16 Things I Thought Were True (12 page)

“Are you worried because you're a bad driver?” Amy asks.

“I'm not a bad driver!” My temperature flashes up and then smolders down a second later, and I laugh. As usual, Amy has a knack for taking my mind out of the dark place.

“What? I'm not one of those people who would get all freaky about a scratch or something. It's just a car. A pretty little bumble bee car. But still, just a car. The GPS is in the glove box. Go.” Amy bends down to pick up her keys and holds them up.

I shake my head. “No. I'll take a cab.”

Amy sniffles and then wipes underneath her eyes. “But what if he's a total jerk?” she says and sniffles, walking over and trying to give me her keys.

“We can at least drive you. I don't think you should do it alone,” Adam says softly. “You don't have to.”

“What if he throws you out?” Amy wipes under her eyes some more.

“Why are you crying?” My heart melts but I put the keys back in her hands.

“I don't want you to get hurt.” She sniffles loudly. “We should come.” She sits down on her bed and drops her head in her hands.

I slide onto the bed beside her. “It's okay, Amy. I'm going to be okay. I planned to take a cab. I've prepared myself for the worst.” Deep down, I know it's not something I can prepare for, but she doesn't need to know that.

She leans over and puts her head on my shoulder. “But your dad abandoned you when you were a baby. Face it, he's not a really cool guy.”

I gently push her head away but slide an arm over her shoulder.

“We should come,” Adam says. He walks over and sits on the other side of me. I'm sandwiched in the middle of them again.

“I have to do it alone,” I repeat. I swallow a few times. “I'm scared,” I tell them. “I am. But it helps, knowing you guys are here.” I stop, tapping my finger up and down on my leg. Not so long ago, they were strangers. Now they know me better than anyone—even Lexi.

“No matter what…no matter what he says…” Adam shakes his head and jumps to his feet, smacking his head on the side of the upper bunk with a loud thunk. “Ow.” He rubs his head and scowls. “I will
kick
his ass if he hurts you.” And then he glances down with a half smile. “Well, I'll risk getting my ass kicked again anyhow.”

“I have my black belt in karate,” Amy says. She gets to her feet and does some fierce-looking roundhouse kick thing. Then she makes a loud sound and jumps, kicking her leg surprisingly high.

Adam and I stare at her, our mouths open. “You have your black belt? For real?” I ask.

She shrugs and sits back down. “It's not all about the black belt. It's about the training. I trained hard. I focused. What?” she asks. “I trained with my dad for five years.” She shrugs. “He doesn't have his black belt yet.”

“Seriously?” Adam shakes his head and pushes away from where he's leaning and paces at the end of the bed. “Ninja Amy. That is seriously awesome.” He frowns then, stops pacing, and turns to me. “You sure you don't want us to come along? For backup? Amy might come in handy.”

I shake my head and swallow. And swallow again and swallow again. “I can handle it.” I still have hope though, that it's going to go better than I fear—than they fear. Scooting off the bed, I take out my phone and the small purse I brought along so I don't have to haul around my backpack and all my stuff. It holds my wallet, my phone, and my ChapStick. Adam glances at Amy, and they both shrug as they grab their bags. I grab my backpack to lock it up and walk slowly behind them. After we put away the bags, I flip to my Twitter page and click on recent tweets.

“How many new followers?” Amy asks. I glance up; she's peering over my shoulder.

I look at her. “Only a few.”

“We'll work on it,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say to both of them. “Here goes nothing.”

The cab smells faintly like cologne. I glance at the cabby with his shaved head and black leather jacket. I wonder if Adam wears cologne, and then shake him out of my thoughts and tell the cabby the address of Bob White.

“How long will it take to drive to the Rockland district?” I ask.

“About ten minutes,” he supplies in his growly voice, low but not unfriendly.

Exactly what Google Maps predicted. My stomach rolls around.

“You visiting relatives?” He's polite in a nice-uncle way.

“Sort of,” I tell him.

“Fair enough,” he says and that's it. He doesn't say anything else. He must sense my desire not to have a long conversation. Cabdrivers must be like doctors or bartenders. They read people's cues. Some want to talk. Some don't.

I lean back against the seat and stare out the window. There's an epic battle inside me, but when I catch my reflection in the window, my face looks calm and void of emotion. Years of practice.

