by Susan Ward
I watch her pull from her backpack a homework packet, pencil and calculator, drop the tray table down and immediately begin working on it.
I study her for a while. “Why are you not angry? You’ve got as much reason to be angry as your sister does. You just go with the flow.”
Krystal shrugs. “I’m like Mom. Kaley is like you.”
Interesting comment. How does she know that? Chrissie, no doubt.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” I ask.
Krystal looks startled by the questions. “Why should I hate you, Dad? I didn’t hate you before. Why should I hate you now? You are my dad, aren’t you?”
The way she says Dad stirs an odd impulse in me to cry. It is in the easy tones of a loving and emotionally generous child. It is heartfelt and unexpected. It’s the first time she’s called me that. My gaze roams her dark hair, her bright blue eyes, her too small nose and full lips. Part Chrissie. Part me.
These five kids, each so different, are all part Chrissie and part me. It is overwhelming to see it. I can see it so clearly now. Why couldn’t I see it before? What kind of man can be around his own children year after year and not see that they are his?
Choked up with unfamiliar emotion I never expected to have, I continue to watch Krystal work on her homework. “Me being your dad, it seems to be the case. You’re not sorry we’re related, are you?”
She shakes her head, chews on the tip of her mechanical pencil and then goes to work on a problem. I watch her silently for the first hour of the flight, this bright, confident and self-sufficient girl.
She is halfway done with the second page of problems. “What are you working on?” I ask.
“My math packet.”
“I know it’s math. What kind of math?”
“Calculus.”
I look at the pages, study them. Christ, it is calculus. “They give you calculus in fifth grade now?”
“No, I go to Kumon.”
“What’s Kumon?”
“Sort of a math club. Mom makes me go. She says the US educational system is so poor I need to go to math club to learn anything. It’s mostly geeks and foreign kids, but I really like math and I’m good at it.”
“You must be good at it to be learning calculus in the fifth grade.”
Krystal’s bright blue eyes fix on me. “Kaley’s the one who is wicked smart. She got nearly a perfect score on her SATs. It would have been a perfect 2400 but she said they took off fifty points for her essay being politically incorrect. Still, 2350 is going to be a tough score to beat. I’m not nearly as strong in the verbal as Kaley is.”
How intense Krystal sounds over all this makes me want to laugh, but this is serious to her so I don’t.
“What are the SATs?” I ask.
She stares at me, surprised. “You don’t know anything, do you? The college admission exams. Don’t they have SATs in the UK? In the US if you don’t get a good score you end up in community college.”
“Is that bad?”
“The worst. Kaley got into USC.”
“Is that good?”
“The best. They only take like a handful out of like a gazillion applicants into their film program. It’s the best. She hasn’t told Mom yet so don’t tell her.”
“Why not?”
Krystal shrugs. “She doesn’t have enough money for school. She needs to accept admission by next week or she loses her slot. But I guess it costs even to accept and she’s too pissed off to ask you guys.”
“That’s foolish.”
“Kaley is stubborn.”
Stubborn. Understatement of the century. I stare down at Krystal’s math problem. “You got the answer to the second problem wrong. Just the last step. The rest is perfect. Am I supposed to show you, or just tell you and let you fix it yourself?”
Krystal stares down at her paper. “No, I didn’t get it wrong. You don’t know the answer. Daddy use to say my packets looked like Greek to him. You just wanted to change the subject. You don’t want to talk to me about Kaley.”
Well, that’s true enough. I don’t want to talk to Krystal about Kaley. I want to talk to Krystal about Krystal.
I watch her and admit to myself I’m a little bugged by the Daddy comment. She means Jesse. I am now Dad, but Jesse will always be Daddy. It is how Krystal organizes things in her mind, in a manner that so resembles Chrissie’s internal working. Whatever life tosses at her, if she can organize it then she is comfortable in it.
It shouldn’t bother me—I don’t have a right to expect anything different with these kids—but it does.
“No, you got the answer wrong. I was always good at math. It just made sense to me. The answer is—” I take the pencil to write out the correct answer.
She studies the paper. She erases with a fury. “You’re right. They must have a better education system in the UK. At what grade did you start learning implicit differentiation problems?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I never went to school.”
Her eyes go wide. “If you didn’t go to school then what did you do? Where did you learn? How did you make friends? Who did you play with?”
