16 Things I Thought Were True (14 page)

11. Personal lives should always be kept personal.

#thingsithoughtweretrue

The next morning, we take the car to the shop to get a real tire put on for our trip home. We're all at Melody's Tea Shop in downtown Victoria.

After Bob interrupted the make-out session the night before, he asked me to join him and his wife for tea. I told Bob there would be five of us for tea. He didn't argue. Adam was the one who recovered from the embarrassment first, and Bob kept his thoughts about our groping in the car in front of his house to himself.

Afterward, Adam and I drove back to the hostel and talked about my dad and not about what happened between us. We found Amy in the common room with the English ladies. One look at my face and Amy said farewell to her new friends and followed me back to our room. When I told her what happened with my dad, she cried and sat beside me on my bed, holding me tight, refusing to let go. She never even asked why Adam showed up at my dad's.

So I brought my friends to tea and here we all are.

Bob and his wife, Camille, are tucked on one side of the table; Adam, Amy, and I sit across from them on the other. Bob is wearing a golf shirt and Camille is wearing expensive jeans and a sweater with beautiful accessories. They look rich and classy.

Camille and Amy are having a conversation about tea as they sip from delicate china cups. I'm staring at a coffee mug in front of me but feel Bob's eyes on me, checking out my features the way I check out his, trying to verify his part in my existence. Adam's leg is pressed up snugly beside mine. Camille and Amy are nibbling at pastries and chatting, but I couldn't eat for a million dollars. Adam isn't eating either and is sitting almost as stiffly as me. I wish Bob would try to make conversation. He's the grown-up after all. I want to ask a million questions but I'm afraid.

This is so not how I pictured my family reunion.

“My dad started giving me tea when I was about ten, only decaf though, herbal teas,” Amy is telling Camille. “He says they're good for lots of things that ail us.” I look over, and Camille smiles at me but nods her head at Amy as she continues on.

Melody's is a warm and cozy teahouse and restaurant. The old building is rustic with dark, delicious wood, and under most any other circumstances, I'd love the ambiance. The smells wafting in the air are incredible—teas, coffees, and pastries.

“I need to call your mom,” Bob blurts out, breaking the awkward silence at our end of the table. “Can I have her phone number?” His voice is loud and barky, as if he's used to people doing what he asks. Amy stops talking and we all stare at him. Adam presses his leg closer against mine, takes off his glasses, and cleans them with a paper napkin. All eyes turn to me.

“Uh. Sure. I guess.” I write out the number on a napkin and hand it to Bob.

He takes his phone from his pocket and, with his back to us, dialing as he goes, steps away from the table.

He walks off into the teashop connected to the restaurant. I don't take my eyes off him. The phone stays on his ear and his mouth opens and shuts, talking. She obviously answered. I wonder what she's saying. His eyebrows tilt down as he listens, and his lips are pressed so tight they almost disappear. He stops walking, and his foot taps up and down on the tile floor.

“It's going to be okay, Morgan,” Camille says to me. “He's going to make this right.”

I want to ask how she thinks he can do that. Time travel? Amy blinks and looks as if she's about to start crying. I struggle to keep my emotions under control, pretend my whole world hasn't shifted.

Soon Bob strides back to the table and stands in front of his empty chair. “It's all true,” he says to his wife. “She was pregnant when she left me. She says she'll submit to testing. But I don't have to, do I? Look at her.” He lifts his hand and finally looks at me, really looks at me. “How could Maggie do this to me?”

I
know
what
you
mean
, I think. It's hard to tell by his tone if he'd be happier if he had never known. Is he sad? Pissed off? Impossible to read.

Camille stands and wraps her arms around him, her head resting on his shoulder. He puts his chin on her head and closes his eyes. Under the table, Adam puts his hand on my knee and squeezes. I close my eyes, pretending it's all okay, that this is under my control.

“Well, this is really nice for the two of you,” Amy blurts out. “That you have each other to lean on and all. But what about Morgan? How do you think she feels?”

I open my eyes and see a tear roll down her cheek. My own eyes are scratchy with the ones I'm holding in.

