Cold Feet (12 page)

“How about some food? Tony's Pizza in North Beach? A carafe of red and a large margherita pizza?” Liv suggested. I doubted anything would make me feel better, even Tony's pizza, which Liv knew I considered the best in the world. Maybe I could eat enough pizza to make me fall into some kind of gluten coma. I would eat pizza until I passed out, I decided. Every day, for the rest of my life. I closed
my eyes, trying to will myself to stop picturing Sam and Val together, and trying to picture crusts dipped in marinara instead.

As my eyes focused, I saw Liv looking at me closely.

“Are you doing that thing where you decide you're just going to eat pizza for the rest of your life?”

“Yep.”

“That's probably best.” She swallowed and looked at me seriously. “I'm sorry, Em. I don't know what to say. I want to kill him.”

“Me, too.” We sat there in sad companionable silence. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“You shouldn't. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't believe it either.”

“Really?” I asked, sitting up slightly, momentarily comforted until I remembered that it didn't matter whether or not we had believed it or not, it had still happened.

“Yeah, not for a second. What should we do now? What would make you feel best? We can do anything you want.”

What I wanted was to get under the covers and sleep until they invented a time machine so I could go back to before this all happened. But no, I told myself forcefully, there was no way Sam was going to take my dad away from me, too. Not when we'd come this far. And if I did find Hunter, maybe he'd want to kick Sam's ass himself. I entertained the image of a beefy man who somewhat resembled me slamming one fist into the other expectantly, ready to smash Sam's nose in, as soon as I gave him the go-ahead.

“I want to stay. I want to try and find my dad.”

“If you're sure.” We sat there in silence for a few minutes until Liv
spoke up. “Speaking of Hunter, I tried Facebooking him again while you were gone.” Liv pushed the open computer screen toward me. “All that comes up are some weird groups with pictures of wolves howling at moons.” Liv scrolled through the page of one of the Facebook groups, absentmindedly clicking.

“Did you know his name is an actual moon phase?” she said, sounding fascinated. “Well, almost. It's called hunter's moon.” Great, like there wasn't enough to worry about, without considering how astronomy could be affecting this whole thing.

“Apparently, it usually occurs in October. ‘It's the first full moon after the harvest moon,'” she read. “It says here that the hunter's moon is especially bright and yellow. Which is good for hunters . . . the bright autumn moonlight . . . stocking up for winter . . . et cetera. Makes sense.” Liv clicked on the profiles of some of the likers. “Also, how is it possible that some people still don't understand privacy settings? I'm looking at this random girl's ‘moon appreciation' pictures from St. Martin right now. I mean, that's ridiculous. Ooh, that's a cute bathing suit. Do you think I could pull off a bandeau?”

As I listened to Liv try to keep me entertained, I felt myself drift back to what I'd learned about Sam. I could still barely believe it, but the stabbing pain in my heart was slowly spreading into a sickening realization that it was true. I had to press my hand against my heart, as badly as it hurt.

I thought about the last time my heart had truly been broken, when my study abroad boyfriend, Laurent, a beautiful Parisian with huge mahogany eyes and milky skin, broke up with me.

Laurent and I shared a lust that was born of passion, given that we
never actually discussed anything beyond each other's favorite body parts, and Hemingway. We would spend entire days lying prostrate in Le Jardin du Luxembourg, his sweater under our heads and our hands intertwined as we discussed how much he loved my ass, me his eyes, and both of us,
A Moveable Feast
.

Every day in Paris was a new adventure. A backdoor viewing of the Musée Picasso, a trip to get falafel that somehow turned erotic, him reading French poetry to me in the last row of the bus with his left hand holding the book and his right hand up my skirt. When he took me to the countryside for the weekend to his family's vineyard, the potent combination of utter desire and champagne vinegar was almost painful. And when he said good-bye in May, on the same street where he first stopped me six months earlier and begged me to have a glass of wine with him—I think he thought the whole thing was very poetic—I thought my heart would stop beating.

Liv, who was studying in Florence at the time, tried for weeks to help me regain perspective. First from afar and then by actually coming to Paris with two American guys, one of whom I was expected to make out with, an idea that only made me more depressed. There was no way I was going to get over Laurent with some dude from Chicago named Matty who thought Paris was “pretty neat” despite the fact that “they don't put ice in the pop.” When that didn't work, Liv tried another tactic, listing people who had it worse.

