16 Things I Thought Were True (15 page)

Amy gasps and Adam puts an arm in front of me, as if to protect me. I glance up. Bob's face is white.

“Morgan!” Amy yelps. I glance sympathetically at her. She's going to need therapy after this, but this is not about her. I don't want to need anyone. I don't want to admit part of me hoped for more from him. That I still do.

Bob crosses his arms.

“I thought it was your choice to abandon me. I was angry. Maybe I'm still kind of angry,” I admit. But I'm sad too. So sad. How could I be anything but sad? “I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what to do now,” I tell him.

His body visibly deflates and I see tears in his eyes. “The truth is, I am your father.”

I sigh. “I know.”

We stare at each other for a moment, and I drop my eyes first.

“I think what I really wanted was to meet you,” I'm finally able to admit. A different waitress holding a pot of hot water and a pot of coffee in each hand approaches the table, but Camille shakes her head and the waitress turns quickly and veers off in another direction.

I sigh. “I kind of thought you owed her too, you know? I thought you knew about me and, knowing that, you still never contributed a thing,” I confess. “A part of me thought you should pay her back for those years.” I think of her bills—and then watch as my college years drift out of my reach. “But now, the way things are, you don't owe her anything.”

“I don't?” he asks quietly.

I lean forward. “No. None of this is your fault. “

Despite everything, I'll give my mom my college money. I won't let her go broke over her hospital bills. No matter what the circumstances, she raised me all alone. It was her choice. I don't agree with it. But I still owe her for all she sacrificed for me.

I glance at Amy and Adam. Concern bounces off their faces and lands in my chest. They're on my team. At least I got them out of this: the road trip. And I'm keeping them when it's over.

“So that gets me off the hook?” Bob asks. I think there's sadness in his eyes. But I wonder if I'm imaging it.

I press my lips tight. “Yes.”

“I'm your father,” he says, but he looks at Camille when he says it. Not me.

“Biological,” I say.

He winces, but there's that truth thing again, sticking its neck out.

He rubs at his chin, his eyes still on Camille. “I don't know what the right thing to do or even say is.”

“I know,” I say. “Me neither.”

“We don't have to figure it all out this second,” Camille says, her eyebrows tight and a worried tilt to her lips. “You are his daughter though, Morgan. And that means something. To both of us.” She wipes under her eyes.

“You better know that Morgan is awesome,” Adam says to Bob. His voice is louder than usual and it breaks. “You're lucky you got to meet her.”

Bob coughs. “I kind of noticed how you felt about my daughter,” he says.

I drop my eyes to my lap. The memory of Bob standing outside and peering into the car window while Adam and I groped each other is not a picture I want to recreate in my mind.

“He said
daughter
,” Amy loud-whispers, oblivious to the subtext floating around the table.

Bob and I look at each other and drop our gazes at the same time, as if we're on an awkward date. A father-daughter date.

“How long have you two been married?” Amy asks Camille.

“A long time,” Camille says with a smile.

“So why don't you have kids of your own?”

There's a pause. Noticeable. “Things don't always go as planned,” Camille finally says, and then she slides off her seat and picks up her purse and adjusts it on her shoulder. “Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies room.”

Bob watches her leave and then turns to me. “Camille and I weren't able to have children,” he says. “It was really hard on her.”

“Oh. Fudgsicle sticks. I'm really sorry,” Amy says.

Bob doesn't look at her. “I loved her,” he says to me.

I glance at Camille. “Camille?”

“No,” he says. “Your mom. In case it matters. It was a long time ago. But I loved her. If I'd known about you, I would have married her.”

“I guess she didn't think you would,” I say. “All she told me about you was that you didn't want children.”

He sighs, and it's deep and heartfelt. “I did say that. God. I was so young. I didn't feel ready to take on a whole family. She probably sensed it.” He picks up his teacup and swirls around the remains in the cup and then puts it down. He glances around the restaurant. “She never gave me a chance.” The regret in his voice makes my heart hurt again—for him this time, not only me.

“Even if it didn't work out with your mom, I would have been there for you.” He smiles at something in the distance, and I look over my shoulder and see Camille returning to the table.

I stare at him. If he had married my mom, taken care of me, maybe his life would never have led him to Camille. And he loves her. So what does that mean? If he had to go back and make a choice, would he change things? Would he pick her over me?

Something burns my stomach. Is it wrong I want it to be me?

Bob waves over the waitress and pays for the bill for the entire table. I make no move to stop him. When the bill is covered, we all stand. He walks over, looks down at me. I stare up.