She glares at Bob. “She drove all this way to find a big mess.” She's quivering with anger on my behalf.

“It's okay, Amy,” I tell her and swallow again and again over a new lump increasing in size in my throat.

“No. She's right.” Bob lets go of Camille and they sit. He leans on his elbows and stares across the table, studying my face. I want to look away from him, but it's pointless. I can't. We stare at each other in a deep intimate way, and a shiver runs down my back. “Where do we go from here?” he asks.

A waitress walks close to us, but she pauses. She must pick up the tension in the air because she turns and wanders in the direction of another table.

“Are you a nice person?” I ask softly. It's a stupid question, but I want to know. I want to know so badly it scares me. Because he still has the power to hurt me. He is the one calling the shots here. I'm just a kid with my heart on my sleeve.

“Not always,” he answers with a small smile. He picks up his tea and takes a sip and then goes on. “I'm kind of a workaholic and I have a temper. And I go running at inappropriate times.” The hint of a smile reappears at the corner of his lips but disappears quickly. “What about you?”

“There's a viral video of me dancing in my underwear online,” I tell him.

“But the video wasn't her fault. Her friend posted it. Ex-friend.” Amy sighs. “And at least Morgan's a good dancer.”

I squirm, and Adam reaches over and puts his hand over her mouth. She makes strangled sounds, and for the first time since I've ever thought about the video, I laugh. Adam laughs too.

Camille's eyes open wider and Bob watches me. “Nothing like jumping right into the rebellious years,” he says. I can tell he wants to ask more, but he doesn't.

“No. You missed those too,” Amy tells him with a sniffle. “They say the worst years for teen girls' parents are between thirteen and sixteen. After that, they become human again.”

Bob and Camille exchange a glance, and then Bob catches my eye and we both smile. Amy is a gift.

“Morgan's really popular online you know. She'll have five thousand Twitter followers by the end of summer,” she adds.

We all look at her. It sounds silly in this context, but I love her for it.

“She's quite the tweeter,” Adam says.

“I don't even like Twitter,” Bob says.

I realize I'm glad for that. Last thing I need is a parent monitoring me online after this long.
Parent?
I realize I thought of him as a parent and it makes me want to cry again.

“So.” Bob turns back to me. “How are you feeling about all this?” Camille reaches for his hand on the table, but Bob pulls away, focused on me. There's a tiny surge of satisfaction in my belly at her hurt expression and I frown at my reaction. I reach for my purse and dig for my ChapStick.

“I don't know,” I tell him as I take the cap off.

He watches me. “Why did you come all this way to see me?” he asks softly.

I jab my ChapStick at my lips, stab at them. I glance at Adam and Amy, feel a blush in my cheeks.

“Tone, Bob,” Camille says, and he glances sideways at her and then back to me.

“You must have been angry,” he says in a quieter voice. “Thinking I abandoned you,” he prompts, a trace of impatience in his voice. I guess he's not used to dealing with teenagers.

I shrug again. He's right. I must be angry, but it's impossible to feel much of anything.

“Of course she's angry. All this time she thought you ditched her as a baby,” Amy pipes in. “She didn't know you had no idea she existed. This is a huge turn of events. Huge.”

“Amy.” I glance at her. “Don't speak for me, okay?” I say softly.

Her bottom lip juts out, but other people's words don't belong in my mouth. Not now. Not again.

“I only want to help,” she says.

“I know.” She's being amazing, but I need to do this on my own.

“It's huge for both of us. We have to figure things out,” Bob says. “I have no idea where to begin—or if we even can at this point.”

Those words land hard, a direct hit. My heart stings. It's one thing to be rejected when he'd never even met me, another entirely to be rejected all over again. I drop my head down and study my cup of coffee, cold, forgotten. More weight settles on top of my already-heavy chest.

“Yes.” I force myself to sound harsh and uncaring. I lift my chin, narrow my eyes, as if this whole thing isn't ripping my insides apart. “Maybe I don't want anything to do with you either.”

Bob clears his throat and coughs. “That's not what I meant.”