“At least you aren't a victim of vaginal mutilation,” she pointed out. “Or a soldier in Vietnam who lost both of his legs and, as a result, his self-worth.”

“Are you talking about Lieutenant Dan?” I responded, annoyed that she was trying to cheer me up by cheaply using the plot of
Forrest Gump
.

In the end, the only cure was, as they say, time. (I don't know who they are, but they really know what they're talking about.) I mourned for Laurent over the entire summer I was home before my senior year of college, eating only oatmeal, the one thing I could stomach, and studying for the LSAT. The morning I took the LSAT in October, I woke up, ate the requisite test banana, which I'd been eating before every standardized test since high school, and realized that, against my will, I was over him.

But Laurent was no Sam.

It wasn't going to be that easy to heal from this wounding revelation. Without warning, I was struck by the strangest feeling of nostalgia, and for one quick moment, I had an overwhelming desire I hadn't felt for a long time. I wanted to call my mom.

I wanted to be little again. I wanted to be taken care of. I wanted it to be one of the long-ago Sunday afternoons from my childhood, when we would go to the Georgetown movie theater that showed black-and-white classics. Caro always let me pick the movie, and beforehand we would load up on popcorn and Reese's Pieces. After all, she always said, we need to fill both our salty and our sweet stomachs. No matter what movie I picked, Caro had inevitably already seen it—a fact that I found extremely impressive as a child—and as we walked home she would reminisce about the first time she saw the film, as if she had just visited an old friend, recounting who
she'd been with, what she first thought of it, even what she'd worn. But like so many other things, when she finished school and we moved to Virginia, those trips stopped.

This was brought starkly into place one afternoon a few weeks after we moved in when I ran into our neighbor Mr. Madigan, who mentioned that a small movie theater showed old movies outside on Saturday nights in the summer and fall, a program called Screen on the Green. That week the movie was
An Affair to Remember
, a favorite of my mom's. I knew for a fact that she saw it for the first time at the shore with her girlfriends. Mr. Madigan explained that everyone in the neighborhood went and brought a picnic. He told me that you could buy kettle corn and root beer at the park and encouraged me to come along. We could bring the Reese's, I thought to myself.

I came home to find Caro hanging up from a conference call and furiously highlighting documents. After grabbing a soda from the fridge, I tentatively perched on the arm of the sofa and suggested we go. She looked immediately annoyed, then stressed, then she flat-out said no, claiming she had a work fund-raiser that would take up all of her time that weekend.

When the Madigan family, laden with picnic baskets and old, scratchy blankets, stopped by on Saturday night to see if we were going, I made sure to walk out to the safely darkened front porch to meet them, so they couldn't see my face while I lied. My mom was indeed at work—whether because the excuse was true or because she was using it as a cover, I'll never know—but, too embarrassed to tell them this, I said I didn't like old movies, but thanks anyway.

Mr. Madigan looked at me questioningly, as if mentally recalling
the day when I'd said the opposite, but he quickly let it go, mentioning that I should let them know if I changed my mind. Next week, he said, it was
Jaws
. For a minute I thought he was going to ask where my mom was, and his eyes shifted in the direction of our house, but then he simply smiled and told me to have a nice night.

I never did find the opportunity to tell the Madigans that I wanted to go to Screen on the Green. As the fall weather turned cooler, every Saturday night I watched the family of five stroll to the park, struggling to carry their canisters of steamy cocoa and their baskets stuffed with Cape Cod chips and homemade brownies, but I never said anything or asked to come along, even though I desperately wanted to. One week I even bought a carton of lemonade in secret, planning to run out and casually join in when they walked by. But week after week, I didn't move, I just watched. And after that first day, they never asked again.

CHAPTER 12

A
s any good attorney will tell you, you can trust the testimony of an eyewitness to a crime about as far as you can throw him. This isn't only because witnesses can be liars or because of the inherent problems with mistaken visual perception. It's more than that. It's the things we miss when we think we are observing carefully, the things we choose to focus on, and, most of all, the things we automatically use to fill in the gaps.

