“Okay,” I say. “There are ten results. Should we just . . . call them?”
“Better than visiting all of them,” he says. “I just wish we knew what part of Tallahassee he worked in—that would narrow it down.”
“Let’s start over by the high school. Maybe he never moved out of that area,” I decide, seeing two shops around there. Bennett gets out his phone and dials one number, while I click on the other.
As the phone rings, I realize I have no idea what to say. Just ask for him? Ask if he works there?
“Hello,” a man says before I can decide on anything.
“Hi, um, I’m looking for Chad Glickman?”
“No Chad here.”
“Oh, okay, thanks,” I say, feeling dejected.
“No luck,” Bennett says, putting his phone down.
“Same here,” I say. Then I pick up my phone, and we both try again. And again. I’m not sure what to feel, as each call brings me excitement and dread and fear and hope.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Chad Glickman,” I say, for the fourth time.
“Hold on, I’ll get him,” the voice says, and I freeze. It worked. Chad Glickman works at this mechanic shop. And I have no idea which one it is, which one I called. I grab Bennett’s arm and point to the phone. He hangs his up quickly, turning to me.
“What do I do?” I whisper frantically. Bennett shakes his head and I quickly drop my phone, ending the call.
“You hung up,” he says, pointing out the obvious.
“I wasn’t ready,” I admit. “I mean, this is a guy my mother dated. Around the time I was born. There’s a small chance he’s my father. Probably not, but you never know. What do I say to that?”
“It’s okay,” he says, taking my hand in his. “Would you rather go visit him? We know where he is now, at least.”
I think about it. I want to see him, definitely, but also I’m terrified. Of what he’ll say. Of what he won’t say. “I think . . . yeah . . . okay . . .” I say, noting the number I called, and which shop it’s attached to. “This is so weird.”
“This whole experience is weird,” Bennett says, and I smile. “Do you want to go now, get it over with, or wait? We can go tomorrow if you’d rather, or—”
“Now,” I say quickly. “Let’s just go now.”
He turns the car on. “Okay, let’s go.”
“I’m kind of scared,” I admit, feeling adrenaline coursing through my veins as he starts to drive.
“I’m here,” he says. “It’ll be okay. And if it’s not, we can leave.”
I nod, reminding myself that leaving is always an option. I look at Bennett and am happy he’s here with me, but part of me still wishes it was Treena. Despite everything. I think back to what Bee said about my mom, and how her biggest regret is not making things right. I know, no matter what, I’ll go back to Treena and we’ll work things out. We won’t ever lose each other, despite what we do, and knowing that comforts me, in a way. I don’t want us to grow apart—I know we’ll grow, but I want us to grow together.
She and I used to joke about who my dad could be—a celebrity, the president, anyone, really. And though I don’t know about Chad, it’s upsetting she’s not going through this with me. “I wish I could tell Treena . . .”
“About this?”
“About everything. This. You.”
“I think she knows who I am,” he says, pulling back onto the road.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
“So I get to be the topic of girl talk?”
“You wish.” I shake my head. “There are some things you just really want to tell your best friend when they happen.”
“She’ll come around,” he says.
“I know,” I answer.
We pull up to an old, weathered building with an open garage door. An equally weathered billboard in blue and white towers above us, reading CARL’S CARS.
“Looks like we’re here,” Bennett says, and I nod, looking up.
“So what now?” Before us, there are two cars in the open garage, both elevated, with a mechanic working underneath each one. There are stains on the floor, towels tossed around, and giant red toolboxes next to them. There’s also a lot of noise.
“Well,” he says, looking at me, “you can either go in there and ask for him, or we can turn around and go back to my dorm to make out.”
I start laughing despite my nerves. “Tempting,” I say.
“You can do it,” he says, taking my hand. “The talking to him, that is. The making out we already know you can do.”
“Thank you for the affirmation,” I say. I look at the shop and think my whole unknown past could be through that door. And all I have to do is open it.
I turn to Bennett, but he cuts me off. “I know—I’ll stay here.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
I get out of the car and open the front door of the building. A little bell rings, signaling that I’m here, and I look around. It’s a small room with a few empty plastic chairs lining the wall. There’s a TV playing the local news, and before me is a desk with one man standing behind it, scribbling something into a notebook. The room smells like gasoline, oil, and burnt coffee.
I look over the guy behind the counter. He’s tall, taller than Bennett at least, with dark brown frizzy hair. Hair like mine. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt and has a few days’ worth of scruff on his face.
Something tells me this is it. I walk toward him.
“Excuse me,” I say, and he looks up at me. He has a pink scar on his cheek, I notice, right under his eye. “I was wondering if a Chad Glickman worked here?”
“Yeah,” he says, standing up straight. “Did you call earlier?” I recognize a slight southern accent in his speech.
“Um, yes, sorry, dropped my phone,” I say, blushing. “Um, is he here? Working today?”
“It depends.” He rests one arm on the counter and leans to the side. “Who wants to know?” he asks with a grin, and that’s when I know it’s him. And I’m not sure if he’s being nice or flirting with me, and that makes it all very uncomfortable.