“Dad?” I say softly, trying out the word on my tongue. He stares back at me, blinking. His eyes look moist. “Dad,” I say again, without giving the word any meaning or emotion. “I don't know what to call you. I don't know what to say. “

“I know,” he says. And that's it. He turns to Camille.

The good-bye is awkward and clumsy, and I have to resist an urge to bolt. Bob reaches out and shakes my hand. I cringe as I hear myself say, “Nice to meet you,” as if we finished a job interview and I know my chances are slim to none because I didn't get the answers right.

I feel as if I failed, that somehow I didn't measure up, that I didn't pass an invisible test—was found wanting.

I shuffle my feet as he reaches for Camille's hand and then, without a look backward, he leaves. He makes no promises to see me again, to be my dad. He just waves. I watch his back as he walks away, expecting him to turn and say something about the future. I wait. He doesn't.

I duck my head. I'm exhausted. I can't shake the impression that I did something wrong, that I failed—that he's leaving me.

12. I'll never dance again.

#thingsithoughtweretrue

Even Amy is quiet on the walk back to the hostel.

It's a bright, shiny day, but a cool wind blows off the water. We walk past old brick buildings mixed with modern buildings, and some of my negativity whooshes away with the breeze. The older buildings remind me of parts of Tadita, but almost every old-fashioned lamppost has a hanging basket of colorful flowers on it. The colors and fresh air take a little more off the edge. It's hard to stay angry and dark when Vancouver Island is so beautiful and vibrant, as if it wants to cheer me up. We decide to take the long way back to the hostel, so we can stroll through the Inner Harbor by the water. Amy's chatter restarts as we reach streets filled with tourists. People are selling food and beautiful paintings. Everywhere, there's music.

Amy stops in front of two cute guys playing guitar and singing a lively song. Without warning, she begins to spin and dance with her hands up in the air, her head back, pure joy on her face. She has absolutely no rhythm, but it doesn't matter. I smile, soaking up her happiness. When she grabs my hand and pulls me to her side, I decide to surrender to the music and dance with her. People around us stop to watch, but it doesn't stop me. They clap and cheer, and the musicians smile, encouraging us. The dancing turns into something so much more than beats—a deep soul cleanse. When I dance and move, I feel free. I remember this. I love this and realize it was stolen from me. Dancing to music. Right there, I close my eyes and I take it back. Around us, people pull out their phones and cameras to take pictures of the musicians and Amy and me dancing, but it doesn't embarrass or shame me. For the first time in a long, long while, I don't care about anything but losing myself in the moment. Screw Bob White. Screw my mom. Screw Lexi. And screw me.

When the song ends, Amy hugs me. The crowd claps and yells for more, but hand in hand we run back to Adam's side. He's smiling and clapping and whoops for more along with the musicians.

“I have always wanted to do that,” Amy pants to me. “Thank you!” Her eyes shine and we hug again.

“No. Thank you,” I tell her. I dig into my purse and throw some coins into the musician's guitar case filling with bills and coins from the crowd. We drift off with leftover giggles that fade as the singers begin a new song. I twirl and walk and my exhilaration starts to fade, but I won't forget it. This moment. The beauty of music and dancing is back.

Amy buzzes and chatters as we walk, until finally our hostel is in sight. “What time do you want to leave in the morning?” Amy asks when we reach the front walkway.

“The earlier the better for me.”

Adam nods.

“Are we still driving to Butchart Gardens this afternoon after we pick up the car?” Amy asks.

Adam shakes his head and mumbles about going to a flower garden, but we ignore him because we know he wants to go too and is only pretending to protest for his male ego.

Inside the hostel, we take turns using the washroom and getting ready. While Adam is out of the room, Amy comes over and sits beside me on my bed. “I'm really sorry about what happened to you.”

I nod. “I know you are, Amy. Thank you.”

“He doesn't seem
too
bad. Your dad, and Camille's real nice.”

I wince when she says the
D
word. I'm still processing. Disappointed, like it's Christmas morning and I unwrapped all the gifts and didn't get the one I wanted. It makes me feel like a jerk—unappreciative of what I do have.

She pats my leg. “Do you think it's better this way?” she asks. “That you know the truth now? Or do you wish that you'd never found out?”

I pick up the pillow and hug it close to my chest. “I don't know.”

“I'd want to know.” She hugs her knees in tight so she's a little ball. “I think it's better to know the things we have to deal with.”

