The Tower

by Lynn Moon

  Pete. How are you? Kendra wrote. We miss you.

  I hate math. Have you met your father yet? Wendy asked.

  Seeing the word father, my stomach tightened. I had to be living in a nightmare. None of this could be real. My father; the man was real, and I was going to be living with him. A complete stranger. Before I could reply, the man at the counter announced my flight. Walking alone down the dark narrow hallway to board the plane, loud roars from the engines surrounded me. The louder the rumbles and vibration, the more I wanted to go home. The more I wanted my mom. Stepping through an oval door just large enough for one, a flight attendant greeted me with a huge smile. As she led me to a seat, my tears fell. As others boarded, my eyes followed them down the aisle. I guess being young had some advantages, because I had to sit up front in first class. I counted two seats on each side, which meant I’d have to share my side with a stranger. I didn’t like strangers.

  A fat woman with long, bright red hair complained with each step as she walked down the aisle. The plane was too cold. The air was too stuffy. Her bag was too heavy. She was tired and hungry. I’d never heard anyone complain so much. Just as she stuffed herself into a seat, an older looking man with hardly any hair plopped down next to me. He smiled as he clasped the safety belt.

  “Well, hello there.” He had a warm and soft voice with a deep French accent.

  “Hi.” It was all I could say.

  “Do you live in Georgia?”

  “I do now.” I dared not cry for if I did, I’d never stop. So I turned to stare out the small window.

  My whole world didn’t feel real anymore. Since waking up in my uncle’s spare room, my life had changed. I now existed only inside this dream, this nightmare.

  “This is the captain speaking. We should have smooth sailing today. Current temperature in Atlanta is a mild sixty-five. No rain in the forecast. So sit back and enjoy the ride. Thank you for flying Delta Airlines.”

  “I live in Vancouver,” the man said. “That’s in Canada. If you do not live in Atlanta, then you must live here in New York.”

  “I did.” Not feeling friendly, I pulled out my tablet. The memories of my mom and Hank just wouldn’t go away. From the corner of my eye, I watched as the stranger shrugged his shoulders and opened a magazine.

  “My name’s Pete,” I said, feeling bad about being so rude. It’s not his fault my parents were gone. “My mom died. I have to go live with my dad now. He lives in Atlanta.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry to hear about your loss. My name is Alain. May I ask how your mother died?”

  “Drunk driver. My mom and stepdad went to lunch. Something for his work. On their way back, they were hit from the side. My uncle told me about it.”

  “I see. I am truly sorry. If there is anything I can do.”

  “No, there’s nothing anybody can do.” I turned my attention back to my tablet, and he was kind enough to leave me alone.

  Eventually, I found myself standing alone in the lobby of the Atlanta International Airport. I had to laugh. With my cart filled with four suitcases, two duffle bags, and a backpack, I felt and probably looked like a homeless person. Maybe I was homeless now. I stopped pushing long enough to catch my breath when a high-pitched voice startled me.

  “Excuse me.” A girl with long brown hair and a floppy brown hat stared at me. With her hands anchored firmly to her hips, she tapped her foot on the floor. “Are you Pete Crocker?”

  This must be the someone my uncle talked about. My own father couldn’t find the time to come and get me. Not a great way to start my new life. As I stared at the girl, I couldn’t help but think of the stale cookies that were given to us on the plane. With her brown shirt and pants, her body looked like the cookies that were wrapped in brown cellophane. In other words, fake. People here were not really people anymore. Instead, they were something else. Something that was stuffed tightly inside an obscure wrapper. Her staleness, hidden by her cellophane clothes, showed through by her actions toward me: fake.

  “Well?” she asked, tapping her foot harder against the stone-cold floor. “Are you or are you not Pete Crocker?”

  “Yes, I am.” I really didn’t want to answer her. But what else could I do?