“Morgan!” Amy says.

Tears squeeze out of the corner of my eyes, and embarrassed, I wipe them away. “I don't know what to do—or what to say.”

I will myself to stay strong. I want to keep the hurt from my face. From my voice. From my heart. I may think I'm brave, but deep down, I'm afraid he'll still leave me. Now that he knows about me.

“This is hard for me too,” he says.

“Congratulations,” I blurt out, and then my cheeks burn at my rudeness. “Sorry,” I add softly, without looking up.

Amy makes a funny high-pitched noise and clamps her hand over her mouth. I feel Adam's eyes on me but don't look at him.

“It's okay. But this is difficult. You live in Seattle,” Bob says.

It's not a question, but I correct him. “No. Tadita. You should know the geography. After all, you lived there too, long enough to get my mother pregnant.” I drop my eyes so I don't have to look at him. I hate that I sound so bitter, so defiant. But I can't help it. I'm so afraid—and emotionally naked. I want to cover myself up.

“Morgan,” Amy says. “You're being mean. All you ever wanted was a dad.”

My cheeks fire up and I glance over at her. “Amy, I never said that.” I frown. I don't want Bob to know the truth. I want a dad. So. Much.

“You didn't have to,” Amy says. Her face crumples up and she hiccups as she starts to cry, but she manages to do it at a low volume.

“Oh, sweetie,” Camille says to Amy and reaches across the table to pat her arm.

I push away from the table. There's sweat on my top lip and behind my knees.

“Sit down,” Bob says in a voice that's used to being obeyed.

Adam stands too and reaches for my hand. His fingers press against mine and it's reassuring. It grounds me.

“Please?” Bob says in a softer voice. “I'm trying to figure out the right things to say. I have absolutely no idea what that is.”

“Me neither,” I whisper.

I look at Adam. I sense that no matter what I decide to do, he'll stand by me. “It's your call,” he whispers. I wish he would tell me. But this is my life. My decision. There's no way to hide from this. I squeeze Adam's hand and sit. He slowly sits beside me. Amy glances up, no longer making noise but still sniffling and wiping at her eyes.

Everyone stares at me. I feel more exposed than I did the first day of school after the video went viral.

“Why did you come?” Bob finally says as if he's choosing his words carefully. He nods his head toward Adam and Amy. “You brought friends and drove all the way to Canada to see me. Why?”

I stare at him and blink, trying to remember the feelings that brought me here. “I just found out who you are,” I remind him. “She just told me,” I whisper. “And I thought you were aware of me. If I'd known earlier who you are…the truth…well, I would have come sooner.”

“Okay.” He picks up his tea. “But why like this?” He takes a tiny sip, puts his cup down. “You could have called.” He has a wary expression.

I almost smile and put my hand over my mouth. I can't tell him what I wanted. Him. I wonder if he thinks I'm a parasite, there to suck things from him. Like, like money. I glance at Adam. He's watching Bob, his eyes narrowed, his hand in a ball at his side.

“What are you implying? She wants a father!” Amy squeals.

Camille puts a finger to her lips and makes soft shushing noises at her.

My stomach turns, and I'm glad I haven't had anything to eat. “I wanted to see you,” I say. “In person. But things haven't turned out the way I planned,” I admit.

“And what did you plan?” Bob's voice is slightly challenging.

Camille puts a hand on his arm. Amy covers her mouth again and makes a squealing sound. Adam makes a sound in his throat, and anger shoots from his eyes toward Bob. It's tangible across the table.

“None of this is her fault,” Camille says. “Her mother lied to her as much as she did to you.”

My mom's image seems to hover over the table like a ghostly apparition. For a moment, I hate her. I really and truly hate her—for lying to me. And for a moment, I hate him too—for getting her pregnant in the first place. But most of all, I hate me—for being a person who would let this go on as long as it did. I should have fought harder for the truth from my mom. I should have found out the truth long ago.

“This kind of brings up a new argument for abortion,” I say, and it's awful and tears leak out again, and I drop my head, ashamed.

“Oh, Morgan,” Camille whispers.