Find Me I'm Yours (27 page)

It didn't take long to realize my seat's unfortunate placement. And not so much because of the annoying, chatty lady, but the fact that we were right next to the bathroom. It began to reek so bad, I kept gagging.

But then I thought—how appropriate. It's like my whole life has been so far. Totally full of shit.

DAY 11—NIGHT

Even after living in California for two years, I am still always startled by the sight of palm trees. Especially at night, in downtown San Francisco, and surrounded by tall glass buildings.

I bolted out of the station not only to get some fresh air to stop gagging, but also to escape my seat mate, who continued chatting even as we were getting off the bus. Not knowing which way to go, I made a left—always my natural leaning.

How could I call my dad from a dead phone to tell him I was in San Francisco? And of course his number was in there, too, so I wouldn't know where to call even if I borrowed someone's live phone. I had to find a pay phone and a phone book, if either still even existed, and hope that he had a listed number. I walked a block and was stunned to find a giant bridge—like right there in front of me—at the water's edge. It must have been the Bay Bridge, because it wasn't red like the Golden Gate Bridge. And why didn't they just call it the Red Gate Bridge, since it's not really golden at all? With no pay phone in sight, I turned back around and caught a glimpse of a full moon, perfectly placed in between two buildings like a professional model posing for a picture and knowing exactly where to stand. Lucky moon, not a care in the world.

I walked for about six more blocks and couldn't find a phone or any stores or buildings open (even the Starbucks there closed at 7:30 p.m.). Fuck. Now what? Uh… hello??? Just one day off the hunt for Mr. WTF and my mad deduction skillz were rusty? THE BUS STATION. It had to be safe (chatty lady–free) by now to go back, and there had to be a pay phone there, too.

Sure enough, when I returned I saw that there were three. I asked the pimply boy-man behind the counter if he could break a twenty.

“Sorry, ran out of change. But you could get it if you buy something from the vending machine.”

These were no ordinary vending machines. They were dark, and when you stepped up to one, a light turned on. Step away, dark. Step up, light. I went back and forth several times, like playing peek-a-boo with a metal baby. Just one of the hundred things I could have come up with to avoid calling my father. I bought a bag of Grandma's Mini Sandwich Crèmes, “Quality since 1914,” and was glad no one had added a wisp to the logo yet, though Grandma looked suspiciously updated since 1914—maybe in the '70s.

My change clattered down, and then I slowly ate the cookies, hoping Grandma would give me the courage I needed to call my father for the first time in, well, forever. Finally I made myself go over to ye olde-timey pay phone, pick up a phone book, and look for his number.

And there it was. I don't think I've ever seen my dad's name in print before. I took a deep breath, looked once more at Grandma on the cookie wrapper, and put change in the slot like I was in Vegas, placing all my bets on the outcome of the call. I dialed. There was no turning back now.

The phone rang twice, then a teenage voice answered. “Hello?”

I panicked. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl, and on top of that I didn't even know my half brother's or sister's name. And how was I to ask for my dad? And what if s/he said, “Who's calling?” I almost hung up but then if I called back, I would have been so busted.

“Uh… hi…” I spoke slowly to stall for time. Though I had rehearsed for hours what I'd say to my dad, I never figured in a potential preamble.

“Hello?”

“Hi… is… uh… Brian there?”

“Who's calling?”

Ucchh… there it was.

“Maggie.”

“Maggie who?”

“Uh… his daughter,” I said, softly, not sure I had the right to claim the title. “Who's this?”

“Roxanne. His daughter.”

“ROXANNE, HI!!!!!!!!!” I said in such a chipper voice it scared me, so it had to have terrified her.

“Hold on. DAD!” she screamed, then whispered, “It's Maggie.”

“Hello?” It was the same voice I had always remembered. The one that sang to me at bedtime, doing silly jazz scatting, making me laugh too hard to fall asleep.

“Daddy?”

And that's all I could say before bursting into tears and sobbing, just like the seven-year-old he left all those years ago.