If you saw a man in a broken-down Chevy parked across the street from where your neighbor's child was later kidnapped, upon reflection, yes, he did look suspicious. But was he dressed in a blue shirt, as the kidnapper was proven to be wearing? That sounds about right. Minutes later, you're positive. It was robin's-egg blue—not unlike the one you
actually
saw on your grocery store checker that morning.

Also, did you notice a rattling tailpipe, which would explain the sound the car made during the ransom drop-off? Yes, that makes sense, your brain says, because the image of a broken tailpipe fits in with the look of the car you actually saw, and
poof
, it becomes your memory. Before you know it, an innocent man has been convicted, all because you chose to go to Whole Foods that day instead of Trader Joe's.

As psychologists have discovered, and lawyers of the accused are quick to point out, the paradigm of how you expect the world to appear, combined with what you actually see, determines what you observe. Memories are not entirely accurate records of our experiences and what we see
isn't
always what's right in front of our eyes. We are influenced by biases, beliefs, and an automatic attempt to structure events into our existing worldview. Thus, what we observe is often a distortion of reality, but one that makes sense to our imperfect human brains.

That's probably why, when the strong oak door on Powell Street swung open on Monday morning, I knew exactly who was staring back at me. On the other side of the threshold was an attractive older gentleman in his sixties with thick salt-and-pepper hair, striking blue-gray eyes, and a dimple in only his left cheek, a mirror image to the one in my right. The second I looked into his eyes, I knew he was my father.

“Good morning,” I said robotically. “Are you Hunter Moon?”

“It is I,” he said, a stickler for accuracy like his grammarian daughter. My heart jumped. We had to be related. I couldn't wait to discuss our favorite dangling prepositions.

“I was wondering if we could have a few moments of your time. We're here from the Democratic National Committee,” I heard myself say randomly. Where did that come from?

I felt Dusty turn to look at me slightly. Liv had woken up that morning with a migraine, mostly likely brought on by the several carafes of wine consumed at Tony's the night before. I could tell she felt terrible, but there was nothing she could do but climb back into bed with a hot washcloth on her head and a handful of Excedrin. Luckily, I passed Dusty on my way out, who was heading to work but offered to take the morning off and accompany me to Hunter's, pointing out that as the boss he could do that kind of thing on a Monday morning. I was nervous enough to agree, and now, considering how wacky this situation was becoming, I was glad I did.

“Ah, canvassing on a Monday. You young people certainly are passionate. I was about to sit down for a second cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?” he said, in a friendlier tone than I would have predicted, almost like he was expecting us. But then again, maybe he was. Maybe he was feeling the same thing I was, the father-daughter connection zapping between our identical lopsided dimples.

Ushering us inside, he offered us mugs and poured two cups of coffee, taking his time to offer us milk, sugar, and even fresh pastries. I noticed he was also a two percent milk devotee. Genetics sure had done a number on us. No wonder all I got from Caro was her hair. The rest of my DNA code was used up before she even had a chance.

Hunter turned the radio down, but not off, leaving the news on low in the background. I approved. I'd always preferred a radio to a television in the kitchen; it made me feel old-timey, like a line cook
from the 1950s. I surreptitiously studied my surroundings. Gorgeous, brightly colored Le Creuset pots hung from the ceiling above a long white island, which we sat around on high stools. In the back of the kitchen there was a window seat overlooking a small backyard brimming with bougainvillea.

As Hunter turned around to fix his own cup of coffee, I nervously bit into my croissant and tried not to think about how much Sam would love the cookware. He was a sucker for a heavy ceramic pan. Perfect for bacon frying. My stomach tightened. I shook my head, annoyed that despite my resolve not to think about him, he kept creeping back in.

“Are you here on a fund-raising mission? Or is this a courtesy call, may I ask?” Hunter inquired politely, taking his own seat at the white granite counter.

What was he talking about? Oh, right, the DNC thing. Oops. I turned to Dusty and remembered, Hey, he's done the whole “find your dad” thing before, he can take it. Throwing him as far under the bus as I possibly could, I answered, “Actually, Dusty, why don't you explain?”

