16 Things I Thought were True Part 25

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e A low hum travels up the stairs from the bas.e.m.e.nt. Voices meld together and m.u.f.fle, and it's impossible to hear actual words. And then footsteps. Two sets. I breathe deep. Deny. Deny. The power of denial is my superpower.

I wipe my hands on my jeans. The door opens. A tall blond man steps out, around the corner to the hallway. The cat purrs and prances toward him. My eyes don't leave him. His nose has a b.u.mp just like mine. He even has a dimple on his cheek where my cheek puckers in. Our eyes are the same shade of brown.

He's wearing jeans and a golf shirt, trim and fit for an older man. I can't take my eyes off him. He's so familiar looking. He's a stranger. There's no doubt I've found my dad. I swallow and fight an urge to cry.

"Yes?" He walks a few feet in front of me and stops. Stares at me.

My face burns. "I'm Morgan." I cower, just a little, but shake it off and stare at him.

I wait for it. His anger. Maybe some excuses. A reaction to having me show up on his doorstep without warning. Eighteen years later.

His daughter.

"Morgan?" He glances back, and I realize his wife followed him around the corner. She stoops over and scoops up the cat. His gaze returns to me. "Have we met?" he asks.

There's an audible breath of relief from her mouth, and it softens the crow's feet in the corner of her eyes. She stands taller and touches his back for a moment and then goes back to stroking the cat.

He hasn't told her. About me. She doesn't know. To me, keeping quiet is the same as lying. I frown. Apparently she doesn't know 165.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r him as well as she thinks she does. Her boyfriend? Her husband? I squeeze my fists together.

"We haven't officially met. But you know that already." I speak methodically, trying to mask the anxiety in my gut. My mind is black. I want to punch him in the gut. He doesn't even care enough to acknowledge me? Not exactly what I was hoping for.

"You do look familiar." His eyebrows crease and push together, and then he crosses his arms.

Familiar? I clench my teeth to keep my damaged pride pouring out. "What exactly can I do for you, young lady?" His tone is less amicable now.

The hairs on my arm stand up. "Well, you haven't done anything so far." How can he look at me like that? He has to know I'm the daughter he abandoned. Even I can see myself in his face. He has to see himself in mine.

"What it is you want?" He uncrosses his arms and steps in front of the woman and cat, as if he's protecting them from me. Me?

Unbelievable.

"It's me," I say. "Morgan." My voice cracks on my name.

Nothing.

"Morgan McLean." My fingernails press into my skin as I wait.

He shakes his head and glances at the woman beside him, and their eyes speak without words. He's suggesting I'm a lunatic.

"Mary McLean's daughter," I spell out.

"Mary? Mary McLean?"

Ah- ha, Einstein. Catching on now?

I brace myself for his outburst.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e "From Seattle?" He frowns and reaches into his pants pocket and takes out a tube of ChapStick. I stare at him, kind of shocked, almost laughing, while he smears it on his lips. Nature versus nur- ture debate teams would have a blast with this.

"The one and only." The clock in the dining room ticks loudly.

"I haven't talked to Mary in years." He tilts his head, studying my face. "How is she?"

"She just had heart surgery." I unclench my fists and lift my chin so he won't see how much it's quivering.

"I knew your mom a long time ago. I haven't seen her in years."

He glances at the little woman with him, as if he wishes she'd rescue him. "She's okay?"

I stare at his face- the face that was never there for me. The face that never wanted a child, never wanted me- still isn't embracing me now. "She's fine. She actually thought she was going to die. And that's when she told me how to find you. She's protected you all these years."

"Protected me?" He glances at the woman. The cat stares at me, not blinking.

I put my hands on my hips, hating the cat, wanting to hiss at it.

"Your mother broke up with me over eighteen years ago. I haven't seen or talked to her since. I'm sorry she's been sick, but...?" He raises both eyebrows and glances at his watch, but his face is getting visibly paler by the second.

My stomach hurts and my hands shake but it's impossible to tell if it's from anger or fear. I could easily throw up. "She's not," I tell him, "going to die."

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J a n e t G u r t l e r "Um. That's good?" He rubs his lips together and looks at the woman, his eyebrows raised.

I stare at him. This isn't what I'd braced myself for. I expected excuses. I hoped for regret- but not disinterest or impatience. It's actually worse.

"I'm eighteen," I say.

He stares at me long and hard, and then his eyes wrinkle more in the corners and his back straightens.

"When were you born?" he demands.

"December."

He presses his lips together, frowns, and rubs at the back of his neck. The woman puts her hand on his arm.

"My mom raised me. Alone. Well, me and my older twin brothers."

"Jake and Josh," Bob says.

