Lipstick Apology (32 page)

The knot in my stomach tightened.

“We'll never know what was going through your mom's mind when that plane was going down and why she suddenly felt the need to beg for forgiveness. We have to accept that we will never understand why she did that. But Emily, we
can
understand how sorry she was and how that one mistake doesn't change the fact that your mother was a good and loving person.”

Jolie closed her notebook and placed it on the coffee table. She looked at me, her green eyes watery and sad. “If you want to be mad at me, okay, be mad at me. But please don't be mad at your mother.”

My lip quivered. “What do I do now? How can I go on knowing that my biological father might just be roaming around and all I have is a first name?”

“She never confirmed her suspicion,” Jolie said. “She never knew for sure.”

I looked out the window into the night sky. The snow was still sprinkling down, blanketing the city in a new, fresh landscape.

“That's why I kept the letters,” Jolie finally said, following my gaze. “There's a return address.”

 

LATER, IN BED
, I stared out the window at the stars in the sky. Stars and secrets and mistakes, I thought. One mistake. My mom made one mistake. Jolie kept insisting that one mistake shouldn't change my view of Mom, but as I stared out at the Big Dipper, my mind kept spinning. How did that one mistake change who I was, both biologically and emotionally? Did it change nothing, or did it change everything?

ON CHRISTMAS EVE DAY,
the snow was still falling and the entire city was consumed with the idea of a white Christmas.

“Are you ready?” Jolie asked, chugging from her Starbucks cup.

“I think so.” I zipped up my coat and wrapped a scarf around my mouth. It was cold out, I thought, but maybe it would also be nice to be partially hidden.

We hailed a cab and I announced to the driver the address from the envelope that I had stared at and memorized for the last fourteen hours.

We took Lexington Avenue all the way up to the Upper East Side. I tried to let the elaborately decorated window displays distract me, but to no avail. My mind was spinning. What would he look like? What would he say? We slowed down to an apartment building near Lenox Hill Hospital and I wondered briefly if he was a doctor.

The woman who answered the door had a parrot sitting on her shoulder, a thick European accent, and absolutely no idea who had lived in the apartment before she did.

Neither did any of the neighbors.

“There's got to be some kind of website that looks back at address history,” Jolie said on the cab ride home, but I was miles away, wondering how I could go on with such a permanent void.

Back at the apartment, Jolie handed me a chocolate donut and I sank back into the couch.
Christmas Vacation
was on TV, and when I couldn't take any more zany Chevy Chase, I reached for the remote, accidentally knocking the gray ashtray off the coffee table. I bent down to pick it up, and feeling the smooth ceramic made me recall the day I ran off to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The day I searched for Mom's gallery to somehow be closer to her. I turned the cold ashtray in my hands, remembering the gallery. The spiral staircase, the diamond-patterned floor, the handsome man with the cleft chin stopping in front of me.
I'm sorry. I thought I recognized you.

People always said I looked like my mother.

All at once I dropped the ashtray to the table, sending it clattering, and ran to my closet. I ransacked through my boxes until I found the photo of Mom and “D” at the Statue of Liberty.

Thick wavy brown hair, handsome face, and a cleft chin.

I tore out of the apartment and hailed a cab. I knew it was Christmas Eve and the chance of him being there was slim, but I couldn't wait another second. I had to go.

As we slowed down near 86th Street, I saw the light in the gallery was on.

Oh my God. Someone is in there
.

I had the cabdriver pull over across the street. I got out and tried to collect my thoughts. I leaned against the cold metal cart of a pretzel vendor.

“Pretzel?” the vendor asked.

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I'm just . . .” I pointed across the street toward the art gallery. The door opened.

“Oh my God!” I gasped.

“What?” The pretzel vendor looked panicked.

I continued to point. “I'm not going to make a scene, I promise.”

“Okay.” The pretzel vendor nodded. “Here,” he said kindly. “Lean under the umbrella so the snow doesn't get you wet.”

