I don’t know where Jimmy’s life path took him, but my mother’s took her to the maternity ward at San Francisco General the following March. She didn’t get to go to art school because she had to spend the next eighteen years working multiple jobs to support two children, which wasn’t easy even with the help of our grandmother. You’d think she would have complained or been bitter about how things turned out for her. God knows I would have been. But no, her cheerful outlook on life never faltered, nor did she ever have one unkind word to say about the guy who knocked her up and pulled a vanishing act.
There was always so much mystery surrounding our phantom father that my sister and I spent much of our childhood concocting elaborate stories to explain his absence. Fairy tale-loving Willa’s favorite involved our dad being heir to the throne of some far-off land. In this scenario, it was our princely father’s duty to his country, as well as his arranged marriage to a snaggle-toothed princess of a neighboring nation that was needed as a political ally, that kept him from being with us and our mother. Of course, I dismissed this as a ridiculous premise with way too many holes in it. For starters, why wouldn’t a princess have access to a dentist so that she could get her snaggly teeth fixed? An AWOL prince masquerading as a commoner I could accept as a possibility, but a modern-day royal with wonky teeth? Not likely.
My pet theory was Witness Protection, which made much more sense. After all, there was a lot of crime in San Francisco back in the ‘80s, which I knew because I liked watching the news while eating my Franken Berry before school every morning, and it wasn’t that big of a stretch to imagine my father had witnessed a hit ordered by the Odessa Mafia or one of the Chinatown triads. After testifying against this assassin, which shone a light on the nefarious doings of some powerful crime boss, my dad’s life was in danger, as were the lives of anyone he associated with, so he had to give up the woman he loved, adopt a new identity, and move to some non-descript place where the bad guys would never be able to find him, like Snoozeville, Idaho or Neverlight, Alaska. Naturally, at some point, the hitman, his boss, and all their associates would be wiped out in a mob war, and my heroic father would then be free to return to us and we would all live happily ever after as a family.
Yeah, I know. My disappearing daddy conjecture was every bit as convoluted and unrealistic as Willa’s, but it sustained me through all the Father-Daughter Dances and Bring Your Dad to School Days I didn’t get to participate in because my pop was in the wind. As long as I believed daddy dearest’s absence was for the greater good and had nothing to do with him not loving Willa and me, it was okay. I couldn’t live in this infantile state of self-delusion indefinitely, though.
When my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Mackey, gave the class a family tree project, I was mortified at the thought of turning in a tree that had nothing but bare branches on one side and this mortification triggered some sort of pre-teen existential crisis in me. Suddenly, I was asking myself the big questions: Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I the way I am? Truthfully, I’d been asking myself that last one for a long time. I loved my mother and Willa, but I had enough self-awareness to know that my mind and heart didn’t work like theirs did. They were light, magic, and air, forever embracing the abstract and the impossible, while my feet were firmly planted on the ground where things were logical, concrete, and definable. That’s what I love so much about numbers. In math, there’s always a solution, and it can be found with the right formula and good reasoning skills. No imagination or leaps of faith required. My left-brain dominance set me apart from Mom and Willa, it made me feel different, and to be honest, a little excluded sometimes. I longed to connect with someone who was like me and I hoped my father would turn out to be that missing link in my life. The family tree project was the push I needed to finally confront my mother and demand some real answers about the enigmatic Jimmy.
I can still remember climbing the stairs to my mother’s makeshift art studio up in the attic on that chilly November afternoon. My heart was in my throat, and I felt like I was going to upchuck with every step I took. Willa was trailing behind me, nervously chewing on her fingernails. She knew what I planned to do and had tried to talk me out of it, insisting that our mother would have told us where our father was if she could. I think she was afraid her prince fantasy would be spoiled by the truth, but she was such a good sister that she put her own feelings aside in order to support me. When we reached the top of the stairs, Willa slipped her hand into mine and gave it a squeeze.
Our mother was so lost in her work that she didn’t notice our presence in her studio at first. I had to call her name to get her attention. She turned to face us with a smile so bright that it seemed to illuminate her whole being. There was a streak of blue paint on her left cheek and her dark, curly hair rioted wildly around her face as if it had never been touched by a brush, but I thought she looked beautiful. Painting made her happy, and it showed. “Hello, my angels. Come and look at Mommy’s latest creation,” she beckoned us forward.
Willa moved toward our mother, her eyes fixed on the wet canvas a few feet away. No doubt she saw a whole story playing out in the colors and forms on that painting. I saw shapeless figures whose genders were not readily apparent, a sky that had both a moon and a sun in it, and a squiggly red line down the center. I didn’t get it and in that moment I knew I never would.
“I need my father.” The words tumbled out of my mouth. “I mean, I need to talk to him.”
My mother’s smile faded, taking with it the light that had seemed to emanate from her a moment before. “Sloane, honey, you know that’s not–”
“–possible? Yeah, you’ve been telling me that since I was old enough to ask questions about him, and I don’t want to hear it anymore. Give me a phone number or an address, some way to contact him.”
“I wish I could . . .,” she trailed off, looking pained.