She stares off into space, seeing something that I can't.

“Is everything okay, Amy?” I ask her.

She shakes her head back and forth and unwinds herself from the ball. “It's fine.” She swings her legs off the bed and stands up. “Thinking about you is all. I mean, your mom committed to a big lie a long time ago, and I wonder why she didn't just say he died or something and leave it like that. I think it's because she knew it was wrong. Deep down. And she left it open to fixing.”

I shake my head. “I can't even begin to understand.”

She looks around the room and is quiet for a minute and turns back at me. “Where's your phone? Let's check your followers. Think of some new hashtags to tweet.”

I pull my phone from my hoodie pocket, and Amy sits down again and looks over my shoulder, squealing when I show her how many new followers she has. Earlier, I tweeted out a follow request to her Twitter name.

“Write something true,” she tells me.

Some days you're the dog, some days you're the hydrant. #true
,
I type.

She laughs. “I like the true hashtag, but I like ‘things I
thought
were true' better.”

I smile.

“You're going to be all right,” she says. “You know that, right?”

I punch her on the shoulder. She chews her bottom lip and it quivers for a second, and then she smiles and lifts her knuckle and we fist bump.

***

The afternoon is nice. The gardens are beautiful. We go for dinner and talk about everything except things that matter. I keep a lid on the things bubbling inside until we get back to the hostel. After I crawl under the covers, I start to shiver. I tuck up my legs and wrap my arms around myself. I make myself as small as I can. I hold my breath until my lungs ache, but I'm unwilling to let anyone hear me cry.

My body is stiff. I continue holding my breath until forced to suck in a breath. My eyes are squeezed tight, and for a moment, I see an image of myself as if I'm floating over looking down. My inability to do anything except squeeze myself into a fetal position troubles me. I have to deal with this.

The girl I was before this trip is dead. I'm worried who will take her place. It frightens me. I'm afraid my bitterness is bigger and will never be contained. I'm not sure I want to meet the new me.

13. Statistics don't lie.

#thingsithoughtweretrue

Adam gets shotgun for the drive home. I didn't actually give him a choice and took the backseat without asking.

Amy pulls out of the parking lot, giving Adam the rules for front seat passengers. I don't want to listen. I want to be left alone. I don't want to drink in beautiful scenery. I don't want cheering up. As if we're on the same page, the weather is hazy and gray. I approve. Even Amy gives up and lifts the car rules, and they leave me alone.

There's no line at the ferry, and we're able to pull on right away. We park and wander to the seats on the top. Clouds drizzle. I hunker down under my hoodie, half listening to Amy telling a family of four about the whales we saw on our trip out. Adam sits behind me, and I feel him watching me.

I'm glad Amy's able to carry the conversation because I'm not ready to be pulled from my mood. I want to stay the center of my own universe for a little while longer, relishing my negativity, bathing in it. I make up speeches to say to Bob and my mother—words I worry I'll never be brave enough to deliver.

“You okay?” Amy says.

I stare at her. Bob didn't call or anything before we left. My mom even stopped texting. “No.”

“Well, say something then,” she says in a voice that implies she's fed up with me. “Get it out.” Adam nods in agreement.

I squint at her. “I hate him!” A blackness that's nibbling at my soul pours from my mouth. People turn to stare. I sound ridiculous, but Amy is right. I don't want to keep the negativity inside anymore, afraid it will take over completely. “I hate him. I hate that he didn't even bother to call me before we left. “ I shake my head. Why didn't he bother to call? Am I really that bad?

A mom sitting close on the bench opposite us puts her arm around her little girl, pulls her closer, and narrows her eyes at me. A breeze fills my nose with the smell of salt water. “He's an asshole,” I say.

The little girl peeks out from under her mom's arm to stare at me. Her eyes are wide.

The rush of anger dissipates, and I'm left with disgust. Even this little girl can see the blackness in my soul. She's right. It's me. It's always been me.

Adam reaches for my arm but I pull away.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

“No. I'm not.”

I have to get my head clear somehow. I have to face my mom. There's a lot I want to say to her now. But for the life of me, I don't know how to say it without being swallowed by my own self-loathing.

***

“Hey!” Adam shouts.

My eyes pop open and I'm surprised drool is gobbed up on the side of my mouth. I sit up and glance outside. I didn't even realize I'd fallen asleep. We're surrounded by familiar Washington scenery, trees and grassy hills. The windshield wipers are on, but the rain is more of a dribble. There's a country song playing low on the radio.

