by Kim Hooper
I’ve found Marni on Facebook, too. She’s married—in spite of herself. She’s childless and working at a Manhattan ad agency, which reminds me that not everything in life goes haywire. Nancy, not surprisingly, doesn’t have a Facebook page. Neither does my mom. Google has nothing to say about them, either.
I text Paul to ask him if Facebook is an acceptable way to contact Claire’s father.
He writes: Remember when I said you’re not a coward? I take it back.
Ha. You see my true colors now.
Let me know how it goes.
I click “Send Message” on Drew’s page. A box appears. This box is for friends messaging each other about an upcoming party or their date last night. It’s for reminders like, Hey, you left your sweater at my house. I’ll bring it when I see you on Tuesday. It’s for casual conversation. It’s not appropriate for what I have to say. And yet it will have to do, because, like Paul has finally realized, I’m a coward.
I type:
Dear Drew … or Andrew … or Andy:
It makes me sad that I don’t know what you go by anymore. To me, you were always Drew.
You’re probably wondering who this is. You don’t know a Jane Smith. That’s what you’re thinking, right? My profile name is fake and my one photo, of the sun setting at a beach near where I live, doesn’t offer many clues. Even if I told you it was in California, that wouldn’t help. You might not think you know anyone in California. But you do.
My name is Connie Prynne, but it used to be Emily Morris.
Yes, your Emily Morris.
How do I say this? What happened on September 11 didn’t kill me—not physically, at least. I’m alive.
If you don’t believe me, try this:
You have a mole on your lower back, placed as if to mark the very end of your spine.
On the day of our wedding, your mom brought a bouquet of carnations. I knew the shaking in her hands was getting worse because I could hear the flowers rustling in the plastic as she tried to hold the bouquet steady during the ceremony.
We adopted Bruce when we were right out of college, clueless but full of love.
Our first and last apartment was on Irving Avenue. We had a neighbor named Jim. He had pet parakeets and wore the same windbreaker every day.
Do you believe me now?
There’s only one real purpose to this message: To tell you about Claire. She turns fourteen in May. It was time to tell her about you, her father.
I don’t know how to explain why I left New York. I had to. If you have questions, I’ll answer them. We weren’t happy—you and me. We both know that, don’t we?
Anyway, I’d just found out I was pregnant, then 9/11 happened. I left. I gave birth here, in California, the place I call home now. She looks just like you.
I would have called, but I didn’t want to catch you off guard. Or maybe I didn’t want you to hang up on me. This way, you can take your time with what I’ve said and respond—or not—as you see fit. I can only imagine what I put you through. I’ll understand if I never hear from you.
—Em
818-555-0198
I don’t mention Gabe. And I don’t mention the cancer because I don’t want that to be the reason he responds, if he responds. I read it through one time. Then again. And again. The cursor seems to blink at me faster and faster, with greater urgency. I hit “Send” and the message disappears. I close my laptop, place it back on the coffee table. I stare at it and wait. I’ve already decided that I won’t tell Claire I sent the message. If he doesn’t respond at all, I’ll act like I never contacted him. She’ll resent me and what I’ve done—that is so fucked up—and I’ll have to live, or die, with that.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s not like Claire to oversleep. Maybe she’s exhausted from yesterday, from the disastrous trip to the beach. I, for one, didn’t sleep at all last night. I was up thinking about Claire’s hatred of me while simultaneously waiting for Drew to respond to my message. It says “Read” next to the message, so I know he’s seen it.
I go to her room and knock lightly on the door.
“Claire?” I say.
Claire never misses school. Come hell or high water, she goes to school.
There’s no answer.
“Claire?” I say again.
I turn the knob quietly, push the door open. And there is her bed, carefully made. No Claire.
I text her.
Where are you?
I go through the motions of a normal day, trying to trick myself into believing it is a normal day. There has to be an explanation. After I shower and eat my cereal, there’s no response, though.
Claire, this isn’t funny. Call me.
I call Al. He hasn’t heard from her.
“Is her backpack there?” he asks.
I go check, rifling through her room. “Doesn’t look like it,” I say.
“Well, then, she’s taken off somewhere,” he says.
Al would probably be a good parent. He has the “calm, cool, collected” thing down pat.
“Don’t worry, Con,” he says. “She’s at that age. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Al doesn’t know I told her about Drew. Al doesn’t even know about Drew. What am I supposed to say to him? You know how your girlfriend took your daughter and left you? I did the same thing.
* * *
After eight o’ clock, I call the school. They say Claire isn’t in homeroom. I thought for sure she would be. Like I said, Claire never misses school. I call Heather’s mom and Riley’s mom. They haven’t seen her or heard anything. They both say, “But Claire’s such a good kid,” which just makes me think she didn’t leave on her own accord; someone took her, like in a Dateline episode. I don’t have Tyler’s mom’s number, but Riley’s mom does.