“I’m not a baby anymore. You can tell me the truth. If you just made Jimmy up because you were embarrassed to admit you didn’t know who our father was–”
“Sloane!” Willa gasped in shock. I’m sure that our mother being a slut wasn’t something that had ever occurred to her, but I couldn’t stop myself from going there. I’d heard how wild teenage girls were in the ‘80s, sporting their frosted blue eye shadow, smoking clove cigarettes, and wearing their bras in plain sight. For all I knew, sleeping around was part of the fun, too.
“Jimmy is your father,” my mother assured both of us. “He was my first love. There was no one else.”
It was a relief to have that confirmed. I hadn’t relished the idea of knocking on random guys’ doors asking them to submit to a cheek swab. “Great, then give me his phone number,” I repeated my request.
She grimaced when she said, “I don’t have it.”
I was incredulous. “How can you not have it? What if there was some kind of medical emergency? What if Willa needed a kidney or a bone marrow transplant?”
“I’m fine,” my twin said meekly, trying to diffuse the situation.
I glared at her.
“If there was an emergency, I suppose I could reach out to your father through certain channels–”
“Channels?” I knew it! I knew that our mother had been holding out on us. There was a way to track down my father. Maybe through his family, or a mutual friend from back in the day.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t dream of using those channels unless there was a compelling reason. Girls, you have to understand.” She wrapped an arm around Willa’s shoulders and pulled her close, then reached her other arm out to me, inviting me into the embrace. I R.S.V.P.ed with a shake of my head. I wasn’t interested in group hugs, not until my mother satisfied my curiosity once and for all. With a sigh, she dropped her arm.
“Your father’s life is extremely complicated. He has certain responsibilities that prohibit him from being a daily presence in your lives. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t care–”
“If he cared, he would call us once in a while, or sen
d a card on our birthday, something. You don’t ignore someone if you care about them, you don’t refuse to acknowledge their existence.”
“He didn’t know you existed until five years ago,” she admitted. “He never would have known if the three of us hadn’t bumped into him and his wife when we were Christmas shopping in Union Square.”
My mind reeled. I’d seen my father. He had a wife?
“I don’t remember that,” Willa said in a stunned whisper.
“No, I’m sure you don’t.” My mother brushed Willa’s dark bangs off her forehead with an affectionate smile. “You were more interested in seeing the baby reindeer that were part of Santa’s village that year.”
“Those reindeer were so cute, with their velvety noses and sweet brown eyes. But they didn’t like all the noise and people trying to pet them when they were hun–”
“Forget the stupid reindeer!” I shouted, completely exasperated by my sister’s rambling when we had more important things to discuss. “What about our father?”
“Well . . . as I said, Jimmy never knew I was pregnant. I found out after he’d gone back to school and I didn’t have his address or phone number in the UK, so there was no way for me to get in touch with him. I thought it was probably for the best because his family had a plan for his future, and it didn’t include him becoming a father before he’d even graduated college. Running into him all those years later was a shock. He’s a smart man. He took one look at the two of you and knew. I’ve always told you that you have his eyes.”
“So, you confirmed Willa and I were his daughters and–?” I wanted to know how he’d reacted. Had he been pleased? Upset that he’d missed out on so many years of our lives? Horrified at the thought of becoming an insta-dad?
“He and I had a long talk about the two of you. He could see that you were both happy and healthy, which was what mattered most to him. We also talked about what was going on in his life, the obligations he had to his family and his business, and in the end we decided it would be best for everyone not to make any changes or disrupt your lives, to carry on as we had before with me being your sole caregiver.”
“He had a choice?” My voice quavered on the last word as I realized exactly what that meant. No Witness Protection Program, no duties to a foreign crown, not even a mom who’d tried to prevent us from having a relationship with him, or a geographical barrier since he lived right here in San Francisco. Our father didn’t have one single, valid excuse for being a no-show in our lives.
“He chose to do what he thought was best for you girls,” my mother said.
“He chose to do what was best for him,” I bit back. “He couldn’t be bothered to make room for Willa and me in his busy, ‘complicated’ life. God, I am so stupid!” I laughed bitterly when I remembered all the secret fantasies I’d been harboring about meeting the man who gave me his blue eyes and (I hoped) his affinity for numbers. “I should have known he wasn’t around because he just didn’t want us.”
Willa’s lower lip started trembling and a tear splashed down on to her cheek, which made me feel rotten. I’m sure she was every bit as heartbroken as I was. The difference was that she’d get over it. She had her animals and our mother and her perpetually sunny nature to buoy her up; she would find a way to forgive our father and not let his rejection permanently scar her. I wouldn’t. This hurt, and I wanted my huge disappointment of a dad to hurt, too. “I hate him!” I screamed, hoping wherever he was he could feel my anger and loathing, then fled from the room, ignoring the calls of my mother and sister. I was running so fast I don’t know how I got down those three steep flights of stairs without breaking my neck, but somehow I made it to Gav’s front door in one piece.