“Did you see that guy?” Adam is saying to Amy.

Amy's eyes are on her rearview mirror. “You mean the creepy hitchhiker.”

“He didn't look creepy. He looked like he was in trouble. And it's wet out there. We should go back and see if he needs help.” Adam turns to me. “Are we in a dead Wi-Fi area?” He glances at Amy. “Maybe he can't use his phone for help. He could be in trouble.”

I sit up and look around for my phone. “I don't know.” It's on the floor beside an unopened bag of salt and vinegar chips, so I reach for it.

“You don't know?” Amy says. “I thought you were on the phone since we passed through the border crossing.”

“I haven't been on my phone at all,” I say, and it's a shock to hear those words come out of my mouth.

“Never mind that!” Adam shouts. “What about that guy?”

I frown at his profile. Maybe it's not a big deal to him, but it is to me. I turn my phone on. “I've got one bar,” I tell him.

“One? I don't have any. We should go back and help that guy.”

“What if he's a deranged murderer?” I ask and reach for the bag of chips. I'm not hungry but something salty can't hurt. I rip the bag open with my teeth and the smell of vinegar immediately fills my nose.

“What if he's not?” Adam says. “What if he's just a dude who needs help?”

“Adam,” Amy says. “There is absolutely no way we are picking up a hitchhiker. Have you not watched any scary movies? Do you not know that three teenagers on a remote highway are not supposed to pick up hitchhikers? Like ever. He's probably a serial killer. I'm not about to die now after all of this.”

I nod agreement, dip my hand into the bag, and pull out a handful of greasy chips.

“What are the statistical probabilities that guy is a serial killer? How many serial killers are there, really? Maybe thirty out of three billion people? What's the likelihood he's one?”

“We are not picking up a hitchhiker!” Amy shouts.

My mouth stops right in the middle of chewing chips. Adam and I both stare at her.

“Wow.” Adam says after a silence. “You seem a little bitter, Amy. I didn't know you were so against hitchhikers.”

She waves her hand in the air. “Chips.”

I hand her the bag of chips.

“I hate statistics,” she says. “And I don't believe you should put yourself in danger if you don't have to.” She puts the bag on the console and scoops out a handful and dumps the pile on her lap. Then she takes one and shoves the whole thing in her mouth.

“What about people who look away?” Adam says. “So many crimes are committed right in front of people and they don't even help or report them. It's a frigging epidemic. No one wants to get involved.”

“People always think it's not going to be them,” Amy says, “that things only happen to other people. Well, life doesn't happen that way. Look at Morgan. What's the statistical probability her video would go viral? How many people try and never succeed to do that? It's like winning a lottery, only for Morgan it was a bad one.”

“True story.” I wipe my greasy hands on my pants and reach to the floor for a Coke. Amy's not done though.

“What are the statistical probabilities that Morgan would never know who her dad was until she was eighteen? And never mind the statistical probability that I'd live past my survival rate.”

Boom. The words bounce with physical force. A bee splats against the windshield, leaving behind a streak of bright yellow. Adam reaches for the radio, turns it off. The hitchhiker is a distant memory.

“Survival rate for what?” Adam asks.

I lean forward so my face is in the middle of them in the front seat.

Amy's cheeks are red, and she keeps her eyes on the road and swallows the last of her chip. “Nothing.” She presses her lips together. “I didn't mean to say that.”

“Amy,” I tell her in a gentle but firm voice, “pull over.”

“No.” She shoves another chip in her mouth. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I didn't mean to.”

She's clearly flustered. There's practically smoke coming off her cheeks.

“Amy,” Adam says. “As your boss, I insist you pull over.”

“You are not the boss of this road trip,” she says, but the car is already slowing down, and she puts the signal on, moves to the shoulder of the road, and puts on her hazard blinkers.

“I really don't want to talk about it,” she says with both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

We wait.

“Cancer, okay?”

I point at the field beside us. “Come on,” I say. Someone has to take charge. “We're going for a walk.” It's not drizzling anymore, but the shoulders are muddy.

“There's a herd of cows over there.” Adam points to a herd of black cows in the field beside the road. The only thing keeping them from crossing onto the highway is a wire fence.

“Screw cows, Adam,” I say. “The girl had cancer. You can face down some living steaks.”

“I don't want to make a big deal about it.” Amy is still gripping the wheel. “I only wanted to make my point that my mom and dad refused to believe the stats. Because they were pretty grim.”

