I tried to digest the fact my biological father was a real estate mogul, a self-made multimillionaire. When I couldn’t get my head around all the information, I read on.
“After the accident I went to a dark place,” Stan told the interviewer. “Ultimately it was my wife, Madeleine, who got me through it. I owe her everything.”
Madeleine was French-Canadian, two years Stan’s junior and his late girlfriend’s roommate. Her father was an automobile magnate who specialized in classic cars; her mother had died during childbirth. After the accident that almost killed Stan, he and Madeleine found solace in each other. She’d visited him in the hospital every day, and he’d proposed nine months later.
“I knew she was the one,” Stan said. “Never a doubt in our minds.” They’d married when he was twenty-seven, she twenty-five. Almost forty years. My eyebrows shot up, and I didn’t need to do the math. I wasn’t yet thirty. I was the product of an affair.
My mother had married Dad two months before I was born—I’d seen the pictures of them standing on the steps of City Hall, Dad beaming in a brown suit, white shirt and tie, my mother in a black shift dress stretched over her swollen belly, her face even. I wasn’t clear on the details about how long they’d dated, and it was something else I’d never get to ask Dad about. But once again I wondered if he’d always known he wasn’t my father, or if she’d cheated but pretended I was his.
I went back to reading the article, scrolled down to a photograph, my fingers freezing midair when I recognized Stan sitting between two women. My eyes darted to the caption.
Stanley Gallinger with his wife, Madeleine, and their daughter, Victoria.
Their daughter.
While Madeleine was the embodiment of chic—her neck long and swanlike, her blond hair tousled just so—it was Victoria who made my mouth fall open. She’d inherited her parents’ best features and made them her own.
Long, thick mahogany hair, almond eyes and a bone structure that would make the most famous of supermodels whimper, all of which exuded elegance and confidence. At the time of the article she’d been twenty-five, which made her twenty-nine now, the same as me. I sped through the last paragraph and modified my search to Victoria Gallinger. The security settings on her social media accounts were shockingly lax, and I quickly determined she lived in Portland, too, and she’d been born two months after me.
I stared at one of her profile photographs. Her hair had been swept to the side, her lips were slightly parted, as if she’d asked a question and was waiting for the answer. Again I noticed her eyes—as striking as her father’s—but a shade of warm emerald green, not his frosty blue.
The more I stared at her, the more elation built and mushroomed inside me. No longer able to contain the excitement, it exploded from within in a fit of childish giggles. I had another sister—half sister—and we were the same age. I imagined us as young girls with ponytails—hers brown, mine a dirty blond—sharing secrets and midnight feasts. As teens we’d have swapped clothes and complained about our boyfriends, all the things I’d never done with Amy. Victoria and I weren’t kids anymore, but was it too late to have the kind of relationship I’d always dreamed of?
I told myself to stop being ridiculous and went back to my snooping. Judging by the photographs taken on various beaches, at art gallery openings, horse races and après-ski functions in Whistler, Victoria’s days were glamorous and fun filled. Comparing our lives felt as if I was watching the original Wizard of Oz movie—mine was the black-and-white part, whereas hers burst forth in rich, opulent Technicolor. Despite the obvious differences in our upbringing, I wondered if we might still be friends.
The longer I studied Victoria’s pictures, the more I wanted this to be a gift, another chance at having a family, a way to no longer feel abandoned and alone, something I’d pretended so hard I didn’t care about, I’d almost had myself convinced. I fought the impulse to send her a Facebook message, introducing myself as her half sister. No. When—if—I contacted any of the Gallingers, it would have to be slow and steady. This wasn’t a situation to be rushed; I needed to be sure, and I needed to be careful.
As an army man, Lewis would’ve told me the first thing to do in unfamiliar territory was recon. Lots and lots of recon, which included being certain they really were my family, and who knew what about me.
Whispering a thank-you to the creators of social media for allowing me the ability to spy on others from the comfort of my living room, I continued piecing Victoria’s life together. She’d married a guy called Hugh Watters two years ago; they had no pets or kids. If the looks of affection and the way they wrapped their arms around each other were anything to go by, they were very much in love, and they had a set of equally attractive, wealthy-looking friends.
I opened another tab and typed in Gallinger Properties, headed to their Contact Us page and didn’t blink until my eyeballs had gone dry. Their offices were on Exchange Street. My biological father worked a mere fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. We’d probably passed one another in the street, maybe grabbed some lunch or a coffee from the same place at the same time. I hadn’t known of his existence. Had he known of mine? If he’d seen me coming, had he put his head down and crossed the street, pretended to be interested in a window display until I’d passed?
Head spinning, I went through my options, ranging from doing nothing to showing up at Gallinger Properties unannounced. I imagined Stan stepping out of an important meeting, demanding to know who had interrupted his busy schedule. As soon as he saw me, he’d rush forward with open arms and a tear in his eye, telling me he’d always hoped I’d find him.
Then again he might have zero clue who I was.