So I answer simply, “Claire Fullman.”
He jerks back, removing his arm from the counter, and drops his mouth open. He furrows his brow and stares at me, takes me in. Then he remembers to breathe—as I do—and drums his fingers on the counter. “Claire Fullman?” he asks. “I haven’t heard that name in years. How do you know her?”
“I’m her daughter,” I admit.
His face goes white, ashen, and his fingers stop moving. “Daughter?”
“Yes. Um, she gave birth to me before she . . .”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, looking down. He rubs the back of his neck with his right hand, and I can see wrinkles stretching his face. “I know, I remember.”
I can see this is hurting him, surprising him. I need to backtrack. “Sorry for throwing all of that at you . . . so quickly. Chad, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, I’m Chad,” he says, nodding. “And you are?”
“Maude,” I say.
“Nice to . . . nice to meet you,” Chad says. “Why don’t we . . . um . . . okay, hold on. I’ll be right back,” he says, then walks through a door behind the desk.
As soon as he’s gone, I let out a long breath. I can’t shake the sight of him being surprised to see me. I can’t deny that it might mean something else—that I might mean something else to him.
The door opens again, and he’s back, looking less flustered. “Okay, sorry, let’s go outside. I’m taking a break,” he says, and walks out from behind the counter. I follow him out to the side of the building, where there is a pile of tires and a wooden picnic table with an ashtray atop it. He signals for me to sit down, then gets out a package of cigarettes. “Mind if I . . . ?”
“No,” I say, and he lights his cigarette, the embers burning deep orange as he breathes in.
“So,” he says. “You’re Claire’s daughter.”
�
��I am,” I say, and when he doesn’t answer, I add, “Again, I’m sorry for coming here like this. I’m only in Tallahassee for a few days. Um . . . I never knew Claire, obviously, so I wanted to meet some of her friends from school, see what she was like, learn some things about her,” I admit.
He nods, blows smoke away from us, then starts pacing. “How’d you find me?” he asks—not briskly; more curiously.
“I saw her high school yearbook, and saw you were in Key Club with her,” I say. “I tried messaging you on Facebook, but—”
“What? Oh, I never check that thing,” he says.
“Right,” I say. “So I saw Jessica Cally yesterday, and she said you were a mechanic—”
“Jessica? How’s she?”
“She’s good,” I say. “A painter. Still here in Tallahassee.”
“Wow.” He chucks the rest of his cigarette on the grass, steps on it, then sits at the table.
“And Bee Trenton said you used to date Claire, so—”
“Bee? You talked to her, too? I’m sure she had plenty of nice things to say about me,” he says, shaking his head.
“She didn’t say much,” I say, hiding the rest of it. It seems like he doesn’t need reminding. “Anyway,” I continue. “Um, I was hoping you could tell me a bit about her.”
He nods, then says, “What do you want to know?”
“Anything,” I practically beg.
He exhales gruffly, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was a real firecracker, your mother. Didn’t take crap from anyone. She just did what she wanted, whenever she wanted. And I loved that about her.”
“Like what? What’d she do?” I ask.
“I’m sure you heard about her nickname already,” he says, and I nod. “So, that. She stood up to teachers, argued about her grades and usually got her way. She convinced people to do things for her, for free. She just had this amazing charm that people couldn’t resist.”
“Why were people so drawn in by her?”
“She was . . . magnetic,” he says. “Her personality, everything. And she was beautiful. Guys would do anything to be with her.” He laughs. “I mean, even me.”
“So you dated?” I ask, already kind of knowing the answer.
“Ahhh,” he says, rubbing his head again. “Claire and me, we weren’t relationship people. We had fun, but we always knew there was more fun to have. She had other guys; I had other girls. We were eighteen.”
It’s strange to think that all of the stories and information I’ve collected continue to pile up and create a picture of a woman I don’t know. And will never know. But the biggest realization comes from them thinking I’m like her. I’m not. Being a high school student is the only similarity we have, and that’s just it. She was just a high school student—not a mother at all. It makes sense, but it’s still crushing.
“Do you have any other memories of her?”
“Hmmm,” he says, scratching his chin. “Me and her and Jessica used to play this game where we’d go into a store and see what we could leave with. Small things, you know, like toothpicks or bookmarks. Just put them in our pockets and walk out. Jessica was caught once, but never us. We always got away with it. It was such a crazy game. That girl, she got me to do anything.”
I know now that not only am I not like her, but also if I knew her, I wouldn’t have been friends with her. Which is bizarre to admit. How can we be so different? She might have been one of the girls who laughed at me, and I feel like each story Chad shares brings her farther and farther away from me.
When I don’t answer, he says, “But all that ended, you know?” He leans back. “I didn’t go to college, but she did. She was so smart. And then she dropped out when she found out about her— Well, you, I guess,” he says, nodding toward me. “And then . . .” He pauses again, then looks down. “It was real sad when she died. Real sad.”
“Did you go to the funeral?” I find myself asking shakily.
“Yeah, I went. You were already gone,” he says, nodding toward me again. “Heard you were adopted right away. Everyone went; we all saw her off.”
“So you really liked her?”