I grab my phone from my purse and click to my Twitter page but can't read anything. I don't know what to tweet. This isn't something I feel like being pithy about. It's okay for now to know my friends are near.

My eyes turn back to the world outside the cab window. We turn down a street, and it's easy to tell we're in a very well-to-do area. The houses are surrounded by beautiful trees and rock paths and stone fences.

The further we go into the neighborhood, the bigger the houses get. My heart aches. It's not that he couldn't afford to have helped out. He didn't want to. He just didn't want to.

We're not destitute, the twins and Mom and I, but this area is in a different league. The majors. I try to breathe and, for the first time, understand how awful it must be for Josh when he has an asthma attack. I can't seem to get in a big breath.

“This is it,” the cabby says as he pulls up to a big brick house. I wonder if my mom has seen the house. It's old but it's obviously been well preserved or renovated. The front yard is huge, filled with beautiful trees and big decorative rocks with pebble paths. The house faces the water and mountains.

“Nice place. You have to pay for views like this,” the cabby says as I stare at the house. He turns to me. “Everything okay, miss?”

“Fine,” I manage and almost tell him to drive on. Just leave and take me with him. Instead, I lean forward to see what's owed. I pull my wallet from my purse for some of the funny Canadian money, hand him a green, slippery twenty, and tell him to keep the change even though it's less than fifteen dollars for the fare. I try to catch my breath, but my heart is pounding fast, like I've been running. I sit completely still, staring at the house, wondering what I'm doing—why this even remotely seemed like a good idea. I could have called or started off with an e-mail. But no. No. I want to see him. I want to meet him. And I want him to meet me.

“You sure you're okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” I whisper to the cabdriver and reach for the door. He watches me, his face wrinkled up and worried. I open the door.

I pause, considering whether I should ask the cabdriver to wait for me. Instead, I slam the door and fight an urge to puke from fear. I'm all alone. On a strange sidewalk. In a strange town. A strange country. I can't swallow but take a deep breath. My hopes seem sillier now.

The cabby drives away slowly, and I lift my hand and wave but don't move from where I'm standing. I think about tweeting, but Adam and Amy will probably see it and know I'm stalling. They've got Twitter eyes on me.

Instead, I lift my phone and take a picture of the house to show them later. The long brick driveway runs parallel to a stone path that leads up to a huge wraparound porch. I glance around to see if anyone noticed me snapping shots, but there's still no one on the street. It's quiet. Too quiet.

I take a deep breath and wipe my clammy hands on my pants. Maybe I should have changed or at least put on some makeup. Then again, why should I try to impress him?

Yes, get angry
, I tell myself. It's better than being afraid. “Okay,” I say softly to myself. “You can do this.”

I stare at the doorbell, trying to force myself to push on it. I imagine pressing the buzzer and running. I lift my chin and close my eyes.

I reach out and press the bell.

9. Parents only lie to their kids about Santa and the Easter Bunny.

#thingsithoughtweretrue

“Hello?” calls a woman's voice. The tall door is half shut and blocks most of her face. I only see dark, curly hair.

I'd hoped no one else would answer.

I can't tell her age. Is she a wife? Daughter? Maid?

I straighten my back, refusing to feel bad for his family if he has one. I try to smile but my mouth quivers. I'm not the bad guy here. I didn't do anything wrong. The choices Bob White made weren't my fault.

“I'm looking for Bob White,” I manage, and my voice sounds husky in my ears.

I wait for her to slam the door or send out a pit bull to chase me away.

“Yes?” she says and the door opens another crack. I see her whole face. She's slight, almost fragile, with thick, puffer-fish lips, bloated and kind of fake looking. She's wearing a black turtleneck that touches her chin. She's older than I thought. Dark chestnut hair cascades down to her shoulders in waves. I wonder if she recognizes me—if she hates me.

“Bob White. Who used to work in Seattle?” I prompt.

“My Bob lived in Seattle. A long time ago.” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes and she opens the door fully, leaning her hip against it.
My
Bob
. She's not a housekeeper then.

“Do you work with Bob?” She sounds polite but cautious.