  “Thank goodness.” With her steely eyes, she checked me up one side and down the other. “Brown/blonde hair past the shoulders, check … fair complexion, check … a little under five feet, check. Yep, you match the description. They were right; you look nothing like your father. Oh, well. I’ve been looking all over this place for you. If I had lost you … well, I didn’t, so no bother. Is this everything?”

  Who were the, they, she was talking about? “Yes, this is everything.” My father should have been a, he, not a, they.

  “Great, follow me. I really don’t have time for this. He volunteered me. It’s a long ride, so let’s go.”

  The mean girl walked away. Just like that, she walked away and left me alone to push the heavy cart. I struggled with my luggage through the double glass doors and into the brisk evening air. The parking garage was huge and seemed to go on forever. Every time I stopped to see how much farther we had to go, she yelled at me to hurry up. By the time we reached her car, my hands and feet were throbbing.

  All by myself, I loaded my heavy stuff into the trunk. Why wasn’t she helping me? Not liking this person at all, I climbed into the back seat so I wouldn’t have to sit next to her. Resting my head against the window, I stared at her. The girl remained silent until the car entered the expressway.

  “I’m Trish, by the way. I work for your father.”

  From my position, the girl didn’t seem friendly at all. Although I didn’t want to talk to her, I didn’t want to be rude either. “You don’t look old enough to work for my father.” My words just blurted out, surprising even me.

  “I’m twenty-two,” she replied.

  Not trusting my own mouth, I remained quiet.

  “So your mom died, huh? What a drag. Your father was pretty shook up when he heard about it.”

  “Why?” Now she had my interest.

  “Don’t know. Maybe he was upset because she died, maybe ‘cuz he got stuck with you. He didn’t say. I could just tell. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen him so worked up, not even in court.”

  Her words cut right through me. Was she deliberately trying to hurt me? Now I had something else to worry about—did my father even want me?

  CHAPTER 8

  DADDY, I’M HOME

  WHEN THE CAR ENGINE died, my body bolted straight up. I must have fallen asleep. I hadn’t realized how tired I was. Maybe it was from all the stress. Trish, already out of the car, headed for … wait that couldn’t be my father’s house. This place looked more like a castle.

  Standing in front of her car, I stared at the enormous structure. I couldn’t see much from where I was, so I took several steps back. Bumping into something, I turned and almost screamed. My heart exploded as two dark and sunken eyes greeted me.

  “You must be Petunia,” the old man said. His bushy, gray eyebrows reminded me of two caterpillars fighting for dinner on his face. Large red lips framed his mouth, which was loaded with crooked, yellow teeth.

  “Yes, Petunia. But, I’m called Pete. Who’re you?”

  “Charles. I work here. I’m to retrieve your luggage and escort you to your room.”

  Tall and skinny, he walked slightly hunched, giving him a creepy gait. Long light-gray braids dropped down his back. Wasn’t he too old for long hair? A red-checkered shirt and dirty khaki pants clung to his skinny frame, making him look even scraggier. He smelled terrible; reminding me of a cat’s litter-box that needed changing.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, grabbing several of my bags.

  “Do you know where my father is?”

  “Not here,” he replied.

  Without looking back, Charles entered the house; it was as if I wasn’t even there. As he walked through the doorway, he bent over so he wouldn’t hit his head. The hallway seemed too
small for his large body. It was probably just an illusion from all the dark wood. I wondered if Charles and my bags would fit.

  Stairs that seemed to go up forever greeted us next. Charles ran up them as if they were nothing, skipping every third step. When we reached the third floor, I stopped to catch my breath. He may be old and skinny, but his stamina impressed me.

  “Your room’s up here,” he said. “Keeps the noise down.”

  Excuse me? I’m eleven. I don’t run down hallways screaming and banging around. How clueless could they be about someone my age?

  The hard carpet under my feet didn’t feel inviting; it was too cold and rough. Not much light up here, either. If only my eyes would adjust so I could see better. He stopped near another set of stairs that led down. Charles opened a door. An eerie squeak sent chills up my back. Was this place also haunted?