“Hell yeah, she was amazing,” he says quickly, smiling this time. “Not your average gal. She would have gone on to do something really great, I know it. You know,” he says, turning to me, “you do look a lot like her. You’re more serious, but have her hair. And her, you know, look. It’s kind of freaking me out.”
He brought up the similarity, so I have to ask. “I never knew who my father was. Do you have any . . .” I trail off, because I can’t finish the question. It’s too hard. Because what if it’s him? And what if it isn’t—then the man is still out there?
“Clue?” he finishes. “If you’re thinking it’s me, you’re wrong.” I sigh, and I’m not sure if it’s from joy or sorrow.
“Yeah, me and Claire were together, but she had a lot of guys. Like I said, she didn’t stick to just one.” I’m not sure what to say to that. It makes me sad and frustrated all in one.
“So you have no idea who it might be?” I ask.
“No,” he says, then gets up and stalks around. “I know what you’re thinking—you’re judging me, and her. You’re not your momma, but I knew her, I knew what she was like.” His aggression and candor startle me. “But I was there. I don’t want you thinking I was just a guy she dated, who left her. I’m sure you heard all about me from Bee, that I left her for your mom. Yeah, that happened, but it was only ’cause I always liked Claire. I wasn’t being a bad guy, I was just getting the girl I wanted. And yeah, we might not have been serious, but I was there.” He stops walking and turns to me. “I was there when she found out about you.”
I breathe in. “What did she say? What did you say?”
“She wasn’t happy, of course. No offense.” I shrug because I’m used to that. “But I told her I was there for her, you know? Those other guys, they ran off when they found out, left her alone. She was all alone, but with me.”
His need for telling me this startles me. It makes me appreciate him more, for what he did for her. For how they were. “What about her mom?” I ask.
“Honey, you don’t know what that girl went through. Her mom wasn’t around a lot, and her dad up and left before she was born. She was left a lot, and she was left again once she was pregnant with you. But she had me and Jessica and we were there for her.”
I shake my head at this thought. She was crazy, she acted out, she was a person who wanted people, who wanted to feel loved. And she didn’t have love, not really. Maybe from friends, but not from her mother. And that pains me, because I do have that with my mom. And Claire gave it to me. By giving me up, she gave me the life she didn’t have.
“So, no, I don’t know who your daddy is. But whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”
“You sound like you were protective of her . . .” I muse, because it didn’t come off that way at first. Not at all. It’s interesting he changed.
“Yeah, we had each other’s backs. She was a good person. Don’t judge her by stupid things, like cheating with me. Know she was a good person. She loved. She loved with everything.”
“Thank you,” I say, knowing I got enough. She wasn’t perfect, but neither am I. Neither is Chad or Treena or anyone. I’ll never be like her, but she had someone, at least, who was. And like with Bee, I feel the need to ask about her art. “I heard she was a painter.”
“She was an artist,” he says. “That shit was her life. She lived and breathed it. Always carrying around that sketchbook.”
I nod, comforted by the information. There’s that.
I don’t want to bring the memories back for him anymore, so I thank him again, and then turn to go. “Hey,” he calls when I’m a few feet away. “850-555-6548.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“It’s her phone number,” Chad says. “Susan, her mom’s.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“We didn’t have cell phones back
in high school; we had to memorize numbers.”
“And you still know hers?” I ask, doubtful.
“Some people you just don’t forget,” he answers, and after a second I nod. That’s quite enough.
After seeing my face, Bennett takes me back to the dorm. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t press me for details, and I appreciate that. Because I don’t know what to say. We park in the lot behind the building, and when we get out of the car, Bennett takes my hand and leads me to the gazebo. I follow wordlessly.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks as we sit down, and I lean my head on his shoulder.
“Numb,” I manage to get out. “Just . . . numb.” He rubs my hand, and though I know he’s doing it, I don’t feel it. I don’t want to be comforted, so I take my hand away and let my head fall into my hands. My thoughts are overwhelming and I want them to leave.
I hear Bennett rustle around and then feel him tap my shoulder. I look up and he’s holding my camera.
“Go on,” he says. I stare at him, and then look down at my camera. I take it in my hands, feeling the weight shift. My fingers automatically go to the right place and I feel better. No, not better, more in control. I can’t control the past, but I can manage this.
I force a smile, then get up and follow the path toward the green. I’m grateful that he already gets me, already knows that I need to be alone right now, losing myself in my photos.
I take a seat on the grass in the shade of a tree and hold the viewfinder up to my eye. This is how I like to see things, compact and contained in a small window. Here I can see the full picture, because the full picture is chosen and can be changed easily. There’s no past, no future, just what’s seen. I quickly snap, taking a picture of two girls laughing, of a squirrel reaching for a nut, of a Frisbee flying high in the air.
I turn around and see a woman holding hands with a little boy. The boy is trying to run ahead and kick a rock, and it reminds me of the little girl on the slide at the park near my house, before this whole journey started. Back then I was ready to take the plunge, but now I wish someone had held me back like this mother. And I think back to my mom, my real mom, telling me I might be disappointed.
Autofocus Page 22