Truth Undressed (Exposed Series, #3) (12 page)

Maybe it was because I wasn’t throwing up anymore. Not that we’d
talked about it. Or maybe all parents spent the first eighteen years of their
children’s lives worrying that they would screw them up, relaxing only once
they’d been accepted to college. Not that I wasn’t screwed up. It was just that
my parents had come to terms with how screwed up I was at that point, and they
knew it could’ve been worse.

Plus, there was still hope for Chris.

I sat on the bed and flipped open the jewelry box first. The top
compartments were filled with earrings, mostly costume jewelry. All of it was
gaudier than anything I’d seen her wear in the time I spent with her. But it
made me smile because I had always loved big earrings and never knew why.

Carol was the kind of woman that wore delicate, expensive
jewelry that didn’t call attention to itself. Like she wore it more for the
subtle glint it cast when it caught the light than anything.

The top drawer didn’t have jewelry in it at all. It just had a
stack of patches of different countries' flags, the kind of patches people
might sew on a backpack or a jacket if they were that way inclined. I guess
this collection was just for her enjoyment. Each one was smooth and colorful. I
started laying them out on the bed. France, Spain, Germany, Ireland, Brazil,
Argentina, Guatemala, Thailand, Ghana, South Africa, Egypt, Laos. Laos? I
didn’t even know where that was.

The next drawer had a long string of beads in it. Or at least I
thought it was a long string of beads until I pulled it out and discovered it
was a beaded thong.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, dropping it on the bed. What the fuck did
anyone need with one of those?

The last drawer held the Tiffany necklace I’d always admired, a
bracelet that matched, and a ring she always wore. It had fake diamonds in it,
but it looked real. I used to try it on when she’d leave it in the bathroom
after a shower. I remember thinking it was cool that I could wear it on the
same finger that she did.

There was also a little note with my name on it, and I unfolded
the piece of loose leaf carefully.

Kate,

I hope you’re well. If there is an afterlife, I’ll
be missing you right now. If there’s not, don’t take it personally, I’m still
around. Energy is neither created nor destroyed, right?

Anyway, I know you admired this Tiffany necklace
whenever I wore it so I’m sure you’ll give it a good home. It also has a
matching bracelet. Surprise! I always loved the set myself. It’s real vintage
Tiffany. My Mom gave it to me. So there you go. You’re meant to have it. It is
the nicest jewelry I’ve ever owned.

As far as the ring, it’s not valuable. I’m sure I
told you that the diamonds are fake, but that never bothered me. Mostly because
it was a gift from Scott, your real dad. And I know he abandoned us both in the
end, but I loved him, and this ring always reminded me of a happy time in my
life. Plus, it goes with everything.

I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have.

Love,

Dawn

Ps- If you’re wondering about the beaded panties, I
never wore them. I just found them amusing. They glow in the dark!

I looked at the jewelry and the note and tried to imagine her
writing it and tucking it away, knowing she didn’t have much time. She probably
laughed about the panties and then regretted it because in the end laughing
always made her wheeze and cough.

And even though I didn’t have a nice feeling about Scott, I
liked having something he gave her, something beautiful. I liked knowing that
he was good to her. At least for a while.

I turned to the shoebox and opened the lid.

Right on top there was a picture of her and a man that I assumed
was my father because there was something familiar about his face, especially his
eyes. They were the same almond shape as mine. In the picture, they were at a
barbeque and they both had massive smiles on their face.

I have to admit, it was kind of a relief to know that I was
conceived in love. It meant something to me, something that made me feel…
buoyant. Especially when so many kids are conceived by couples that hate each
other and countless orphans grow up never knowing if their dad raped their mom.
I felt lucky that didn’t happen to me. I had a lot of questions about the
circumstances, of course, but I knew where I came from enough to know that it
was a good place. Even if it wouldn’t have been good place to stay.

Next there were a whole bunch of pictures of Dawn and Mark doing
totally crazy shit, obviously before I came along and before he fucked off. But
it was nice to see her looking so happy. And who wouldn’t be in those
situations? There were pictures of them bungee jumping, drinking in hot tubs,
flicking the camera off at rock concerts, and smoking joints on ski lifts in
short sleeved shirts. There was even one of Dawn dancing at a club so hard that
her hair was drenched in sweat and plastered to the side of her face.

Then there were pictures of Dawn and Tina and she was younger
again. And in every one she looked so… vibrant. There was a shot of them in
front of places I recognized like the pyramids and the Eiffel Tower, but then
there were ones I couldn’t place, too. Like the one where she was smoking
hookah with a bunch of random black guys who were all drinking wine out of
cardboard cartons and wearing jelly sandals. Africa, maybe?

And then there were funny ones. Dawn making a sad face with a
horrible sun burn. Her pointing a snorkel at a warning sign for jellyfish.
Another of her pointing at a leech where it clung to her leg in a forest
somewhere.

In the next bundle she was older again- maybe thirties-
backstage with the Strokes? Then hanging out of sidecar in San Francisco,
pointing at the sign for Bleeker Street in New York, and getting her palm read
in New Orleans. And it was amazing to see that one person could do all that
stuff. It was unfathomable to me.

And to think I was panicked about going to Maryland!

And now I understood. She never could’ve done half that stuff
with a baby or a little kid.

Of course, I didn’t know if she wanted to do those things or if
she because she couldn’t bear to just sit at home after she gave me up. Either
way, the important thing was that she hadn’t wasted her short life. Which made
me glad. Because she’d obviously been happy.

And at the time, I’d been happy, too.