I tense. The questions are shot at me like bullets from a machine gun. Why the fuck do kids ask so many questions? I don’t know what the correct amount of sharing with a nine-year-old should be. And fuck, this isn’t just any nine-year-old. She’s my daughter. I feel myself choking up again.
Those wide blue eyes are fixed on me, waiting expectantly.
“I had private tutors at home,” I say in an inflectionless way. “I wasn’t permitted friends and I didn’t play. I worked.”
“Always?”
She says that as if it’s inconceivable to her. Maybe it is. Maybe my life is hugely inconceivable to everyone. It definitely is to me at times.
I nod. “Always.”
“I don’t think I’ll like Grandma Lillian.”
“She’s not so bad,” I find myself saying, amazed by the carefully articulate responses I am learning to force through my lips for my children.
Krystal tucks her math packet back into her bag. She studies me for a while. “I can teach you what you need to learn.”
I pucker my lips to keep from smiling. She’s deadly serious. How simple Krystal’s world is to think that she can help me fix any of this. Fuck, I’m smiling even though I don’t really feel like it. It is part of the strangeness of being with these kids; my uncontrollable smiles that come out of nowhere.
Christ, what a mess I’ve made of my life. Everything is unfamiliar now: me, Chrissie, the kids. The cycle of my life has at last been broken: periods of Chrissie, followed by periods without Chrissie, followed by sex and despair, followed by a return to Chrissie and the cycle all over again. But that cycle is finally broken. A new cycle has emerged and this will not be a passing state. It redefines me and alters the course of my future.
Six months ago I thought myself alone in the world. Now I have five kids and a wife I love who is never going to forgive me for the things I should never have said. The things I didn’t mean because these kids are our kids.
I study Krystal. My daughter. My sweet, beautiful, intelligent daughter. The thought still chokes me up. It’s been nearly two weeks. How long will it be before I can think of these kids as mine and not choke up at the thought?
“You look tired,” I say. “Do you want me to get you a pillow and blanket so you can sleep?”
Krystal nods and yawns. I motion for the attendant, hand her the book bag, put up the arm rest, then set the pillow on top of my thighs and tell Krystal to sleep.
I place a blanket over her. She stares up at me.
“It’s going to be OK, Dad. Kaley usually gets over things if you leave her alone.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.” I lean down to kiss her on the forehead and she gives me a drowsy smile. I watch her close her eyes.
“Do you want a drink? They’ve opened the wine.”
I look up to find the flight attendant hovering over
me. I shake my head.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” the attendant says, smiling.
I nod. “She looks like her mother.”
“No, she’s the image of you, except for the eyes. But the older girl is definitely you, especially her eyes. I almost dropped the wine I was holding when she stepped onto the plane.”
“Thank you for not saying ‘especially the personality.’”
The flight attendant laughs. “It’s a tough age. Don’t take it personally.”
“That’s what everyone tells me.”
She smiles. “Well, it’s true.”
I watch Krystal sleep for a while, completely content doing nothing but watching her, then I feel my lids grow heavy when it usually takes a benzodiazepine to sleep on a plane.
“Can I take pictures and film if I promise not to post it?”
I’m startled from sleep. The voice is soft and near me. I find Kaley sitting in the aisle next to my seat. She has her camera in her hand. She’s finally talking to me, in a normal conversational way. At last. Maybe things will start to get better all around. I feel Linda watching.
“Why do you want to film?”
Kaley’s eyes widen. “Because that’s what I do. I film everything. Bobby said that this is the last tour. You haven’t got a film crew. There’s no photographer. I film everything. That’s what I do. Can I film?”
“Did you really get into USC film school?”
That question pisses her off. I see it in her eyes. “Why do you want to know?” Her voice is tightly leashed, controlled. She still wants something from me, wants it enough not to drift back into battle.
My brows hitch up. “If you want to film, you’ll answer my questions.”
“Fine. Yes. I got in. My ambition in life is a three hundred thousand dollar education so I can strive to underachieve by making low budget documentary films that will make me no money at all. Happy now?”
I want to laugh and force myself not to. I wonder if this is true. “You can film anything you want under two conditions. The first is you don’t send it viral. No posting online. And before you do anything with the film, I get to see it and approve.”
Her eyes narrow and her cheeks reddened. “I already told you I wouldn’t post it. What’s the second condition?”