Taking a deep breath I say, “I'm Morgan McLean,” as boldly as possible, as if my name is something to be proud of and not the name of the girl in men's underwear dancing on a video that went viral on YouTube a few months before. It suddenly occurs to me he may have seen the video.

She smiles, but her eyes don't flicker with recognition. My stomach drops as if I'm riding the rollercoaster at Tinkerpark. It's both a relief and an insult. Unless she's faking it, she's never even heard of me. This woman. Bob's person.

“Um. Is he home?” God. It sounds ridiculous. Soon I'll be asking if he can come out to play.

“Bob's working.” She stands taller and she looks at me with narrower eyes. Suspicion crinkles the corners of them. “Can I ask what this is regarding?” She glances down at a silver watch on her wrist. “He doesn't see solicitors.”

My face heats. “Um. I'm not a solicitor.” Am I? “It's, um, personal.” I fidget, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“Personal?” She takes a deep breath, looking me up and down with her nose twitching a little, as if I smell. Bad. I might because my underarms are soaking and there's sweat on my upper lip despite the cool night air.

“What's this about?” She glances out past me and frowns as if she must notice there's no car. “Has Bob done something?” She glances behind her. There's a meow and a fluffy long-haired black cat swirls around her leg and swishes its tail at me.

“No,” I say, watching the cat. “Nothing at all.” He hasn't. Not in eighteen years. I glance up. “Do you expect him soon? Or is there a number I can reach him at? I'd really like to talk to him.” I didn't plan for him not to be home when I rang the bell. I really should have thought this through more, but I'm good at blocking things—years of practice from a good teacher. My mom.

The woman bends down and picks up the cat. The size of the cat in her arms makes her look even smaller. The cat stares at me with big, round, yellow eyes. They're judgmental and find me lacking. The cat owner looks me up and down too. I see a flicker of suspicion in her eyes.

“I don't even know for sure if he's the right Bob,” I say quickly. “I need to ask him some questions.”

She strokes the cat and watches me. When the cat purrs, she pushes her hip off the door. “It's important, isn't it?” She's studying my face. I wonder what she sees.

“Very.”

She stares at me so hard, I wonder if she's peering inside my head and reading my thoughts. Uncomfortable and lost, I wonder if I should just turn and leave when she steps back and opens the door a little more.

“Fine.” She steps away from the doorway and drops the cat to the floor. With a mew, he scampers off and runs down the hallway behind her. “Come in. Wait here. I'll go check on him. Bob is working and asked not to be disturbed, but he's in the office downstairs.” She blinks. “Who do I say is calling?”

“Morgan McLean,” I repeat.

“That's right.” She nods as I step inside, and she gracefully rounds me and closes the door behind me. “I'll be right back.”

Her feet glide along dark hardwood, and she disappears down the hallway, out of the front foyer, around a corner. I glance up. The ceiling is high, and a huge chandelier hangs right over my head. I step off to the side, suspicious of the bolts. Down the hallway, a door opens and footsteps traipse down the stairs.

My body starts to shake. Inside and out. Even my bottom lip quivers. And then my mind trips. I want to run but force myself to stay still and calm.

There's another mew. The cat is back, sitting close to the corner wall, watching me. Staring. Disapproving. He's close to a dining room with French doors, which I only know because the twins talk about construction and house design. The doors are thrown open, but instead of inviting, it has a premeditated and staged aura. Dark hardwood flows into the dining room without a trace of dust or even cat hair. The furniture inside looks unused; everything about the house suggests lots of dollar bills. I shuffle my feet on the plush entry mat, breathing deeply to keep myself from keeling over. I'm tempted to take out my phone. I wish I were all alone, chatting with online friends or transported through time to the tweetup we keep talking about but never seem to make happen in Seattle. I wonder if I've gotten new followers. I wish this stupid plan had never occurred to me.

A low hum travels up the stairs from the basement. Voices meld together and muffle, 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 bump 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 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.

“Maggie McLean's daughter,” I spell out.

“Maggie? Maggie McLean?”

Ah-ha, Einstein. Catching on now?

I brace myself for his outburst.

“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 nurture 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 Maggie 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.”

“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 God. 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.”

“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 pass 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.

“Maggie 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 breathe by concentrating on it. In. Out. In. Out. I remember getting 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.”