Where We Belong (32 page)

I turn from the window, feigning shock. “Ohhh! Gillson Park! I can’t believe it!”

He shakes his head and laughs, making his way to the parking lot near the softball fields.

“Nice work,” he says as we get out of the car.

“Whatever do you mean?” I say as we exchange a sideways glance. “I couldn’t see a thing. We could have ended up anywhere.”

“Even Saskatchewan,” he says.

“Even Saskatchewan,” I say as we meander along the path toward the small-boat harbor. It is a sunny day, warm but gusty, and I keep holding my hair back in my hand so it doesn’t blow in my face.

At one point, he reaches in his pocket for a rubber band and hands it to me.

I shake my head and say, “You just happen to have one of them on you?”

“I have a paper clip, too, if you need one,” he says, grinning.

“How about a safety pin?” I ask.

“In the car.”

“Good to know.”

We reach a bench near the water and sit, both of us toward the middle. I tell him I remember when my feet used to dangle. He says he can top that; he can remember pushing me in a stroller when I was a baby.

And there it is.
Baby.
The subject no longer avoidable.

I break down first and say, “So Dad … Mom says you wanted me to keep her?”

Without missing a beat, he says, “I’m just glad you had her.”

I nod, realizing how much alike we are—to have the restraint to avoid a topic for this long, then launch right into the meat of it. I also realize that he didn’t answer the question. “But you wanted me to keep her. Right?”

“That’s a difficult question … I didn’t want to lose her forever,” he says. He is wearing dark aviators, yet he still squints out over the water, lines appearing around his eyes, extending down toward his mouth. “But look. As it turns out, we didn’t.”

“Dad?” I say, turning to face him, my eyes hidden behind my own glasses.

“Yes, honey?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you … I wish I had.”

“It’s okay, honey.”

“I was just so … embarrassed,” I say, my voice cracking. The word isn’t strong enough for what I felt. “I was mortified, ashamed. And I didn’t want to let you down. I’m thirty-six years old and I can see now that the situation … was not the end of the world. But at eighteen, I couldn’t see that … I just couldn’t.”

“Sweetie. I understand. I
always
did. I never thought any less of you … I just wish I could have been there for you.”

“It wasn’t just that, though,” I say. “I didn’t want to upset you. You work so hard—and have always given me everything. And there I was about to go out into the world, making the biggest mistake a girl could make, and I just—”

“But honey—that’s just it. It was a
mistake.
You didn’t
try
to hurt anyone. You might have let yourself down, but you didn’t let me down.”

“That can’t be true,” I say. “You might say that now, but then…”

“Marian. Look at me,” he says, as he removes his glasses. “Your mother and I have always been proud of you. Always.”

I nod, then whisper thank you.

A long moment of silence follows, until I sigh, then say, “This is really Mom’s fault.” I smile but his expression doesn’t change.

“She did the best she could, too,” he says, and I can’t help feeling touched by his defense of her.

“I was just kidding,” I say.

“I know … But for a long time, I
did
blame her. Longer than I even realized … Every time we saw a baby. Or a friend had a grandchild … I wanted her,” he says. Then he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a photo of her. The same one I have. The
only
one I have.

“She has your face,” he says. “She looks exactly like your newborn pictures.”

I nod.

“Does she still?” he asks, blinking. “Look like you?”

“Yes. She definitely has my ears,” I say, pressing them against my head. “And yours. Thank you very little.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a choking sound, as if narrowly converting a sob into something else.

“You’ll see,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

“I know,” he says. “I just can’t believe that she grew up … She is a young woman now.”

I nod. “It makes me feel so old.”

“You have no idea,” he says, running his hands through his silver hair. I have a sudden pang, thinking about him getting older, worried about him being gone. So grateful that nothing happened to him before this day.

“You know, I was shaving this morning, thinking about this baby picture,” he says, staring down at it again. “How I look at it every so often when I’m alone … Counting the years … trying to imagine her, at whatever age she is. And I thought to myself, that although I’m meeting her today, finally, that that baby, that little girl, is gone forever.”