DAY 11—LATE NIGHT

As I sat in the passenger seat inhaling the smell of new leather, I recognized my father's hands on the steering wheel from the clips I'd watched over and over. Though I hadn't noticed before how much they looked like mine—chubby fingers and small, pedestrian nails.

“It's really great to see you,” he said in a sweet tone that matched the kindness in his eyes.

“Really?”

By the time he picked me up at the bus station, I had calmed myself down and washed off the mascara that had run down my cheeks. But it was no use. I started crying again. “Sorry that I'm so emotional…”

Dad welled up himself, and wiped away a tear with his sleeve. “You come by it honestly,” he joked.

He got me to laugh, and then cry some more. “And I'm sorry I didn't call or email.”

“Before surprising me tonight? Or do you mean for the last seventeen years?”

“Yes…”

There was silence. But not the awkward kind you feel you have to fill. More like we were both just BEING with each other. I looked out the window of his car and saw a Chihuahua in a cab. It was hard to focus on what was sitting right next to me since it hadn't been for so many years.

“I know everything now,” I finally said. “Mom just told me.”

“I see….”

“How could you lie to me and Cooper? I mean, I can understand why she would, but you?”

“I wanted to tell you a thousand times, but it was more important that you had stability with your mom.” He drove really slowly while traffic flew past us. “And by the time I thought you were old enough and ready to hear, you didn't want to talk to me or see me. I just thought you were better off not knowing.”

“The truth? Or YOU?” I asked.

“Well, for a while, both. I had some really dark years there. You never needed to know about that.”

I hadn't imagined. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I was heavily into drugs and alcohol. You know, on the road they were everywhere. So of course your mom would turn to someone else. I wasn't present even when I was. I know that now, but then it just felt like such a betrayal.”

The car sped up. Like he wanted to get through that time in his life more quickly. Always the musician, his driving was accompaniment to our conversation.

“Once we split up, and I got sober,” he continued, “I was afraid that any hurt from the past would've totally sent me slipping back. And I'd be of no use to you or anyone else that way. So I had to start fresh to stay clean.”

And he didn't waste any time. New state, new city, new job, new wife, new kids. I'm surprised he kept his name.

“You know, I reached out to you a lot—called you all the time,” he said. “I sent you letters, presents on holidays and your birthday.” Eyes on the road ahead, he continued. “I never heard back more than a cursory thanks, then those stopped, too. So years later I finally gave up and just figured you'd contact me when you were ready to.”

How could my mom have let this happen? He turned left and headed up a steep San Francisco hill. Like the ones you see on postcards. “I'm so sorry,” I said softly. “I just always thought…”

“I know. I'm sorry, too. But it's all behind us now.” He took one hand off the steering wheel and held mine. “Right, Magsababy? Do you remember I used to call you that?”

I didn't. I wish I had.

He pulled into the driveway of a beautiful Victorian home. The kind pictured on the San Francisco postcards right next to the steep hills.

“Will you stay?” he asked.

The bigger question was would I ever want to leave?

DAY 11—LATE NIGHT

My dad's wife, Ella, smelled like caramel. I couldn't tell if it was some lotion or cream or perfume she was wearing, or just her inner sweetness, as she enveloped me in a huge hug. I was taken aback by her greeting, having only met her once when I was ten and Dad just showed up at our apartment with her to see me and Cooper, who was three at the time. I was even more taken aback when two teenagers sauntered into the foyer.

“Hey, I'm Jimmy.”

“Hey, I'm Roxanne.”

“Hey, I'm Maggie.”

I shook their hands, which felt totally goofy, but a hug was overkill and nothing felt like, well, too much of nothing.

“Nice to finally meet you guys,” I said.

“I like your nails,” Roxanne (who, though she looked to be my age, must have been around fifteen years old, I calculated) said, looking at what was left of my Sweet'N Low nails, which now read “Swe ' Lo.” She had neon-orange-painted nails.

“Yours too.”