“Thanks. Look at him!” I kept pointing. He was wearing a camel-colored overcoat and had his arm around a young pretty woman. “He probably makes a habit of seducing the young women who work with him. He ruins lives!”

“Sure, he does,” the pretzel vendor said.

“What a player!” I growled.

“Scum,” the pretzel vendor said.

“I mean, look at his hair! It's so suave you just
know
he uses a blow dryer!”

“Absolutely.” The pretzel vendor handed me a pretzel.

I tore off a piece and ate it. As the chunks of salt hit my lips, I felt relief. This man, this
Daniel,
who was locking up the gallery door and going to spend Christmas Eve with his pretty girlfriend, there was no way he could be my father.

The woman leaned over and said something in Daniel's ear. And Daniel threw his head back and laughed so loudly the pretzel vendor looked up toward the sky. Looked, I was sure, for a flock of geese honking by.

And I knew.

Suddenly, I was racing across the street, the pretzel flying out of my hands, skidding on piles of slush. I marched up the steps of the gallery, one finger pointed in accusation, the other frantically pushing up my nonexistent glasses, trying to clear my tear-blurred vision.

“YOU ARE DANIEL!” I shouted.

He stopped, his arm slowly dropping from the pretty woman's shoulder.

The woman instinctively reached into her purse, clutched her cell phone. “Daniel?” she asked.

Daniel was stone still, a statue collecting snow on his sculpted hair. Then slowly he hunched down, extended his hand toward my face. He looked like he wanted to touch my cheek, but instead he opted to pull his hand back and cover his mouth. “My God,” he whispered through his leather gloves. “My God.”

You could see the comprehension cross his face, and I realized he hadn't known that I existed. He sat down on the wet, concrete steps.

The pretty woman looked back and forth between us. “What is going on?”

But Daniel ignored her, staring so intently at my face I wanted to pull the scarf up over my eyes.

“Jill,” Daniel said softly.
My mother's name.

I started to cry. “You'll never be my
true
father,” I said.

The pretty woman slowly dropped her cell phone back into her purse.

Daniel pushed on his knees and returned to a standing position. “I suppose you're right,” he said. “But I was never given a chance to be.”

My heart was thumping, and I didn't know what to say. This was not at all what I expected. He was supposed to be a player—he was supposed to brush me aside and say I wasn't entitled to anything from him. “My father was a good man,” I finally said.

Daniel nodded. “Yes. I'm sure he is.” Then Daniel stopped, noting my verb tense. “Oh,” he whispered. “And your mother?”

I couldn't answer; my lip just trembled.

Daniel nodded, his eyes shifting down. “I see.” He reached into his wallet.

“I don't need your money,” I started, but he extended his business card.

“Now you know where to find me,” he said. “If you ever want to.” He smiled a handsome but also kind smile. “No obligations.”

I took the card, turned, and bolted down the steps and across the street, only turning back once to see Daniel still standing in front of the gallery, watching me leave.

THE FREEZING TEMPERATURES
plummeted further and much to the delight of everyone, the snow remained on the ground for Christmas Day. While there were no active snow-flakes falling, the mounds of white ornamentation lining the street were enough for the city to declare it
a white Christmas
.

As I fumbled out of bed into the living room, I was not surprised to see an insane number of beautifully wrapped gifts under the tree. I plopped down on the couch and watched Jolie scuttle around setting china on the table.

Jolie disappeared into the kitchen. “I'm making a turkey,” she called. Her head appeared from behind the wall. “I've done some research.” She grinned. “This time I'm going to get it right.”

“We'll see,” I teased.

The phone rang. “Hey. Merry Christmas!” It was Anthony.

My stomach flipped. I recalled my frantic rush to him for comfort, friendship, and love. Of course, he didn't know of my manic attempt, but still, everything felt different. In my mind, I had crossed some invisible line. Could our relationship still be easy and comfortable now that visions of Anthony and Adrienne's embrace scrolled through my mind?