I nod, knowing by the pattern of his speech that he is not only musing, but making a larger, more organized point.

“And then. It struck me … that that happens no matter what. That happened with you. My baby is gone. My little girl is gone.”

“Dad! I’m not
gone,
” I say.

“I know, I know. But in many ways you
are,
” he says. “Sure, we see you. We talk to you. We know what you’re doing and we watch your friendships and relationships and career and life unfold. But for all intents and purposes, you aren’t
ours
anymore.”

He looks up, the way he does in a courtroom, as if searching for words that I know he will find. “It’s like this,” he says. “Kirby is eighteen, right?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing that it is the first time he’s said her name.

“And she’ll be leaving home soon. Going off into the world to do whatever it is she’s going to do. God willing, productive and worthwhile work. And although we would have had all those years with her.
You
would have had those years with her … She’d
still
be leaving you now … So I guess what I’m trying to say is that life is fast. And it keeps speeding up. Sometimes I lose track of the season—or even the year. And we just have to make the best of it all. Our choices. Our fleeting moments together.” He takes a gulp of air, then slowly exhales. “We missed out on a lot of days and years and memories with her. But we can know her now. And we can embrace her now. And we will.”

His chin quivers, making him look old again, but he manages not to cry. “Son of a gun,” he says, shaking his head.

“What?”

“I have a rubber band and paper clip but no handkerchief.”

I laugh and he leans over and hugs me harder and longer than I can ever remember being hugged.

“Let’s go home,” he says. “I want to meet my granddaughter.”

*   *   *

We take the most direct route home, and find my mother in the kitchen whipping up an elaborate spread. Although she often cooks from her own memorized recipes, today she has consulted at least two cookbooks, both open on the counter.

“Hello, my dears,” she says, with a curious look. Her gaze moves from my dad to me, back to my dad. Naturally she wants a report, but my father and I give her absolutely nothing, both of us commenting on her appetizers instead.

“Everything looks delicious,” Dad says.

“And beautiful,” I say.

She thanks us with great impatience, then says, “Well? How did it go?”

“How did what go?” I say.

“Did you talk?” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes,” my dad echoes. “We sure did.”

“And?”

“We sorted through eighteen years of lies,” I deadpan.

“There weren’t
plural
lies,” she says, covering a plate of deviled eggs with Saran Wrap and putting it in the refrigerator.

“Lie number one,” I say, then quote her. “‘I will not tell your father.’”

“Lie number two,” my father says, ticking it off on his fingers. “‘We can’t tell Marian you know.’”

My mother pretends not to hear us as she puts the finishing touches on her bruschetta. Then she unties her apron, hangs it on a big iron hook inside the butler’s pantry, and spins merrily toward us, revealing a persimmon-colored silk dress with gold anchor buttons. Paired with three-inch heels, she looks beautiful but overdressed—perhaps not for the occasion, but for what I know of Kirby. Still, I think it is important that we all be utterly ourselves today—the true, honest version of who we are, as individuals and as a family. And this includes my mother overdressing and overcooking.

“So,” my mom says briskly. “You’ve decided to make me the fall guy.”

“Yep. Pretty much,” I say.

“That’s an excellent summation,” my dad quips, before going to her and putting one arm around her waist. He clears his throat, his expression changing to a serious one.

“Marian and I had a very nice talk,” he continues in a low voice, as if intended only for her, although we all know that I can hear him, too.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” my mom says. “We’re finally all on the same page.”

For one second, I am filled with a feeling of warmth and well-being—but then I think of Conrad. A worried look must cross my face because my father says, “What’s wrong, honey?”

Deciding that there is no room for deceit of any kind today, I sit at the kitchen table, feeling unsteady, then force myself to reply, “I was thinking about Conrad.”

“Who?” my dad says.

I look at him, puzzled, then even more stupefied as it computes that we never once touched on Conrad in Gillson Park; nor did my mother really discuss him in New York.

“Kirby’s biological father,” I say. “Remember him?”

