Where We Belong (35 page)

“It’s not even noon,” I say.

“Yeah. You should wait until afternoon to deliver bad news,” Kirby says.

“This is
good
news,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, flashing an exaggerated, pageant-girl smile. “Surely I’m the daughter he’s always wanted.”

She is joking, but I give her a serious look and nod, as if to tell her that’s
exactly
how I feel.

27

kirby

An hour
later we are both showered, dressed in virtually identical outfits of jeans and sleeveless navy tops (mine an inexpensive version of her designer one). Meeting in the hall, we look at each other and laugh, then proceed to put on makeup in her room, side by side. At one point, I notice that Marian’s hands are shaking as she paints black liquid liner along her upper lid. She frowns, displeased with the result, then removes it and begins again, biting her lip as she goes more slowly the second time. It looks no different, maybe even better the first time, but I watch her surrender with a long sigh and move on to her blush.

When we’re ready, we head downstairs, where she leaves a brief note for her parents on the counter, checks the contents of her purse at least four times, opens a bottle of water from the refrigerator, takes one sip, then asks if I want anything, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the answer—which is no.

“Marian,” I finally say.

“Hmm?”

“Let’s go, okay?”

She nods, smiles, then moves absentmindedly toward the front door as if this weren’t a mission about eighteen years overdue.

Then, finally, we are on the way to the city, the Lincoln Park address entered into the navigational system, the loud voice of a smug British woman telling us where to turn. She irritates Marian who finally imitates her in an English accent.

“Oh,
do
shut up,” she shouts, but can’t figure out how to turn the volume down even after fiddling with the system for several minutes.

“Do you think he’s married?” I blurt out at one point.

She stares straight ahead and says, “I’m guessing no. But I don’t know why. Maybe just a serious girlfriend. Maybe he’s divorced.” She lets out a tight laugh. “I really have no idea. I can’t picture him. I mean—I remember him exactly as he was, and I can even imagine what he might look like, you know, almost twenty years later, but I can’t imagine his
life
now. What he’s doing … I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

I nod, and twenty quick minutes later, our British friend informs us that we’ve reached our final destination at 1130 Armitage, a gray brownstone flanked by two red-brick buildings.

“Well. We’re here,” she says, looking paler than usual as she parallel parks into an open spot in front of it.

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask. “I mean—we can just go. Or I can do it alone.”

She looks tempted by this idea, but then shakes her head. She turns the ignition off, then grips the steering wheel as if steadying herself. “Nope. I’m ready.”

We get out of the car, cross the sidewalk, then march up the front steps, like we’re on our way to a funeral. She reaches out, her hand shaking as she rings the buzzer of “2C Knight.” We wait. Nothing. Her hand hovers over the button as she takes a deep breath and tries again. A few seconds pass. Still nothing.

“He could be out of town,” I say, partly relieved, at least for her.

“Or maybe he’s just out … running errands,” she says, looking like she might faint. “We could try again in an hour or so. Maybe grab lunch and come back?”

“Okay,” I say, reluctantly turning to follow her back down the stairs. She hesitates at the bottom then turns right, then changes her mind and does a one-eighty, squarely into a man’s path. They almost bump into one another, but don’t, and I suddenly recognize him, even before it seems to register with either of them. But as they both back up a pace, I see them process it, and I get goose bumps as I watch them together. My parents. Here the three of us are, I think. For the first time. Here is what could have been.

My next thought is totally embarrassing—and that is: My father is hot. Way better looking than any other father I know. Rugged in an artsy way, with dark wavy hair and amazing eyes. He is wearing faded blue jeans, brown leather boots of a construction worker–cowboy hybrid, an untucked white linen shirt, and a long, patterned cotton scarf, twisted and looped haphazardly around his neck. I imagine that it smells like incense or pot or some combination of the two, until I realize that he actually
does
carry with him that aroma—at least the incense part. In one arm is a bag of groceries, a baguette poking out of the top of a cloth sack. Everything about him looks urban cool.