  My hands shielded my eyes as a bright light hit my face. Peeking through my fingers, I almost puked. Right in the middle of the room sat a canopy bed with lacy, pink drapes. Yuck. A fluffy pink carpet covered the floor. I cringed. The place resembled a bottle of that nasty pink stomach medicine. In my opinion, it was a ridiculous attempt at decorating. A dresser with a large mirror didn’t look too bad. And I liked the idea of having my own bathroom. Investigating the new television and laptop computer, I decided that maybe this place had some potential.

  A large bang echoed through the room. Charles had dropped my luggage near the closet.

  “I’ll get the rest, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” I said, as he closed the door behind him. What a very odd man.

  Walking around the room, I giggled. Tons of children’s books filled the huge bookcases. Propped along the top sat over a dozen porcelain dolls. I jumped up to grab one by the foot. She was pretty. Yellow braids framed her shiny white face. A shiny face usually meant porcelain, like a teacup. After really studying her, it was obvious that someone had carved her from wood.

  “Your father made those for you with his own hands.” A woman’s voice startled me, making me grab hold of the doll that almost flew from my arms. Shaking her head, the woman frowned.

  She stood almost to my height, just a little taller. Long light-brown hair, just like mine, curled around her slender face. She looked young. Was this woman my grandmother? My other grandmother had kept her graying hair up in a bun. So she looked like a grandmother should look; old. But the woman standing in front of me could have easily passed as my mother. Who was she and why was she in my room?

  “Oh Pete, I frightened you. So fragile. Are you really that timid, my child?”

  Feeling guilty about touching the doll without permission, I shoved her back onto the shelf, cringing as she fell over. A loud thud bounced through the room when her head hit the wood.

  “Pete, I know you do not remember me. I’m your Grandmother Freya. I’m Peter’s mother … your father’s mother. You may call me Grandmother.” Keeping her hands clasped together, she tilted her head to the side. Not a welcoming stance, in my opinion.

  My uncle didn’t say a word about my grandmother being here. We shared a name, Freya. So why didn’t anyone tell me about her? Just a few weeks ago, I learned that my first name matched my dad’s. Now, I find out that my middle name matched my grandmother’s. All these secrets my mother had kept to herself. Why?

  My heart pounded as I studied the woman. Not knowing how to react to her troubled me. Confusion raked through my mind. Feeling lost, I smiled. She resembled me; a lot.

  “I’m looking forward to getting to know you again,” she said, her arms now folded across her chest.

  Although I wasn’t a mind reader, it didn’t take much to know that this woman didn’t want me here. As I watched her, Mr. Crocker, my uncle, flashed through my mind. And again, my mouth moved faster than my brain.

  “Are you Ted’s mother, too?” What a stupid thing to ask. Of course she was Ted’s mother. He said he was my dad’s brother.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I’ll explain everything soon. For now, just know we’re happy you’re here. I’m sorry to say that your father’s away on business.” She picked up a small frame from the desk and handed it to me.

  I held it gently between my fingertips. Touching the cold hard silver pulled what little hope I had of ever adjusting here right out of me. Staring at me was a handsome black man cuddling a tiny baby inside his large arms. Immediately, I saw my eyes on his face. My heart froze. They were the same eyes from my dream.

  “You may keep this photo, now that your mother is … well, it’s the only photo we have of you with your father. He was so proud the day you were born.”

  Grandmother wrapped her arms around me as I stared at the picture. As the frame dug into my chest, I wondered if she was trying to change everything by somehow making me a part of the past. Instead of feeling love or warmth, I might as well have been tied to a lamppost or something. Her arms, rigid and taut, felt nothing like my mom’s soft and gentle embrace.

  It was awkward, her touching me. She may have been my grandmother; however, she was still a stranger. Releasing me, she stood back. I stared at the photo, struggling to breathe. How could it be that my father was black? Nothing was making any sense.

  My mother was white. I was white. My uncle Ted was white. And my grandmother standing in front of me was white. I stared into her eyes, searching for answers. Instead, I saw my confusion on her face. Time stopped and the air froze around us. It wasn’t until Charles entered the room carrying the last of my bags that the spell broke.