We made some awkward small talk, but then eased into more comfortable conversation. I found out Roxanne was into soccer, movie musicals, weird hair accessories, and writing poetry. Jimmy played guitar, was the star of his school's basketball team, had a 3.8 grade point average, and had already broken a few hearts.

“Well,” Ella said after a while, “it's a school night, so kids, time to go up to bed.”

“Awww…” Roxanne and Jimmy both moaned.

They all kissed each other good-night. Then Ella said, “I'm heading up, too. You and your father have a lot of catching up to do.” She kissed my dad, and gave me another caramel hug before leaving.

Dad brought me into the living room. “I think we need some espresso, don't you?” It was clear that we both wanted to stay up as long as possible.

“Make mine a double.”

“Done.”

He smiled and disappeared into the kitchen. I sat down on a cushy comfy couch by a roaring fire. Where did that description even come from? Fires don't roar. Maybe they crackle. Or if they roar, it's when a house is burning down or something tragic like that. Huge dark teak bookcases on all walls surrounded me, each filled with colorful books on art, design, music, and literature. Beautiful abstract paintings filled up the rest of the wall space, and sculptures and carvings were on tables and shelves. The ceiling had two large skylights with stars pouring in, making the house more celestial than it already was, if that was even possible. Was this Ella's taste? In the car Dad mentioned she worked in a museum. Or could it be Dad's? Thanks to Mom, I didn't even know what my dad's taste was. That killed me.

His kids seemed great—no concern or fear that I was going to step in and steal their father's affections away from them. Probably because it was clear he and their mom had plenty to go around. Like parents should.

Dad came in with a tray, cappuccinos steaming from blue glass cups. He handed me one then sat close next to me. We talked for hours. He asked a million questions—wanted to know everything about me. So opposite of Mom. I kept trying to bring it back to him.

“Why'd you stop playing piano?” I asked. “Wasn't music your art? Your life?”

“Well, the way I was doing it was probably going to end my life at a very early age.”

“Don't you miss it?”

“I'm around it every day,” he explained. “I've been teaching music to kids for years now. I love teaching.”

“But is that creative enough for you?”

“The way I see it, I know how many kids I've inspired. I've sparked the love of music in them so they'll carry on creativity for me exponentially.”

“That's very cool.”

“And what about your art?” he asked. “I Google you all the time. I saw your collages. They're incredible.”

“You do? You did? They are?”

“I've even left some comments on
collageaweek.com
. I'm PP. Stands for Proud Pop.”

Achh… he was killin' me. “Well, you're not the only Google stalker. Check this out.” I went to the computer sitting on a side table and navigated to my YouTube channel. I showed him the video montage I had made of him playing in bands.

Now he was crying. “Wow. That's really something.” He stood up, wiping his eyes with a linen napkin he'd brought in with our coffees. “How about a refill before we both turn into blubbering idiots?”

“Excellent plan.”

This time Dad came back with chocolate biscotti. He put two on the cup's saucer for me.

“Dad?” I said, then stopped myself. “Well, first off, can I call you that?”

“Of course you can. I'd love nothing more.”

I got serious. Down to business. “Did you think Mom was THE ONE when you met her?”

He smiled. “Yeah, I did. But luckily I found out that there doesn't have to be just one ONE.”

“Hmm… good point.”

“Why? Is there someone special in your life?” he asked.

I choked a little on my biscotti. “Oh, that's too long of a twisted tale to tell.”

“I've got all night if you're game,” he said. “I want to know you, Maggie.”

How could I deny my dad that when I wanted the exact same thing from him?

“Well, then for starters, call me Mags. Or Magsababy is fine, too.”

I told him everything. From my five-year-old love affair with Boo through every middle school and high school boyfriend and after, through to Jason. I even included Mark, all leading up to Mr. WTF.

When I finished that whole story, Dad just said, “Wow, how magical.”

“Magical? It's been disastrous!”

“That's the beauty of life,” he said, in a tone he probably used with his students. “There's always going to be both—magic and disaster—and we get to decide which to put our focus on.”