Seeing how upset I was, he let me in with no questions asked. We went upstairs to his rec room, where I spent a solid half-hour punching and kicking the inflatable bop bag with Bozo’s face on it that Gav had gotten on his ninth birthday. When I finally exhausted myself, I collapsed on the ugly blue carpet his mom had bought because she thought it wouldn’t show stains (Gav was forever knocking over glasses of Kool-Aid.) I relayed my tale of parental woe to my friend, who had trouble understanding how anyone’s dad could be such a jerk when his own father was like Danny Tanner, Tony Micelli, and Steven Keaton all rolled into one. Gav said all the right things – my dad was a loser who didn’t deserve to have such awesome kids, Willa and I had gotten along fine without him for eleven years so clearly we didn’t need him, and one day he’d regret missing his chance to get to know us. That last one was my favorite. In fact, it became a very strong, motivating force in my life. It drove me to always strive for success, to be high school valedictorian, to attend one of the most prestigious universities in the country, to graduate summa cum laude, to pursue multiple degrees, and finally, to get myself hired by one of the biggest accounting firms in San Francisco.
Maybe if I’d had a father as loving as Gav’s, I wouldn’t have felt the continual need to push myself and prove my worth. Maybe I’d be teaching algebra to a bunch of middle school brats right now, instead of kicking butt and taking names at Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister. The thought makes me shudder as I pull up to the curb outside my house. I guess I do have something to be grateful to the sperm donor for, after all! If I knew where he was, I might send him a thank-you card:
Dear Dad-in-name-only,
Just a quick note to let you know how much I appreciate you ignoring me all these years. I have achieved so many great things without your love and support; I truly believe the sky is the limit.
Fingers crossed that you keep pretending like I don’t exist, because I have my eye on the governor’s seat.
Unaffectionately yours,
Sloane
Smirking with amusement at my imagined correspondence, I get out of the car and gather all my belongings before trudging up the front steps to the Victorian. My load of work paraphernalia feels extra heavy tonight, probably because I’ve been up for thirteen hours and haven’t eaten anything since that microwavable cup of beef noodle soup at noon. I am really looking forward to shedding these work clothes, heating up some leftover takeout which I will eat while sipping a nice glass of wine or two, then parking it on the couch where I can write up a report on my initial meeting with Ms. Summers and outline a plan of attack to bring down that slimy weasel Grant Kittredge. The perfect evening!
I fiddle with my keys for a minute. Why do I have so many of the damn things? I bet I don’t even use half of them. Did I just hear something inside the house? Curious, I press my forehead up against the etched glass on the upper part of the door and squint my eyes, trying to see if there’s any movement inside. The front hallway looks clear, although I see some light streaming in from somewhere in the back. Must have left one of the overheads on in the living room or kitchen, which isn’t surprising since I was in such a rush to get out of– Suddenly, a furry, white face pops up on the other side of the glass accompanied by the sound of claws scrabbling against wood. Shrieking in surprise, I stumble back, dropping my keys and laptop case on the ground. Worried that I might have just broken a valuable piece off ATM office equipment and lost all my work from the last twenty-four hours, I drop to my knees and rip open the Velcro-secured case in a panic. Thankfully, the computer shows no external sign of damage. I hold it up to my ear and give it a little shake. No internal parts making scary sounds, so I think I’m in the clear. Thank God for all the protective cushioning in laptop cases! I’m stuffing the computer back in its padded home when my front door flies open. I look up to see my sister, wearing some brightly colored polka dot dress and a frilly, old apron of our mother’s. She looks like Mad Men’s Betty Draper when the character was in model housewife mode back in season one.
“Sloane, what are you doing down there?” she queries in her lilting voice.
Chapter 9
(Willa)
“Your lunatic dog scared the crap out of me, and I dropped my bag,” Sloane answers my question while glaring accusatorily at Cicer
o who’s bouncing up and down like he’s on a pogo stick next to me.
“Aw, he was just so thrilled you were home that he got a bit carried away with himself. Right, boy?”
Cicero continues to do his Mexican jumping bean impression.
Putting my hand in front of my mouth, I mumble to the side, “Maybe you should apologize to your Auntie Sloane.”
Taking my advice, Cicero trots over to my sister, who’s still kneeling on the ground fussing with her computer, and licks her on the cheek.
She grimaces, grumbles, “Yes, fine, I forgive you, you little maniac,” and gingerly pushes Cicero away.
“Good. We’re all friends again.” I smile happily. “Let’s go inside.” I offer Sloane my hand and help her up.
“What are you two doing here anyway?” Sloane wonders as we all file back into the house. My sister’s never been a fan of surprises; they put her on her guard. I better play this cool so that she doesn’t think I’ve got an ulterior motive for being here.
Leading the way to the kitchen, I say over my shoulder, “I was visiting with Gav earlier and decided to stick around until you got home. It’s been a while since we’ve spent any quality sister time together.”
“I’ve got work,” Sloane mutters while making a pit stop in the living room to dump her purse, briefcase, and computer on the coffee table and kick off her three-inch heels. I don’t know how she wears those things every day. My feet ache just looking at them.
“You always have work. It can wait for an hour or two while you relax and recharge your batteries.” The timer on the oven dings. “Oh, that’s the quiche!” I clap my hands together excitedly.
“You made a quiche?” Sloane looks mildly intrigued as she trails me into the kitchen.
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