Daddy and Merrick have the same bizzaro habit going, as no one looks at anyone else. They each, simultaneously, use one fine-boned middle finger to rub the same area of their respective faces—the space just below the left corner of their mouths, chin held in hand.
It’s weird. They could be opposite sides of the same coin in Mamma’s wallet. Daddy, dark and clean shaven. Merrick, light with a beard and a bit of its shadow.
Mamma gestures toward the couches, but not until both Daddy and Merrick clear their throats at the same time.
Once we’re seated, Mamma’s the first to really speak. “This situation is … messy, I know. But, Merrick, you can’t just come here—”
He looks at me. Dammit.
“I, um. I asked him to come.” I hurry on while I still have the floor. “I looked for him. I found him. I asked him to come here.”
“How?”
“Google.”
“Tasia—”
“It’s just that there’s all this information coming at me and he’s the biggest missing piece, and so I figured, if I just found him—”
“Without speaking to us first?” Daddy adds.
“—then a lot of what I’m worried about could be eighty-sixed. Like this box thing? Mamma, he isn’t the one who sent it. He’s just as much in the dark as we are. As I am,” I correct. Because Mamma and Daddy—they aren’t in the dark about who I am. They know very well. Have always known and decided not to let me in on the secret.
“So, I think having him here is worth it. Even if you guys don’t. Even if—and I’m sorry—it makes either of you uncomfortable to have him, to have the truth, in your face again.”
Mamma looks at me, but only for a moment. Then she looks at Merrick. “You didn’t send the box?”
“No,” he says quickly. “You didn’t tell me I had a … a daught—a kid.”
Mamma almost shrugs. Almost. It’s probably meant to be a shrug. She wants to appear more unbothered than she really is.
“Yeah, well. You can barely get the word ‘daughter’ out of your mouth, Merr. How do you suppose the rest of fatherhood would have gone for you?”
“That’s not fair.”
He’s right. It’s not.
“No,” Mamma says. “You’re right. It’s not. But there’s no plan for any of this. No step-by-step guide that tells us how to handle this. I haven’t had time to think about you as part of her life, and so—”
“What a coincidence!” Merrick shouts, hands thrown aggressive octopus style into the air. Like he’s joking and jovial, conversing with an old friend. Guess technically, he is. “Neither have I,” he continues, and then deadpans, “But whose fault is that?”
With palms pressed together, Mamma brings her vertical hands to her lips, tapping them against her lips as she builds her case. “Fair. That’s totally fair. I still don’t like the way this all unfolded.”
Merrick reclines in his stiff-ass antique chair and crosses his legs, one knee over the other. “Do you guys really not know who sent that box? Seemed like a lot of stuff in there.”
“Mm. Stuff you’d have to be basically her parent to get. So if you didn’t send the box, and it certainly doesn’t belong to Solomon or I, then who did?”
“He said he has a sister,” I say.
“He is sitting right here.”
I glance at Merrick. “Okay, so, my … aunt, I guess?”
“I mean, yeah. My sister would be your aunt.”
Right, yes, I understand how family lines work. He’s definitely looking at me like I don’t. “So, like. What if she sent it? What if she knows about me and—”
“Let me stop you right there, Carmen San Diego. That’s not my sister’s dig, okay. Emily is … unconcerned and unbothered and just generally ungoverned by anything that isn’t hair bleach or red wine.”
“Okay. But how do you know this isn’t some big thing she’s hiding?”
“Well,” he says, the picture of logic and calm. Asshole. “I guess I don’t. But it’s probably not her.”
“We can’t rule it out on a probability. I need this to be definitive.”
“Tasia, angel,” Mamma says, but again, I’m on a roll, Miley Cyrus–style. I can’t be freakin’ tamed.
“I need to know the truth. Facts and not probablys or maybes. I need … to do this for me.”
“Angel,” Mamma says, shaking her head at me.
“I need this. That box means something. It means truth. It was sent to me. Someone meant for me to find this. Someone … cared enough to let me know.”
I just can’t help thinking maybe there’s more to it. Whoever sent the box must know more than my parents.
When Tristan was maybe, I don’t know, five-ish, he used to cry to Mamma about needing help with any number of things. Tying his shoe, or finding the TV remote, or putting his new one-million-piece LEGO set together—because that’s Tristan. And Mamma, being Mamma, would oblige him. Hold his hand and basically give him what he needed.
And then Trist would tell her that wasn’t right and attempt to solve his problems his own way. In the end, he always wound up following Mamma’s instructions. But the point is, we were never sure we didn’t know more than our parents. Tristan and I, we’ve never been the type to take the first answer. The easy route.
It’s not who we were as kids and it’s not who we’ve grown up to be.
So this thought—the thought that strikes me like a linebacker on a mission—comes on so suddenly, it must be followed.
Merrick is the first step to finding out who sent this small piece of me.
Merrick, who is sitting in our living room looking as shaken and off-balance as it’s possible for any middle-aged white dude to look, I presume.
Merrick, who is still my best hope for getting any immediate answers.
Mamma will give me a solution that won’t feel like a solution. And while it may end up being one … I can’t trust her anymore. Who can I trust but myself right now?