They both continue to stare at each other, expressionless, motionless, in the weirdest standoff I’ve ever seen, almost as if they’re calling the other’s bluff. It is the way you’d look at a perfect stranger, although if they were actually strangers someone would break down and exchange a pleasantry after such prolonged eye contact. I start to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t reintroduce my own parents.

He finally speaks, saying her name as statement of fact, a slight nod with his chin. And then, “What are you doing here?” His voice isn’t entirely rude, but it is remote and icy. He shifts his bag to the other arm and I look at his free hand. No wedding ring.

Marian opens her mouth to speak, then shoots me a desperate glance. I already knew she was nervous but had no idea that she’d be this rattled. “I’m … we’re … I wanted to talk to you,” she stammers.

Smooth,
I think.
Real smooth.

“Talk?” he says, cocking his head to the side.

“Yes.”

“About what?” he says, all cool and calm and chilly.

She glances at me again, and I wonder if she’s contemplating divulging everything right here on the street. I shake my head, signaling that this isn’t the best plan of action, but she’s already turned back to him. “Can we go somewhere … to talk?” she says. “Maybe get some coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You used to.”

“I don’t anymore.”

I realize I am holding my breath as I continue to watch them. It is as riveting as any scene on television. I make myself exhale.

“How about tea?” she says. “Or can we just go sit somewhere? Anywhere?”

He shrugs and then looks at me for the first time, no glimmer of recognition, only indifference with a trace of annoyance. He glances at his watch and mumbles that he doesn’t have long.

“It won’t take long,” she says.

He nods. “Okay. Let me put these away. I’ll be back.”

As he turns to go, taking the stairs two at a time, I notice that Marian’s chest is literally rising and falling through her top. It is the the first time I’ve seen her look anything less than perfectly composed, including when I knocked on her door, and for some reason, it makes me not only feel closer to her, but it also makes me
like
her more. Before I can change my mind, I reach out and touch her arm and say, “Well, that’s a good start.”

“He hates me,” she says, as we sit beside each other on his bottom step.

“It’s better than not caring at all,” I say, although in truth, cold indifference is more of what I just observed than hate.

“Is it?” She gives me a funny look, as if she hopes this is true.

I nod, then shoot a quick text to Philip, telling him that I’ve just seen my father.

One minute later, the front door opens, and Conrad reappears. We leap up and stand at military attention, all eye level again. I notice that his scarf is gone, the boots replaced with flip-flops, as if their brief exchange had overheated him. I take this as a good sign—but then wonder what exactly I want him to feel. What do I want to come from this other than his acceptance of my birth, of me? And can’t he accept me while still hating her?

He holds my gaze, as if seeing me for the first time. “I’m Conrad,” he says without offering his hand.

I stare at him, overwhelmed, thinking that he might as well have just said, “I’m George Clooney,” for how surreal the moment feels, how almost famous he seems to me.

“And you are?” he says.

“Kirby,” I say, feeling foolish for forgetting to speak.

“Oh. Kirby. I see,” he says, with a hint of annoyance. My paranoid translation:
Thanks for your name but who the hell are you and what are you doing here with her?

Marian clears her throat and says, “Where can we go?”

He shrugs and says, “There’s an Argo Tea a few blocks up. At the corner of Sheffield.”

“Okay,” she says. “That’d be great.”

He looks at her blankly, indicating there is nothing “great” currently in the works. At best, whatever is happening is bizarre and uncomfortable. At worst, it is downright hostile. But he descends the final few stairs, then turns left, walking swiftly up the street. Marian and I fall in line behind him, the three of us walking single file in silence.

As we enter Argo, the buzz inside is a relief, as is the warm lighting and smell of baked goods. Conrad starts to get in line, then turns to us and says, “Grab a table. I’ll order. What do you want?”

“I’ll have … green tea, please,” Marian says, then looks at me.

“I’ll have the same,” I say, although I actually don’t like tea at all.