  “I’m sorry for intruding, ma’am.” His heavy Southern accent echoed through the room. “This should be the last of it.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’ll be all. I do believe it’s time for a shower, Charles. What have you been doing?” The expression on her face flashed her displeasure, obviously from the strong odor emanating from his dirty clothes.

  “De-weeding the garden, ma’am.” With his mouth hanging open and his eyes darting between me and my grandmother, Charles winked at me.

  “De-weeding the garden? In February?” she asked.

  Not responding, he closed the door behind him.

  After an awkward silence, my grandmother spoke again. But her words didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, they made me feel worse. “You didn’t know your father was a black man, did you?”

  I couldn’t answer. I simply shook my head instead.

  “I honestly believed your mother would have told you, eventually.” She laughed. “Her parents always did refuse to accept him into their family.”

  It bothered me how pleased she sounded. It was as if she had just shared something with me that others had tried so hard to hide.

  “No, I didn’t know.” Could I trust or believe my own eyes or ears? The backpack that Charles had brought up grabbed my attention. I knew that the picture of the man with the missing face rested in the top right pocket. Pulling it from its hiding spot, I compared the two photos. Although mine was old and crinkled, the body structure of the two men matched exactly.

  “May I?” she asked, reaching for the photos. “Ah, yes.” She held out the picture with the missing face. “You were born two days after I snapped this one. I’m surprised your mother only cut out his face.” Again, she laughed.

  Why wasn’t she angry that someone had desecrated my father’s face? She saw the hole. It took all of my courage not to cry. Why was she being so mean? Did my mom hate my dad that much that now this woman hated me, too? Grandmother grabbed my hands. Not understanding her reaction to the photo, I almost panicked. Where were we going? Where was she taking me? Pulling me toward a small sofa near the tall windows, I relaxed, a little. We were not leaving this room. My room. My new bedroom.

  “Perhaps I should tell you a few things.” As she spoke, her eyes strayed to our clasped hands. “I married your grandfather when I was a young girl; only fifteen.” She glanced up at the ceiling as if reliving something special. “He was in the army when we met. Within three years, w
e had two boys, Peter and Teddy. After I married Peter Senior, my family disowned me just like what happened to your mother.”

  Who disowned my mother? What was she talking about?

  “I never saw my parents again,” she said. “Your grandfather was a black man, just like your father. Dead now. God rest his soul.”

  Grandmother smiled. I didn’t know what to say. Everything she just told me, my mother had kept as a deep and dark secret.

  “When your mom met your father, they fell instantly in love. They married about a year after their high school graduation.”

  “If they were so much in love, then why’d they break up?” Everything she was saying confused me even more.

  “Her family mostly.” Grandmother stood, stretched out her back, then paced around the room. “They did not approve of their precious daughter marrying a military man, especially a black one. Trouble, right from the start.” Her finger moved through the air as if scolding an invisible troublemaker.

  She stared out the window. Something inside me told me that this woman didn’t like me very much. But, why? I was her granddaughter.

  “When you were born, your skin was as white as a Georgia clamshell. Her parents were so happy. They had a white granddaughter, not a black one. They were the ones who talked your mother into leaving your father. Broke my Peter’s heart.”

  Not wanting to anger her more, I just listened as her eyes revealed the hatred she had held for so long.

  “Your father was in the army, too. They shipped him out just a few weeks after you were born. Your mother lived with me and Teddy at the time. We lived in New York. And that was when her parents took you two away. When he returned from overseas, you were a little over a year old. I argued with Peter for hours about you and your mother. Your father is a proud but stubborn man. Said he loved you two enough to walk away.” She turned and aimed her finger straight at my face. “I told him you were his daughter, too. But he said that without him around, you could pass as a white girl.”

  The passion in her eyes sent chills down my spine. Her glare oozed straight through me. Should I run? Should I stay?