“Not so much,” my mom says with a shrug. “Vaguely. We only met him once.”

“Yes. Right here in the kitchen,” I say, remembering the day I took the pregnancy test.

As my head starts to spin, I catch my father glancing at my mother with a purposeful look.

“What?” I say. “What was that for?”

My mom shakes her head.

“No more secrets,” I say.

“Fine,” she says. “We saw him one other time.”

“When?” I say, nauseated. “Where?”

“Oh, it was nothing. We just ran into him … somewhere. I think it was that little organic market in Winnetka,” my mom says, glancing at my dad. “By the tomato stand.”

Before my father can confirm that he remembers Conrad or the stand of tomatoes, I demand to know when all of this occurred.

“Kirby would’ve been about six,” my dad says.

“More like eight,” my mom says.

“Did you speak to him?”

“Briefly,” my mom says, stiffening. “We said hello.”

“So you recognized him?”

“Not at first,” she says. “He had filled out a bit. And his hair was … different.”

“Different how?” I ask, my heart palpitating.

“Just … different,” my mom says. “Maybe shorter? I don’t know … That was ten years ago.”

“Did he speak to you?” I say.

“He actually said hello first, I believe. Then we said hello back,” my dad says. “That was it. It wasn’t like we had a conversation. We were civil, but we weren’t too keen on him after how he handled the whole … situation.”

“What?” I say, shifting my gaze to my mom and giving her an accusatory look.

My mother frowns, guilty as charged.

“Mom? C’mon? Lie number three?” I say. Then I turn to my dad and say, “Conrad never knew I was pregnant.”

“He didn’t?” My father looks confused.

“No,” I say. “I never told him. I never even
saw
him again after I took the pregnancy test. And that was
my
choice.”

“Right,” my mom says. “That was
your
choice, Marian. So don’t go blaming me.”

“So wait. He
never
knew?” my dad says, clearly as shocked as Peter and my friends.

“No. And Mom’s right—that was my fault. He did
nothing
wrong,” I say.

My mom sighs and says, “Okay, fine. But can’t we all agree that that’s water under the bridge?”

I shake my head, resolute. “No. We
can’t
agree to that. And we certainly will say no such thing to Kirby. Conrad is just as much part of her as I am.”

My mom makes a face. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You wouldn’t?” I say. “So I belong to you more than Dad?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” my mom says, with the sudden audacity to be indignant. “The point is,
you
carried her for nine months and made the responsible choice to give her away—when that boy probably—”

“Conrad,” I say. “His name is Conrad.”

Deep down, I know that my self-righteousness doesn’t make any sense when I set the whole chain of lies in motion. But still. Kirby is in the picture now. And we are going to find Conrad. And at the very least, I think we all need to acknowledge that he has a name and a place in this story.

“Furthermore, we have no idea what he would have done,” I say, remembering my conversation with Peter, realizing that I am now taking his side in the debate. “I never gave him that chance.”

“Well, what are you going to do, Marian? Go tell him now?” she asks, throwing her hands up.

“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow with Kirby.”

My mother stares at me, her eyes wide. “Isn’t it a little too late for that?”

“Was it too late for her to find me? Is it too late for you to meet her?” I ask.

My father shakes his head, although I’m not sure whether he’s answering my question or simply digesting the whole situation.

“So what else did he say? When you saw him that day? Besides hello?” I say, wondering if he asked about me.

“Nothing else,” my mom says.

My father winces as if concentrating, then says, “I believe he also said, ‘Those are some nice-looking tomatoes.’”

Coming from anyone else, I would have heard sarcasm, but my father is simply being as accurate as possible about the details, one of the many reasons he is such an amazing trial lawyer.

“And that was it?” I ask.

“That was it,” he says quietly.

I nod, then tell my parents I’m going to my room for a few minutes before Kirby arrives. As I turn toward the stairwell, I picture Conrad at the tomato stand, remembering his hands, the way they looked and felt, warm on my skin, wondering if there was a ring on his left one that day my parents saw him. Wondering whether he’ll be wearing one tomorrow.