Marian opens her purse, then wallet, rifling through to find a few bills, but Conrad looks at her with scorn and says, “I got this.”

“Thanks,” she says, putting her money away.

“Thanks,” I echo, then follow her to one of the only open tables in the center of the dining area.

After we sit, I look at her and say, “You need to tell him. As soon as he gets back to the table, you need to tell him who I am.”

“You already did,” she says.

I roll my eyes, feeling a stab of impatience at her epic lameness. “Tell him I’m his daughter,” I say, leaning toward her. “Or I will.”

28

marian

By the time
he returns to the table with our tea, I am a complete nervous wreck. As I take my cup, I notice (and so, probably, do they) that my hands are shaking. I feel light-headed, sweaty, queasy, and can’t seem to get my breathing regulated.

“How have you been?” I start, hating myself for choosing such an absurdly casual opener. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kirby shoot me a look of disgust.

“Um. Fine,” Conrad says. “And you?”

“Fine,” I say. “Good. Well.”

“Great.” He peels back the plastic lid on his cup, checking the progress of the bag without letting too much steam escape. “I see you’ve made it big,” he says, without looking at me. “I haven’t seen your show, but I’m sure it’s great. Congratulations.”

I assumed there was a chance he’d know about my career, but am still surprised that he’d mention it. “Thanks,” I say, staring down at my hands, resting on the table. “What have you been up to?”

“This and that.”

“Oh.” I nod a little too eagerly given that he shared no information.

“Do you mean what do I do for a living?” he asks, still managing to avoid eye contact.

“I guess. Yeah,” I say.

“You can ask that then.”

“Okay,” I say, my leg now bouncing under the table. “What do you do?”

“I work at a bar,” he says.

I nod some more, this time smiling.

“About what you expected?”

“What do you mean?” I say, although I know exactly what he means.

“Look, Marian. What is this about?” he says, staring directly into my eyes. My palms start to tingle.
Everything
is tingling—my whole body and mind suffering from sensory and emotional overload. For one bizarre second, it’s like we’re eighteen again, but then I remember we’re not—
she
is. And beyond anything that happened in the past, that is the hardest part of all of this. The fact that she is watching me, waiting for me to try to fix something that really can’t be fixed. Not entirely. Maybe not ever. And certainly not at this table, over tea.

When I can’t manage a reply, he says, “It’s nice to see you, I guess. But really … why are you here?”

I look at him, bracing myself, wondering how he hasn’t put it together. Her age. Her mere presence at the table. Her
eyes.
I glance at her now and see that she is pissed, likely thinking that she’s waited eighteen years for
this
? I lick my lips, my throat tight and dry, then take a sip of tea that burns the roof of my mouth.

He shakes his head. “They make it hot here. Should’ve warned you.”

“It’s fine,” I say, my voice cracking.

And then, two labored breaths later, I hear myself start to spew disjointed apologies and explanations while both of them stare at me, one nonplussed, the other aghast with the train wreck that is her mother.

That day at your house … The last day I saw you … I lied … I was scared … I did the wrong thing … I’m sorry I never told you … I was pregnant … And then I had her … But I gave her away … I thought it was the right thing … But I still should have told you … I’m so sorry
.

When I abruptly stop talking, he says, “Wait. What do you mean you were pregnant?”

“I was pregnant,” I repeat dumbly. “I told you I wasn’t … that day at your house … but I … was.”

“You found out later?” he says, squinting in confusion.

“I found out that day,” I say. “In the bathroom. At your house. The test was positive. But I told you … it was negative. I … lied to you.”

“Why would you do that?” he shoots back.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t
know
?”

“I was scared.”

He nods, but clearly doesn’t accept this as any sort of decent explanation. “So you
had
the baby?”

“Yes,” I say. “But then I gave her up for adoption. I thought it was for the best … since we were so young…”

“We?” he says. “
We
didn’t know
you
were pregnant.” His face is tight, his words cutting.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. You mentioned that.”