Without missing a beat, Dusty smoothly began to ask Hunter some generic questions about his voting habits. I watched, surprised, as the conversation naturally transitioned into one about family. Within minutes, Hunter was describing his two sons, a freshman and a senior in college. I was the older sister of two half brothers, I realized with a jolt. I could give them advice on their girl problems and tease them about their facial hair experiments. One attended Berkeley (Tyler, I had to stop myself from adding) and the other,
Kyle, went to Stanford. Apparently, they were engaged in some healthy sibling rivalry, both majoring in the combined sciences, molecular biochemical physics, or similar. Okay, so maybe they wouldn't need the girl advice.

Hunter also described his wife, who taught at a Montessori school in Marin County. She sounded like the perfect antidote to my icy, bureaucratic mother. I wondered if she would want to attend the wedding. I made a mental note to ask if she would prefer the fish, steak, or vegetarian meal. Finally, Dusty and my dad discussed the recent local election, which I supposed was meant to establish our believability as party-toting Democrats. I was quite impressed by both of their depth of knowledge of Nob Hill parking structure ordinances.

Having realized that my search was over, I started to relax. It was a feeling punctuated by the occasional jolt of recognition in the way Hunter spoke and the expressions he made when he laughed. We look alike, we talk alike, we sometimes even act alike, I sang in my head. As I watched the conversation unfold, I collected each piece of knowledge Dusty gathered, to pull out for closer examination later. A thought occurred to me—Powell Street. Hunter lived on Powell. Sam's last name. I felt a sudden rush of longing for him to be there, quickly followed by a gust of regret that I hadn't told him I was coming in the first place. We could have found my dad together, on Powell Street, then gotten married and become Emma Powell and Sam Powell, and our lives would have been perfect, you know, if he hadn't cheated on me and ruined everything. I started to feel slightly ill.

“It's been lovely chatting with you two today,” Hunter slowly drawled, bringing me back to the present. For the first time I noticed
that he had something of a lisp, which I quickly threw out as unnecessary judgment. Who cared? I ordered myself to stop being so superficial. What was more important: a couple of questionable “you thoo's” or a family? A family, I decided loyally. I would tell Hunter the truth as soon as he finished his thought. I wondered if he would cry.

“But I have to admit”—
thoo admit
—stop it, Emma!—“I think I know why you're here,” Hunter continued, pouring his third cup of coffee. Three cups, wow, I thought. Isn't he retired? What's with the caffeine intake?

“You do?” I replied, smiling nervously.

“Yes, and I understand why you came here today, but I made up my mind about this and you can't do anything to change it.” He shook his head regretfully. Hunter took in our puzzled faces and looked slightly apologetic as he continued. “I'm sorry if this comes as a surprise, but citizenship is important to me. My ancestors came over here on the
Mayflower
. I take my status as an American very seriously.” Hunter might as well have been speaking gibberish. “Isn't that what you're here about?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Moon, we're a little confused,” Dusty said. “A lot of stops on the Democratic train to make today. What exactly are you referring to?”

“To what am I referring, you mean, son,” Hunter corrected him.

All right, enough with the grammar.

“I assume you're here about me changing my party affiliation,” Hunter said defensively. “I voted Democrat in California in every election since Jimmy Carter, so I understand why you were surprised when I switched parties in 2008.”

Dusty, so chatty before, was completely silent, stumped by this tangent. “Of course, sir. Why did you switch parties, for the record?”

“Because, young man, Barack Obama is not an American citizen!” Hunter exploded, grateful to finally get it out. My mouth dropped to the floor, shocked by this crazy right-wing birther posing as my father. Did they even allow those in San Francisco?

“Hold on,” I interrupted, a thought suddenly occurring to me. “You voted for Jimmy Carter in California?”

“Yes, I did. As I was saying, until I was forced to switch parties, I voted Democrat in every election since I moved here in 1976,” Hunter finished, annoyed to have the spotlight stolen from his big announcement.

My mind spun. I knew one thing for a fact. My father, Hunter Moon, lived in D.C. at the time of my birth, married to a mother who made me memorize every president by election year before I was six. So in 1976, when the lispy Hunter Moon was in San Francisco dropping acid and supporting the Carter-Mondale ticket, my real father must have been still on the East Coast, still years away from having baby Emma. This Hunter Moon, despite the dimple, the grammar, and the excellent taste in cookware, could not be my dad.