“Merry Christmas,” I said, feeling embarrassed and exposed like he could read my thoughts.

“What's wrong?” he asked. “You don't sound like yourself. Are you sick?”

I didn't want to say anything, but suddenly there was a feeling deep in my gut, not unlike right before you throw up. I felt it rumble deep within me like an avalanche, then the words spilled out of my mouth without control. “I know my mother's secret,” I said, voice quivering. “I know why she apologized.” I started to cry.

“What was she apologizing for?” Anthony asked calmly.

I told him everything through hiccups and sobs, including my journey uptown to meet my father. “On the one hand, I feel relieved to finally understand.” I sniffed. “I don't know; it's just so hard to accept.”

“And you've known about this for two days? Why didn't you tell me? I could have gone with you to meet him. Given you support.”

And before I could stop myself, I said, “I tried.”

“Huh?”

“I tried to go over to your house Sunday afternoon, but when I got there . . .” I started to cry again. “You were . . . busy.”

“Busy? What are you talking about?” Anthony sounded genuinely confused.

“Busy hooking up with that girl—Adrienne—you know the one with the really curvy butt and the long dark hair,” I said.

Anthony laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw you. Through the curtains. I wasn't spying or anything, I swear, it's just that when I was about to knock on your door, something caught my eye through the window—it was probably Adrienne and her big swaying hips. And I saw the two of you. Hugging and groping and God knows what else. So I wasn't going to interrupt your little lovefest with my problems.” I started to cry again.

“Good God,” Anthony said, sighing. “Okay, calm down. First of all, there was no
lovefest.
Adrienne's my cousin. She has a thing for my friend Bobby. And he had just blown her off—or at least that's what she thought. Listen, stop crying, Em, it's going to be okay. I really wish you would have just come in. I could have talked to you about all this. You shouldn't have to deal with this alone.”

Suddenly, I was horrified at my raw vulnerability. Anthony knew that when I found out this news, I went running to him before anyone else. He probably thought I had no friends or worse, that I was totally in love with him. “I have Georgia,” I said defensively.

“She's in Hawaii. Come on, give me some credit. I do listen to you, even when you ramble.”

I found myself smiling through the tears.

“What can I do?” Anthony asked. “How can I help?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don't think there's much anyone can do.” We hung up.

When I walked back into the living room, Lindsey had just arrived. She took off her coat and greeted Jolie and Trent, who had also arrived while I was on the phone.

Lindsey ran over holding a new necklace out for me to admire. “Look! My parents must have really felt bad about being gone—they left this with my grandmother.” She held out a huge diamond pendant that hung gracefully from a silver chain.

“Wow! That's beautiful!” I gushed.

Trent and Jolie hovered over to see.

“Girl, that might just sparkle more than you do!” Trent said. He leaned in closer. “Ooh, Cartier!”

A blaring fire alarm sounded from the kitchen.

“Damn it!” Jolie yelled, racing toward the smoke clouds.

Trent shook his head and mouthed:
HOPE-LESS.

We giggled.

Jolie reappeared looking relieved. “No big deal. Luckily I bought extras just in case.”

Extras of what, we'll never know, because just then the doorman buzzed, sending up another guest. Then, before we could move, the door swung open and in walked Dr. Reeves wrapped in a long cashmere coat and scarf. He removed his coat, placing it over the back of a chair. He was wearing dark jeans pressed with a crease down the middle and a white button-down shirt. He was handsome. Maybe not movie star glamour like Jolie's beaus of the past, but handsome in a way to fluster a crowd of PTA moms.

“Hi, guys!” Dr. Reeves said casually. He walked over to Jolie and gave her a peck on the cheek. Jolie smiled and her cheeks reddened slightly.

Dr. Reeves extended his hand and introduced himself as Jacob to Lindsey and Trent. He patted my back with familiarity and said, “How are the choppers, kiddo?”