I flipped to the next photo and saw that it was one she took of
herself from arms-length away. It looked like it was taken ten or fifteen years
earlier, but the date wasn’t on the back so I couldn’t be sure. In it, her
mouth was smiling but her eyes looked sad and she was pointing to a tree trunk
beside her that had freshly carved words in it. It said
I love you, Kate
.

I felt a lump in my throat and tried to swallow it.

This whole time I’d been wondering how she could give me away,
how she could give up part of herself. But it wasn’t like that. She just didn’t
want us to hold each other back. So she made sure I would have what I needed like
any good mom would do. Then she did what she needed to do for herself.

And even when we were apart, she took me with her. Not physically,
of course. But in the only way she knew how.

Dear Kate,

You must be wondering about what kind of guy your real father was.
And if you’re not, maybe you will be someday, and you’ll be glad you have this.

I wish I could tell you what he’s like now, but I can’t. All I
know is that he moved to Texas years ago. Last I heard he was married and
working at a local news channel. So you can probably find him if you want to. I
wouldn’t necessarily encourage it, though, because I don’t want you to hurt any
more than you already do. Plus, it’s hard for me to believe that he would
exceed even the low expectations you would justifiably have for him.

However, I do understand that you might be curious to know more
about him. The best I can do is tell you who he was and what he was like when
he was with me.

I met Scott in my twenties through a mutual friend of ours who
was in a band. The night I met him, he was wearing a touch of eyeliner and
jeans so tight that nowadays I’m pretty sure they’re only legal in Europe.
Anyway, I thought he was the only groupie that wasn’t plastered, but he was
just really good at holding his drink. Which is something that I always admired
in people.

He did an obvious double take when he first saw me, and I
remember vividly how that made me feel. Not only because I was flattered, but
because he was the most attractive man I’d ever seen. He asked me if I wanted a
whiskey and I said sure, and when he reached for a glass, I reached for the
bottle. He was impressed. Love at first swig I guess.

We were pretty much inseparable after that first night. His
sense of humor was filthy and he often made me laugh so hard I would get cramps
in my side, and I’d have to beg him to stop. He also swore like a truck driver
and pretended- like most guys- to be a lot tougher than he was.

For example, his favorite food was strawberries. And he was
really interested in motorcycles even though he didn’t have one or know how to
ride one. He was athletic though. And he was proud of the fact that he could do
a perfect belly flop, the kind of belly flop that would make everyone on the
pool deck squeal and cringe. Afterwards, his stomach would be bright red for
hours, but he loved the attention more than he hated the pain.

We moved in together into a small studio apartment where our
only expenses were rent and alcohol and drugs (back when they weren’t nearly as
dangerous as they are today, fyi). I remember that time fondly, especially when
I consider all the new things he introduced me to. Like Wagner’s music and
Franz Marc’s paintings. But he always hid the fact that he was smart from other
people.

I don’t know why. I guess it made him feel vulnerable somehow if
people knew he wasn’t an idiot. Plus, he liked people to be comfortable around
him, and they were. He could win over anybody. Even guys who were obviously
intimidated by his looks.

Cause I’m telling you, he was handsome enough to be a movie
star. It’s no surprise to me that he went on to work in television. He could
even do accents really well which he often did when he was telling filthy
jokes. His favorites were ones with Scottish or Irish people in them. He was so
convincing you’d think he was from the other side of the Atlantic.

Unfortunately, his actual acting ability was terrible. Which is
why even when he wanted to pretend for me that he was happy I was pregnant, he
couldn’t. And after that something broke between us.

Because I swear before you were a peanut, I could tell that you
were special. And I knew that if I stopped your little heartbeat, it would be
the biggest mistake of my life. And he didn’t understand. It was just one of
those things that comes between people and changes everything.

It divided us indefinitely.

But you were born out of love. You need never doubt that. I know
that doesn’t alter the fact that you’re probably feeling a little rejected. But
the truth is everyone will be rejected by someone they care about at some
point. And it doesn’t matter if it’s a friend or a lover or a family member. Getting
rejected is part of life. Hopefully, you’ve gotten all yours out of the way
already.

But even if you haven’t, you weren’t alone. Remember he rejected
me, too. And he never even gave you a chance. He never knew how lovable and
special you were. He didn’t know what he was walking out on. And as far I’m
concerned, he failed both of us in the most serious way someone can fail
another.

Afterwards, I promise you I felt alone enough for both of us. And
I did everything I could to try and make sure you would never feel alone. So
forget him and his bad, cowardly behavior. Don’t let it define you. You should
never let rejection define you anyway. No matter where it comes from.

Because you know what really defines you? Acceptance.

If you haven’t already figured it out, the people that love and accept
you are a far more accurate reflection of who you are. So dwell on that. Because
I’m pretty sure that makes you the richest little girl in the world.

It’s okay to be angry, though. At me and Scott. It’s okay to
blame us for painful feelings you might be having now. My only hope is that
you’ll get over it. And I don’t mean to be harsh, just real. Blaming your
parents won’t get you anywhere in life. It will give you plenty of excuses to dwell
on, but it’s never the answer. Because having fucked up parents doesn’t make
you special.

Everyone’s parents are fucked up in their own way. After all, parents
are just people, and most people are a mess. And unfortunately, you don’t need
any qualifications to become a parent even though it’s the most important job
you could ever possibly have: the job of not fucking someone up before they
realize that you’re just human, that you’re just faking it. 

In fact, having parents is the great equalizer. It’s what makes
sure that nobody enters the world completely self-assured or properly adjusted.