Mamma’s talking over Merrick, who’s talking over Daddy, and they’re all saying basically the same thing.
“Angel, you know we care about you. Daddy and I, we love you and—”
“We can take our time with this. There doesn’t have to be any rush all because he’s suddenly shown up here. If we take this through legal means—”
“I care. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care. I mean, we could maybe not involve my sister, if that’s at all possible—”
Hope to possibility. A gamble. I have to figure this thing out. Because to keep going on like this … trash, honestly. I’m not for it. I wouldn’t go entirely out of my mind because of it, but there wouldn’t be any way for me to live in my skin anymore if I didn’t try to figure this thing out. Not comfortably.
A roll of the dice. “I think I want to move in with Merrick,” I mumble.
But they don’t hear me. Of course they don’t hear me. None of them are even looking at me. Which is hilarious if you consider that they’re all talking about me.
A little louder. “I want to move in with Merrick!”
Finally, I have their attention. Which, honestly, is a lot. Having the full weight of a set of Black parents’ attention on you is … yeah, yikes. But then to toss in the added weight of Merrick’s disbelief—well. It’s an interesting trifecta. He’s like a real-life version of the white-guy-blinking GIF.
Mamma does the Black Woman Head Swivel, right in my direction. You know the one—starts in the neck, travels on a wave, lands with a crash as smooth and dangerous as any ocean could manage. “Excuse me?”
In for a freakin’ penny. “I’m moving in with Merrick.”
Merrick clears his throat. “Kid, I don’t think your parents—”
“Are you not my parent?”
“Biologically, maybe. But there’s a very fine and nuanced difference between … that and being a parent.”
That’s the thing, I think. That’s the thing that gets Mamma to green light this ridiculous plan I’ve
cooked up in her kitchen. He knows and understands what this means—not for me, but for Mamma and Daddy.
“Angel, we don’t know what his living situation is like. We don’t know where he lives.”
Except I do know what his living situation is like and I do know where he lives, because I’m really handy with the Internet, and curiosity and cat killing, etcetera.
I turn to Merrick. “Please?”
One callused, tattooed hand comes up to rub his neck and then runs through the back of his hair. “Kid … I don’t know.”
“It’s not like you live in a different state or like you’re getting married anytime soon—”
“How would you know—”
“You gotta adjust your privacy settings on Facebook.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m honestly super low maintenance and I really need this, okay? I need to know what I’m missing.” I can tell my argument isn’t swaying him, so I push on, voice lower now. It’s just he and I in this. “Put yourself in my shoes. I’ve been lied to for my entire life. You’ve been lied to for my entire life. And there’s someone out there who’s connected to us both and has known the truth. Don’t you want to know who that person is? Don’t you need to know who that person is? I gotta know.” I pause. Take a breath. I keep forgetting that my breathing shouldn’t be these short, shallow bumps of air escaping.
“I need to know for me,” I say.
He’s nodding with me now. Probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Almost got him.
“I need this. I’m asking you for this. Please.”
He exhales through his mouth. Seems I’m not the only one having to control their breathing. “All right, kid. Let’s do it.”
“Yes!”
“But!” he says. “But, you gotta give me a couple days to put some sh—stuff in order.”
Ugh, no. What. “But if—”
“Three days. That’s all I’m asking. Not a lot.”
“Merrick,” Mamma says, finally reminding me she’s still here. But Merrick holds up a hand. Not a “be silent, woman” hand but an “I’ve got this” hand. The former would’ve gotten him snatched.
“Three days,” he says again.
I nod, the fight drains out of me. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
The sun is setting now, Merrick having left almost immediately after he agreed to shake his life up for me. Mamma and Daddy sat in the den for hours afterward. But still, they seemed to be as MIA mentally as Merrick is now physically.
I hate the way the light hits my bedroom windows during the warmest part of the day. There is no way to keep it out. Not blinds or curtains or freakin’ plywood or anything. Right now, it’s just one more thing for me to be mad at. The intensity of an LA sun—unlike any other.
I pull a duffel from my closet. It’s old as dirt and, though it’s empty, it contains the most memories. That’s part of the reason I grabbed it.
Summer of ninth grade, Slim and I bought these matching canvas duffels and decorated them with spray paint, glitter glue, and markers. They are entirely ugly. Like, aggressively hideous. And it’s not like I don’t have other luggage. I do. But this is the one I need now, and I throw an assortment of clothes into it. My Thrasher tee, a pair of jeans I bought two sizes too big from the men’s department of Macy’s, some workout clothes because I live in them, a green dress that I can’t fathom wearing but had to own anyway. Somehow it too makes it in there.
I’m packed much more quickly than I figured I would be.
It’s not as if my life can be reduced down to one bag. My room actually looks pretty much the same.
My stomach growls and I wonder again where the day went and what percentage of it I’ve spent angry.
Mamma’s voice is nothing more than an echo from downstairs as she speaks to Merrick on the phone, his name changing from two syllables to four as it leaves her lips and hits the walls. My head feels completely submerged under water.