“Ty isn’t here, either,” his mom says, with less worry in her voice than I think she should have. She sounds relieved almost, maybe assured that Claire is with him, that this is some kind of teenage scheme as opposed to abduction.
“Any idea where they might be?” I ask.
“God, I don’t know,” she says.
“They can’t be far. They can’t drive.”
I don’t even know how or when Claire and Tyler convened. Was it last night?
“I bet my older son is involved,” she says, still too calm for my liking. “Let me call him and I’ll call you back.”
I wait an agonizing five minutes before she calls.
“I was right,” she says with satisfaction. “I promised Trevor a new paint job for his car and he came clean.”
I don’t care about your bribing tactics, lady.
“He says he picked up Claire last night and took them to the beach.”
“The beach?”
“He says they wanted to camp there.”
“Is that even legal?” I say, then catch myself: “Never mind, what beach?”
“The one at the end of Topanga Canyon.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Thanks,” she says, as if I’m doing her a favor, as if this isn’t any kind of emergency. “Tell Ty he’s in big trouble.”
* * *
The beach parking lot is mostly empty considering it’s a Monday morning. At first I think I’m at the wrong spot. I don’t see them. But then, down by the shore, two silhouettes come into view. They’re sitting cross-legged, facing the ocean. The wind whips. They must have been freezing last night.
They don’t hear me coming because of the sound of the waves. When I appear, it must seem like I came out of nowhere. They’re both startled. They stand at attention like military cadets.
“Mom,” Claire says.
She probably thought it would take me longer to find them. She wanted me to worry, to feel the same panic she felt when I told her I was dying, the same rage she felt when I told her about Drew.
“How did you—”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m glad you’re both safe.”
Tyler looks embarrassed. I’m su
re Claire put him up to this. It’s easy to blame the boy, when you’re the mother of a girl, but this has Claire written all over it.
“We didn’t have any tests or anything at school today,” he says, trying to make it okay.
“It’s my fault,” Claire adds.
She must really like this Tyler boy. She’s abandoned her feud with me to defend him.
“Let’s just go,” I say.
Claire and Tyler look at each other, waiting for me to reprimand them and deliver a punishment. I don’t have the energy for that.
“Oh, and Tyler, I’m supposed to tell you you’re in big trouble.”
* * *
I drop off Tyler at his house at the other end of the canyon. He thanks me profusely and then tells Claire to call him later. He likes her. The way his eyes flick from side to side when he attempts to look straight at her gives it away. Surprisingly, I don’t hate this kid. He seems harmless and a little dumb.
“Is he your boyfriend yet?” I say to Claire, breaking the silence of our car ride.
“No,” she says. “Just my friend.”
“That’s what you think,” I say. “He likes you.”
“Whatever,” Claire says.
I see her smile, though, slightly.
We are silent again until Claire realizes we’re not headed home and says, “Where are we going?”
“I have my last chemo treatment today,” I say, “and since you’re apparently a flight risk, you’re coming with me.”
* * *
Paul is at the infusion center when we show up. He’s done with his treatments, so I’m not sure what he’s doing here.
“Surprise!” he says.
He has a book under one arm, and a bottle of sparkling water. I always bring sparkling water to my treatments.
“You came to sit with me?” I ask.
Throughout this hell—or “journey,” as some like to say—I’ve envied the people who have visitors, loved ones who pull up a chair next to them. There’s this older guy who comes with his thirty-three-year-old daughter who has stage four breast cancer. Sometimes he naps, sitting upright. Sometimes he reads his newspaper. Sometimes he holds his daughter’s hand. Sometimes he argues with her about politics. No matter, he’s there.
“I did,” he says, “but I see you have company.”
Claire gives a shy wave.
“Oh, this is Claire,” I say. “She wasn’t supposed to come, but she ran away from home and I just found her, so this is her punishment.”
He disregards these details and just says, “The infamous Claire.”
Claire looks at me like, Who is this guy? I haven’t mentioned Paul to her before. We don’t really talk about my chemo treatments. In her mind, they happen, but in some alternate universe.
“I’m Paul,” he says, when he realizes she has no idea who he is. He seems a little hurt, like maybe he thought he was a bigger part of my life than he is.
I go to my usual chair. Paul and Claire sit on either side of me. Nurse Amy isn’t working today. It’s Desi, the mute, again. She hooks me up without fanfare, without recognition of this being my final treatment. Nurse Amy brought me a cake the last time she saw me. A cake!
“Last one,” Paul says, as if reading my mind.
“For now,” I say.
“Ever,” he says. He winks at Claire.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Claire says.
“Are you going to run away again?” I ask. I’m teasing her, mostly, but she’s not in the mood.
“I didn’t run away,” she says. “I just needed some space.”
Before I can tell her that she should take space in the backyard next time, she pushes herself out of the chair and walks to the bathroom slowly, like she’s in no hurry, like she’s hoping my chemo will be over by the time she gets back.