After mulling things over some more, I decided if I was going to contact him, by phone would be best, providing my throat didn’t close up before I got out a single word. Maybe sending a note was more sensible—not an email, but a handwritten one, perhaps a fancy greeting card I’d put in a padded envelope. Except...what if I sent it and he didn’t respond? What then?
The scenarios spun around my head, gathering speed, merging into an indecipherable blur.
Enough. I slammed down the cover of my laptop. While I’d thought I could choose to ignore things, a different path ahead was already coming more and more into focus, crystalizing in my mind. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life guessing if Stan Gallinger was or wasn’t my biological father, what he did or didn’t know about me, might or might not say.
No. Guessing wouldn’t do at all.
I needed to know.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I SPENT MOST OF SUNDAY in a contradictory combination of trying to rest my head, pretending to ignore what I’d discovered, overanalyzing everything I’d seen, spending more time researching the Gallingers and trying not to reach for the cookies as my stress levels rose. That pattern was interrupted midafternoon when an overworked-sounding detective called about Friday’s “incident,” asking for details and a description of my assailant. When I told him I couldn’t help, he almost sounded relieved. No doubt within a few days, my case would be buried underneath a pile of more solvable ones, already forgotten and gathering dust—which suited me fine.
My mother didn’t contact me, as was to be expected, but neither did Amy, and by now she had to know about Dad. This was an all-time high in the pathetic levels of our family’s dysfunctionality, but by late afternoon I decided I had to discuss Dad’s funeral arrangements with my sister. He might have left the final decisions to me, but she was his daughter, too. His real daughter. I swatted the voice away and picked up my phone.
“Hey, Eleanor, how are you?” Amy said in her overly enthusiastic stage voice. “What’s going on? Are you out of the hospital?”
Her comment threw me. “You knew?”
“Mom said she got a message from your neighbor? I’d have called, only—”
“You were busy?” I said, trying�
�failing—to keep the sarcasm at bay.
“Yes, I was, actually,” she said, her tone sharp as a glass cutter. “I was at auditions all weekend, if you must know. I got home all of two minutes ago.”
I counted to ten. “How are you coping with the news about Dad...?”
“Oh, it’s awful, isn’t it?” she said, her voice cracking. “I’ve been crying on and off. We knew it was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I whispered, wondering if we might finally bond a little, if the death of a parent was the thing we’d needed to bring us closer. “Listen, I, uh, I’ve made all the arrangements for the funeral. The service will be on—”
“Thursday, I know. Mom had the info. I’m sending flowers.”
“Okay, thanks. I guess you’ll stay with her? When do you fly in?”
“I can’t come, Eleanor.”
“What do you mean, you can’t come?”
She sighed. “You know how my work can be.”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you fill me in?”
“I told you, I had auditions all day.” Amy’s voice shot up. “One of them is a huge part in a soap opera which my agent says would really put me on the map—”
“But you can’t—”
“—and the callbacks are scheduled over the next week, plus I have a commercial to shoot the day after the funeral. I’m already booked.”
“It’s not—”
“Mom’s fine with it,” she snapped. “Why can’t you be?”
So much for sisterly bonding. “Because he’s your dad, Amy. Your dad.”
“I’ll be there in spirit. I’m sure he’d understand. Besides, you’ll be there, and you were his favorite, weren’t you? Always two peas in a pod.”
The sickly sweet tone with a sour undernote told me Amy had already known about the family secret I’d only just discovered. Of course she had. Our mother shared everything with her. I loosened the grip on my phone so I didn’t shatter the screen between my fingers.
“When did she tell you?” I said.
“Tell me what?”
“That Dad isn’t my father.”
She let out a long sigh, making it sound as if we were talking about something as trivial and bothersome as bad weather. “About a week after he was diagnosed. When I came back for a quick visit, remember?”
“Yes.” Although, as I recalled it, I didn’t know she was in town until Dad brought it up, by which time she was on a flight heading back to LA. “Why didn’t you tell me about Stan?”
Amy clicked her tongue but didn’t question who Stan was, which meant I was right. He was my biological father. My pulse raced as she started talking again.
“First of all, it was her secret to tell, not mine. And do you think it’s any better now that you know? I mean, you can’t do anything about it, can you, Nellie?” She laced her words with defiance and I could see her in my mind’s eye, standing in her perfect apartment, dressed in one of her perfect outfits, judging me with her perfect face, her expression tight, exactly like our mother’s except with fewer wrinkles and higher cheekbones. I wanted to scream, but she spoke first. “Mom did what she thought was best. It’s not her fault you were eavesdropping.”
“Oh, look, you’re taking her side. What a fucking surprise.”
“Dad hid it from you, too. Why aren’t you mad at him?” She paused for what I knew was dramatic effect before letting out another Oscar-worthy sigh. “I’m not looking for a fight—”
“Then show Dad the respect he deserves and come to the funeral. Because until then, we’ve got nothing more to say.”