I open the back door. “Well, maybe you did a little, 'cause it came out. And I'm glad it did.” I climb out and bend down, holding the door. “How come you can casually mention masturbation, pee on the side of a highway, but forget to mention you had cancer?” I slam my door then and walk to the driver's side and open her door. I'm shocked Amy's kept such a big secret.

She stares at me without moving. “I made it past the five-year survival mark a couple of years ago. So technically I'm considered cured.”

I put out my hand, and she stares at it and then sighs and takes it. I pull her from the car, and chips from her lap fall to the ground. “Bird food,” I say. “Come on. Let's go stretch our legs. Or you can pee on the side of the road again.” Amy snorts as we walk to the shoulder of the road.

Adam comes out of his side of the car. “I still hate cows,” he mutters and slams his door and hurries to catch up to us.

“Suck it up, princess,” I tell him. Amy giggles.

Adam walks with both hands in his pockets and mumbles something else about cows.

“So I'm flipping out about my stupid life, and you don't think to mention your much bigger problems? You totally win,” I say to her.

“I don't win.” Amy pushes me hard and I stumble. “I don't want people treating me like I'm fragile or creepy. Which they do—if they know.” She waves her finger in front of my face. “And my problems don't make yours less. It's not a competition.”

“I know.” I lift a shoulder. My troubles seem pretty shallow, no matter what she says. I'm seeing a whole new dimension of Amy. And her eternal optimism and sweetness only add more layers to her personality. I can't even imagine what she's been through.

“What kind of cancer?” Adam steps up so he's alongside us and stares down at Amy as if he's X-raying her insides.

“Leukemia. They found it early. I was lucky.”

“You had a good doctor?” Adam intently studies her from behind his glasses like an investigator or something.

“Only the best. Perks of a rich daddy—chemo, radiation, stem cell, blood transfusions.”

Adam whistles. Amy stops walking. She stares out at the cows. “I've been clear for almost seven years. But two-thirds of survivors will face chronic health issues.”

“I thought you hated statistics,” I say.

“Sometimes they're hard to ignore,” Amy answers.

We all silently acknowledge that.

“So what about now?” Adam asks. “Are you still being monitored? Do you still see an oncologist?”

“Why do you care?” Amy asks.

“He wants to be a doctor, remember?” I remind Amy. “Plus, we're your friends.”

“Yeah. You've kind of grown on me.” Adam bumps a hip against her and she loses her footing.

She steadies herself, puts both hands on her hips, and glares at each of us. “Why do you two seem like you have some weird thing going on. Did you make out?” she asks.

My mouth drops open. Adam looks at me and then looks away. “Um, change the topic much or what?” he mumbles.

“I knew it!” She claps her hands together. “Wait, what about the girlfriend?”

“She dumped me,” Adam says, “after Morgan threatened to kick her butt.”

“I did NOT! It was before the summer. He's a liar, liar pants on fire, ahhhh,” I shout and run toward the field and scissor jump across the barbed-wire fence. Unfortunately, the seam of my jeans snags on a barb. There's a long rrrrrrrrrip sound.

“Oh my god!” I scream and try to pull my leg off the wire, but I'm off balance and drop over half the fence from the waist, hanging off the barb by the ripped hole in the butt of my pants.

“
Eeee
!” Amy screams, pointing and laughing. “You're wearing your ‘Sexy And I Know It' boy underpants!”

“I am not!” I shriek. “I threw those out. Get me off, get me off!”

Amy's laugh erupts into an almost hysterical sound, bursting from her tiny body. “I'm ssss-sorry,” she tries to say, but she can't stop giggling.

Adam's deeper laugh joins hers, and neither one moves to help me. They're losing it over my split pants while my butt hangs out over the fence for a cow to come along and chomp.

I manage to unsnag my leg and drop to the ground, roll, and then pull up what's left of my pants. Both of them hold their stomachs with tears rolling down their cheeks. I try to stay mad, but their laughter is contagious. Soon my own giggling starts and I'm holding my stomach, getting cramps along with them.

Finally when we manage to get our senses back and start walking toward the car, we're splattered by a truck driving in the opposite direction. It zooms too close to us and the back tire hits a mud puddle. It only makes us laugh harder.

I try to hold on to the comical break as we drive on, but reality settles in over me like dark clouds once we reach the city limits of Tadita. I listen as Adam tells Amy the truth about his girlfriend and why he lied to her, but I can no longer participate in conversation. The chips I ate no longer seem like a good idea.

I still have to face my mom.