I remind myself again—I asked for this. I need this. The alternative is staying here. And I can’t do that. Not anymore.
Now, Daddy is nowhere to be found as Merrick and Mamma talk, and I wonder if that was his choice, if Daddy opted to be left out of this decision to let me leave.
Chapter Thirteen
GAME 3—WESTVIEW VS. MISSION BAY BUCCANEERS
The night before I’m set to leave comes sooner than I expect. Wednesday’s game against the Bucks goes differently than I expect. I watch from behind the home team’s bleachers, doing my best to remain unseen. The sun rummages through my skin and anxiety sits on the very top of my scalp. I should be out there.
We win. They win. Without me.
During it all, avoiding Slim like the plague is easier said than done; texts go unanswered, calls and her casual drive-bys are ignored. I remind myself that she loves me unconditionally. That our friendship has persevered through worse. (Like that time we ended up wearing the exact same dress to the eighth grade dance.)
The same happens with my team. I essentially go off the grid. There was already the understanding that I’d be spending the week recovering at home, but for the span of those two days, I really wash my hands of everyone.
It’s easier than talking about answers I don’t have, about how this box has basically claimed me and split me open.
Mamma and Daddy skip speaking to each other until they can’t anymore. Until the night before.
Reaching for my phone on its charger, I press the side lock and see the time: 9:37 p.m.
Mamma and Daddy are arguing. He hasn’t said a single word to me in the two days since the Big Talk.
With half of my heart beating in my throat while the other runs wild in my chest, I slip out of bed and press my head against the floor so I can hear their voices from under the doorjamb.
“Are you out of your mind? She’s not leaving this house.” Daddy has never been very good at arguing quietly. He does everything else at the lowest possible volume—talk, sing, whistle, walk. But it’s like his passion is too big for his body. I always thought I got that from him.
“What choice do I have, Solomon? She wants to go!”
“She doesn’t just get to have everything she wants. She doesn’t even know what she wants. And giving in—that’s not what parenting is.”
“Who’s giving in?”
“You are! Without discussing it with me at all.”
“Don’t you tell me how to raise my daughter, I know damn well—”
Daddy laughs. “Oh. She’s your daughter now?”
“I—Solomon. N-no, I just …”
I exhale and imagine she’s done the same. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just … What choice do I have?”
“Tell her she can’t go.”
“And make her hate me even more? I can’t do that.”
“This isn’t about whether or not she hates us. This is about pushing through this mess with as minimal damage as possible.”
“I know that!”
I hate that she doesn’t correct him. Nowhere in any of that is my best interest considered.
“So do your job, Sloane! Tell her she can’t go! Why in the world do you think you can trust this guy to protect and raise our daughter?”
“I can’t have her hate me for this one, Solomon. What about that don’t you get? I know this isn’t the best option or the best decision, and I don’t trust Merrick d’Aquin even an iota, but this is me putting a Band-Aid on it. I am not just letting my kid pack a bag and leave.”
“Yes, you are,” I say. But no one is listening to me. I’m not even here.
Mamma says quietly, so quiet I almost don’t hear it, “I’m at the end of my rope here. I don’t know what to do.” A pause. Then: “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
I shouldn’t have listened in. I knew I shouldn’t have and I did. I grab a towel from the hamper in my closet and stuff it under the door, pull all my blankets from my bed, drag them as far from my door as possible. I end up underneath my compu
ter desk, a blanket beneath me, a sheet on top, no pillow. The noise is muted. It’s tiny blips of inconsequential sound, like the voice of the Peanuts teacher.
I swipe up and hit play on my phone. Daniel Caesar’s voice breathes, “Let me know, do I still got time to grow?”
I fall asleep wondering the same.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday: Merrick doesn’t arrive until the streetlights come on.
He seems oblivious to the tension practically stacked on Mamma’s shoulders, cracking jokes and talking about the architecture of Beverly Hills suburbs as though anyone has the capacity to give a shit currently. Daddy retreated to his study earlier this afternoon and hasn’t returned. Normally, he’s still at work this time on a Thursday, so there’s absolutely nothing abnormal about him not being here, save for the fact I’m leaving and he’s only steps away.
“Ready, Tasia?” Merrick says.
I look to Mamma. “No Tristan?”
“I called him. He’s in the library. You know how he gets—phone’s off, unreachable. But you’ll see him, angel.”
“Yeah,” I say, hefting my bag up on my shoulder. Merrick takes it from me before I get it situated and hands me his keys. “So I guess I’m ready.”
“Wanna get the car running and pull it around front? Wait—do you drive stick?” He turns to Mamma. “Can she drive stick?”
Mamma says, “She drives stick” just as I echo, “I can drive a fricking stick shift.”
Merrick nods. He’s uncomfortable. He’s smiling too big and it only makes him look like a lost dog that’s thrilled to be out of its gate.
“Let me talk to your mom for a sec?” he says. “Meet you in the car.”
Mamma smiles at me, expectant, when I glance at her.
I turn away and head outside but not before I hear Merrick say to her, “Am I out of my depth here? Anything I should know about teen girls?”
Home and Away Page 7
