure by the time I reach the kitchen Christian will be hunched over the counter wolfing down a piece, cheese dribbling from his chin.
Growing up, Friday nights at our house were movie and pizza nights. And Christian was present for most of them. He and Cal can put away more pizza than any two people I’ve ever met. It makes me sick simply watching them.
Wearing a triumphant smile, I round the corner. “I made it! And the cake is still intact.”
I’m expecting a collective round of thank yous, but no one says a thing. My gaze sweeps the room, and my stomach tumbles to the floor. Olivia’s bottom lip quivers. Mom puts a hand on her shoulder. Dad scratches the back of his neck nervously, and Cal clears his throat. I lower the cake onto the counter.
“Where’s Christian?” When no one responds dread sinks into my gut. “What’s going on?”
Cal snatches something off the counter and takes a step forward. He holds it out to me. I narrow my eyes, staring at the blue birthday card, a candle drawn on the front. “What’s that?”
“It’s the birthday card from his dad,” Cal responds.
Olivia sniffs, running a hand under her nose. I don’t get it. Christian’s dad sends him a card every year, and I know it’s hard for him, but he deals with it.
“Just look.” Cal thrusts the card into my hand.
I close my fingers around it. My hand shakes violently. When my gaze connects to the words on the card, disbelief fills me. I feel dizzy, lightheaded. Reaching out with my free hand, I grip the edge of the counter. This can’t be happening.
“Where did he go?” I ask, my voice wobbly.
Cal shakes his head, worry etching his features. “Don’t know.”
“You just let him leave?” My gaze darts around the room. “He must be devastated.”
“Honey,” Dad speaks gently to me. “He took off. We couldn’t stop him.”
“He probably just needs some space. Some time to cool off,” Cal says.
But I can’t do that. I can’t leave him alone right now. Not when he needs me the most. Flinging the card on the counter, I pivot on my heels.
“Where are you going?” Mom calls.
“To find Christian.”
When I reach the door, Cal catches up to me. “Do you think this is a good idea?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t try to stop him, Cal. I thought he was your best friend.”
“He is.” Cal’s eyes flash. “That’s why I didn’t stop him.”
“He needs us.”
“I know Chris. If you push him when he’s hurting, he’s gonna push back.” He clamps a hand down on my shoulder. “Are you prepared for that?”
I’m not sure if I am, but there’s no way I can sit idly by when I know that Christian is hurting. He’s protected me so much. He’s held me when I was sad. He’s wiped my tears and helped me when I needed it. Now it’s my turn to do the same for him.
CHRISTIAN
Christian,
I regret to your inform you that your father passed away last month. In his will, he asked that I send you one final card wishing you a happy birthday. Also, he wanted me to inform you that he set up a bank account in your name and deposited a substantial amount of money in it. It should be enough to put you through college. Our attorney’s card is enclosed. Give him a call, and he will give you all the details.
Happy birthday.
Sincerely,
Bridgett Thomas
Bridgett Thomas. My dad’s wife. The woman he chose over my mom. The woman he chose over me. Thinking of her last name, I’m grateful Mom decided to give me hers. There were times when I wished I had my dad’s. Mainly when we first moved to Prairie Creek, since everyone knew who’s child I was the minute they heard my last name. But today I’m glad I have my mom’s. It’s fitting since she raised me. Not him. He’s a stranger.
And now he’s dead.
Left me with nothing more than a birthday card and some money. Not that I should be surprised. It was all he gave me when he was alive too. Apparently it’s all I’m ever going to get. Worthless money and worthless cards. A few sentences scrawled on paper. And the last one isn’t even from him. He could take the time to write out a will, but he never penned a letter for me. Not a final goodbye or some words of fatherly knowledge or advice. Nothing.
It seems unfathomable that I’ll never have anything from my father – my own flesh and blood – other than money and store bought birthday cards. Wow, what a legacy.
Livid, I kick at the grass with the toe of my shoe. Didn’t he get it? Didn’t he know? I never wanted his money. It never meant anything to me.
And it means even less now.
How dare he leave this earth without ever speaking to me. Without ever giving me the chance to tell him how I felt. To tell him what a worthless piece of shit he was. To tell him about everything he missed. To throw my successes in his face. To prove to him that I never needed him in the first place.
Groaning, I move over to the bleachers and kick one of them as hard as I can. Pain shoots through my toe, and I hiss. Damn it. I better not have broken it. The last thing I need is to hurt myself over that loser. He doesn’t deserve it. In fact, he doesn’t deserve any of it.
I should be at home celebrating my birthday with my family and friends. Instead, I’m at the baseball field throwing a fit like a baby. Exhausted and beat down, I climb up the bleachers. At the top, I sit. The bleacher moans beneath my weight. From up here I can see the whole field – the green grass, the shimmering sand, the dugout, batter’s box, home plate. This place knows me better than my own father. It’s seen me through season after season. Through crushes, breakups, conflicts, makeups, losses, and wins. It’s seen me at my best and at my worst.