"Yes," I reply, though I want to shout Obviously!

There's a sudden awful taste in my mouth and a whoosh in my ears as my body goes ice cold, as if the heat has been sucked out with a vacuum. "You were aware that she was pregnant?"

He blinks, clears his throat. "Pregnant?"

Oh my G.o.d. What has my mom done? An urge to laugh tickles at my stomach and then my breath is sucked out again. "You didn't know?" I manage, and it's both a statement and a question. Heat rushes through my body and I sway with dizziness.

"What are you saying?" His words sound as though they've been dipped in horror and fear.

"She was pregnant." The cat mews. The clock ticks. I can barely breathe. "With me."

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e "Camille," he says, not taking his eyes off of me. "Camille?"

I'd almost forgotten the slight woman. I'm afraid I'm going to pa.s.s out. Drop and fold to the ground. He's got a hand on his heart. Camille quickly puts down the cat. "Bob, are you okay?"

"She says she's my daughter." He doesn't take his eyes off me.

"Bob?" She looks back and forth between us.

"Mary McLean. You remember? The American who sent me off with no explanation. About a year before we met." He looks away from me to Camille and his eyes are wide.

"You didn't know?" I whisper again, but I don't even know if they hear me. The realization punches me in the gut. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. This is worse.

"Why're you here? Why now?" Camille says. Her voice isn't angry, but it's firm. Bob blinks and blinks with his mouth hanging slightly open.

I focus on Camille. Someone rational. A stranger. I want her to help me. Intervene. Tell me what's going on. "I never knew who my dad was. I never even knew his name. My mom never told me.

Then she had heart pains. She thought she was dying. So she told me where to find the info. So she wouldn't go to the grave feeling guilty."

"Oh dear," Camille says softly. A phone rings but no one even glances toward the noise.

Oh dear is right.

"Your mom knew I was here?" Bob asks, blocking the real issue.

My mom had his baby eighteen years ago. Me. And she didn't even bother to tell him.

"Apparently she's good at keeping things to herself." I'm able to 169.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r breathe by concentrating on it. In. Out. In. Out. I remember get- ting punched in the stomach in sixth grade. By Kim Stevenson. I can't even remember why, but I remember how it felt- exactly like this. "You didn't know?" It comes out in a whisper.

"You think you're my daughter?" His voice is higher pitched and creaks at the end. The phone rings again. My phone beeps, letting me know I've received another text.

My nose tickles as if I need to sneeze. The sensation that my chest is being crushed gets stronger. "I thought you knew. I thought you left us."

I realize that I'm an idiot for believing my mother in the first place. Truth has never been her thing. And it hits me with force.

He didn't even know about me. I've been beating myself up for being unlovable, unwanted, and he didn't even know I existed.

How? How could she do this?

And then I begin to lose the grip I've been holding on to since I found out his name. I came here to see the man who gave me up without a fight. But he didn't fight because he didn't even know.

I think of her frantic texting. That's why she's been trying to get ahold of me. This truth is worse. He didn't reject me. He didn't have the chance.

My eyes spill tears and my nose leaks. How could she do this? For so many years.

Camille slides over and puts an arm around me. But even now, even in this, I can't shake the feeling that somehow I'm the one who caused this mess.

"s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t," Bob says and then spins on his heels and stomps 170.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e out of the hallway. The sounds coming out of my body get louder. I shrug Camille off and hug my arms around myself, wishing I could disappear. She pats my arm then gently leads me into the den.

It's carpeted and cream colored and thick under my shoes. I try to protest that they might be dirty, but there's no way for me to talk like a rational person. Camille looks like the sort of person who would care about dirty carpets, but she doesn't say a thing or even seem to notice.

She guides me to a chair, takes my purse, sits me down, and then puts my purse on my lap. I take out my phone. A text from my mom. "Call me. Please."

She's fine. It's not her health. It's this. She's been trying to stop this. Too late. I delete her message.

"Bob really had no idea," Camille says softly. "It's a shock. Give him a few minutes, okay?" She slips out of the room.

My hysteria dies down. My cheeks burn with humiliation. I'd been judging him for being a man who would abandon his own daughter. But he didn't even know.

When Camille returns a few minutes later, she's holding a gla.s.s of water and a box of Kleenex, and she hands both to me. "You okay?"

She sits on the chair beside mine and smiles ever so slightly. Her legs are slim, tinier than mine even.

I move my head up and down and blow my nose into a Kleenex.

"So where do you live?" she asks.

"Tadita. Outside Seattle. Where my mom met...Bob."

My voice is scratchy and high- pitched. I think about standing and walking out, walking through the front door and continuing 171.

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