“I told her about her father,” I say to Paul when she’s out of earshot.
“Oh,” he says. Paul and his “oh.”
“It didn’t go so well.”
“Probably came as a bit of a shock.”
“A bit,” I say.
“Have you heard from him?” he asks.
I check my phone again, just in case.
“No,” I say. “I should have expected that, though.”
“Maybe he doesn’t go on Facebook very often,” he says. “I never go on Facebook.”
“He saw it,” I say. “He even changed his profile picture.” The picture now is a close-up of him smiling on what appears to be a ski slope. I can’t help but wonder if he posted it as a message to me, a hey-I’m-really-happy, fuck-off message. That’s probably what I would do, if I were him.
“Maybe he’s thinking about it,” he says. “Give it a few more days.”
“He probably hates me,” I say.
“Probably,” he says. My stomach drops when he says this. “But he can’t hate Claire.”
Claire comes back from the bathroom and takes her seat. She pulls out her phone and starts texting away. Tyler, probably.
“So, Claire, have you planned out the summer road trip yet?” Paul asks.
I’ve told him I’m not sure the road trip is on. He’s trying to play peacemaker for us. Claire looks at me, her eyes asking the same question I have: Are we still doing that?
“Uh, kind of, not really,” Claire says.
“You two gotta get on that,” Paul says. “You are going, right?”
Claire and I look at each other.
“Come on, you’re going,” Paul says. He nods his head once, like a genie granting a wish.
“I’m in if you are,” I tell Claire.
We’ve both pissed each other off over the last several weeks. I’m willing to extend the ol’ olive branch.
“I’ll think about it,” she says.
She’s holding the power for now. I get it. She resumes texting.
* * *
When I’m all finished, when Paul and I have exhausted our small talk, we walk out together, the three of us. Paul follows us to our car.
“You’re done,” he says.
It doesn’t feel like I’m done, though.
“Yep,” I say.
“So I guess this is it,” he says.
He’s referring to us, the regularity of our togetherness. He’s fishing for a future.
“Yep,” is all I say.
“You know, I can give you a ride to and from the hospital when you have your surgery.”
I hadn’t even thought about needing a ride. It unnerves me that Paul has.
“My personal chauffeur?” I say nervously.
“At your service.” He bends at the waist, a playful bow.
I will need a ride, so I say, “I might take you up on that.”
Claire gets in the car, bored with us.
“Please do,” Paul says.
He probably wants me to hug him, but I’m not really a hugger. Instead, I give him an awkward wave. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and walks away. I’m a little wistful watching him go.
“That guy likes you,” Claire says, the second I close the door and start the car.
“Paul?” I say.
“Yes, Paul,” she says, like I’m an idiot.
“Nah,” I say.
She just shakes her head. We’re halfway home when she pulls her knees up to her chest and looks over at me.
“Why would you leave my father and then spend the rest of your life single?” she says.
The question catches me off guard.
“Don’t you want to fall in love?” she says.
Young people and their romanticism.
“You’re my priority, sweetie,” I say, “not love.”
“That’s sad,” she says.
More silence, then: “So you’re not going to, like, ground me?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think we’re even.”
She scoffs. “Hardly.”
We pull into the driveway at home, but she doesn’t get out. I take this as a cue
to stay where I am.
“Ty says I should try to find him, my father,” Claire says.
“Oh,” I say. Paul’s favorite refrain.
“Why did you leave him?” she asks with a seriousness that implies she’ll understand the reasons I give.
“You know what happened on September eleventh?” I ask her. I don’t mention the year. Nobody ever mentions the year.
“Yeah.” From her history classes, she knows.
“I died on September eleventh,” I say. “In a way. I died, in a way.”
“Like, you couldn’t be there anymore?” she says.
“Something like that.”
“So you came here.”
She inhales a big breath.
“Was he a bad guy or something?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Didn’t you miss him?”
“Sometimes,” I say.
“Am I like him?”
“You look like him. You’re optimistic like him. You have a kind heart like him,” I say. “You’re smarter than both of us.”
She smiles.
“Do you think he’d want to meet me?”
“He’d be a fool not to,” I say.
“Maybe we could figure that out somehow,” she says.
She’s thought about this already, I can tell. It pains me a little because I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t know if Drew wants anything to do with me, and her by association.
“Yeah, sweetie, maybe.”
She opens the door and gets out. I stay for a minute, sorting the coins in my cup holder. Just then, like magic, my phone rings. The caller ID shows the 917 area code. New York. It takes only a second before I recognize the shapes, the order, of the numbers. I swallow hard, consider letting it go to voice mail. But then I consider that this may be the one time he calls, my one chance.
“Hello?” I say, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white.
“Emily?” he says.
He used to call me Em.
“Emily?” he says again.
And then I start to cry.
TWENTY-NINE