I disconnected the call, silencing Amy’s protests. Despite knowing I’d more than likely not hear from her—or my mother—again, my chest heaved as the anger inside me mounted in a rolling crescendo. Although it wasn’t a huge surprise our mother had confided in Amy about Stan, the fact she’d done so while continuing to lie to me and talking about me behind my back made me want to slam my fists into the wall until my knuckles bled.
I headed for the fridge and wolfed down the leftover fish and chips without bothering to heat them up, opened an abandoned can of pears from the back of the cupboard and finished them all, including the sugar-laden juice, which I gulped straight from the can. During the few minutes it took to stuff myself, I kept thinking about Victoria and Madeleine, couldn’t imagine them behaving the way Amy and my mother had. They’d be respectful, compassionate and understanding, not petty, self-involved, lying little bitches.
The conversation with Amy and her total disregard for Dad rattled me so much, I tossed and turned when I went to bed, falling into fits of broken sleep around three. When I woke up again Monday morning, it was almost nine, but despite the several hours of rest, my head felt as if it had been stuffed with bags of fluffy cotton wool.
Both Nurse Miranda and Dr. Chang had warned that my body would need time to recover, but at least that pain had become a dull ache I could pretend to ignore. Staring at the screen far too long the day before hadn’t helped, especially when I’d found the home addresses for Stan and Madeleine, and Victoria. I hadn’t got any closer to the answers I wanted or reached a conclusion on what to do and felt like the vilest of traitors, especially when I switched on the radio to drown out the voice in my head, only to hear The Beach Boys singing “God Only Knows,” one of Dad’s favorites.
I buried my face in my hands as a fresh wave of grief and loneliness hit me, not wanting to listen to the lyrics but incapable of switching them off, wishing he were there.
After pulling myself together, brushing my teeth and fixing a quick cup of coffee, I opened my email, homed in on a note from Kyle, in which he asked for last-minute updates. Reluctantly, I got to work, replacing the carousel photos as he requested and doctoring the home-page layout according to his specs. Forty minutes and a brisk shower later, my intentions of going through the rest of my inbox evaporated. Instead I found myself rereading the entire article about Stan, examining the photos of Victoria and pulling up the Contact Us page on the Gallinger Properties website.
I looked at my watch. Almost lunchtime. Before I changed my mind, I grabbed my phone and dialed.
“Gallinger Properties, Steven Marshall speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Uh, hello... I...uh...”
What the hell was I doing? I ordered my fingers to hang up, but the phone remained at my ear, as if hot-glued there, my heart thumping so loud, I was sure Steven Marshall and everyone else at Gallinger Properties would hear its galloping tune.
“Hello, miss,” Steven said in a smooth baritone. “How may I be of assistance?”
I need to speak to my father. I gave my head a shake, making my headache come back with determined vengeance. “Uh, I, uh...” My brain kicked in, making my mouth move. “Is Mr. Gallinger in today?”
“He certainly is. I’ll put you through—”
“No.” Think. Think. “I mean, no, thank you... Uh, I have a delivery for him.”
“Oh, I see, well, you can leave it with me at reception. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“But it says I have to deliver it personally,” I blurted.
“Okay, let me check his schedule,” Steven said, giving me a few seconds to try to regain some of my composure. “He’s stepping out for lunch soon but he’ll be back around one thirty. Then he has meetings for most of the afternoon, but if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll let him know you’re here and we’ll squeeze you in.”
“Oh, uh, great.”
“Can I help you with anything else today? Directions to the office?”
“No, thank you,” I said in more of a squeak than actual words, before hanging up and lobbing the phone onto the sofa as if it had scorched my fingers.
He’s stepping out for lunch soon.
Steven’s words ran around my head over and over. There w
as no harm in me going to the Gallinger offices and waiting outside, was there? Not if my only intention was to catch a glimpse. The man was my father. I wouldn’t actually do anything, say anything. Not now and maybe not ever, but I had an insatiable desire to see him, if only from afar.
As I hurried to the bedroom to get changed, I stopped in front of the photograph of Dad and me, the one I’d taken last Christmas, well before his diagnosis. After showing him my latest drawings and draft company logos, I’d put my Nikon on a timer and taken an old-fashioned selfie in which we wore lopsided paper crowns, the ones you get in Christmas crackers along with plastic toys and lame jokes.
Pulling crackers was a tradition Dad had kept from his early childhood in England, and something we’d done every year without fail. We’d spent the day together, exchanging presents and eating roasted chicken—neither of us liked turkey—along with buttered mashed potatoes and honey-glazed carrots. After gorging ourselves silly, we’d collapsed on the sofa with a bottle of red wine, munching our way through a box of Belgian chocolates while one-upping each other with the Christmas cracker jokes.
“Where does Santa keep his money?” Dad popped a hazelnut swirl into his mouth and waited for my answer, his grin growing and spreading as I wrinkled my nose. He almost loved this ridiculous tradition more than I did. “Giving up already? It’s the snowbank.”
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