“When we land you get online, accept your admission to USC, tell your mother you got in, and then show me how to pay for it.”
She looks away. “What’s it to you if I go?”
“I think I’ll enjoy watching you evolve into being a capitalist.”
“I’m already a capitalist. The problem is I’m also a realist. Hardly anyone gets rich on documentaries. I want to do what I want to do and fuck them if they don’t get it.”
This time I can’t stop the laughter, though I should since she dropped an f-bomb in there and I know Chrissie wouldn’t approve. But the amusement came too quickly to stop it and Linda’s voice saying Mini-Manny rises in my memory. I laugh harder. “Look on the bright side, Kaley. You’ll probably be more successful than Michael Moore in this. You come by your talent and your attitude naturally.”
She glares. “I hate it when you laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you, Kaley. I’m laughing at me.”
“Right, so anyway, can I start filming now?”
“Film away.”
“We’re different, you and me. Do you get that?”
“Yes, I get that.”
“Then don’t think you know me because we share some obscure genetic link. You don’t know me at all. And you paying for USC doesn’t make us even. Not even close. It’s not that easy. We’re not a fucking Maury Povich show. We don’t live happily ever after once the DNA results are shared. No one does. They just don’t show the ‘after’ on camera.”
Interesting perspective. A betraying thought, perhaps? “Is that why you want to film? To show the ‘after’?”
Her jaw tightens. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I hope you’ll explain it to me once you know.”
“Fuck, it’s your job to explain things to me.” That’s all she says before she springs to her feet and returns to her seat.
Chapter 20
We land in Mumbai and it’s a fucking mob scene at the airport. Not a surprise. It’s the first time we’ve played here.
Krystal is staring out the window, eyes wide.
I kiss her on the head. “Come on, sunshine. It looks worse than it is.”
She plops around in her seat to face me. “Is it always like this? It’s crazier than it is for Mom.”
I shrug. “No accounting for taste. I’d be in the crowd screaming if it was your mother getting off the plane. She’s the one who is amazing.”
Krystal’s smile grows enormous and her eyes alertly search my face. Fuck, what did I say to make her react that way? It’s just the truth…oh fuck…the kids are anxious and standoffish because there is no way to separate what’s happening between me and Chrissie from them.
Damn. Kaley is right. I am an idiot at times. Why didn’t I realize this before I snatched them away from Chrissie?
“Grab your things,” I say, struggling to sound natural.
Everyone starts moving. Getting to the front of the plane without losing Krystal is a hassle. People are trying to get my attention and Krystal gets sidetracked by anyone who says so much as a single word to her.
I nudge her forward and ignore everyone. I just want off the plane. And ah, there’s finally some help here. I’d bet money that older woman standing, formidable and aloof, by the door with Kaley and the boys is my missing nanny.
She extends her hand. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Barton. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am a big fan.”
Yep, the nanny. A fan. No, not buying that one. Definitely British. Crap. I don’t like her. Severe. And, fuck, now is when she finally decides to appear. Where the hell was she the entire flight? Is that booze I smell on her breath?
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, but no, not really and I can tell she knows that. “These are my daughters, Kaley and Krystal. Those are my sons, Ethan and Eric. Eric is the one with the tiny birthmark beneath his left ear. It’s the only way I can tell them apart for sure. Collect the boys. The girls can manage on their own.”
She stares at me, like instruction is insulting. Hmm, I wonder if Chrissie would send Lourdes to me. Lourdes likes me. The kids like Lourdes. She’s toured with Chrissie. Why didn’t I think of that before I left?
Kaley starts moving toward the metal steps.
“Stop,” I say. I wait until they are all looking at me. “Same routine as last time. We walk off the plane. Say nothing to anyone and climb into the car they direct you to.”
Kaley rolls her eyes. Then she exhales. “We already know this,” she snaps. Hey, she’s talking to me again. “You don’t have to repeat everything a thousand times. This is nothing new. We’ve traveled with Mom. You keep telling us exactly what she makes us do.”
Oh. I keep my face stripped of reaction. “Good. I won’t do it again.”
Krystal nods.
Ah, approval. For some reason I want to pick her up. I lift her in my arms and kiss her on the cheek and we hang back while the others disappear to the tarmac.
I step into the open door and Krystal jerks and tightens her hold on me when the cameras explode. I do a fast scan of the scene in front of me. Good, everyone else is in the black SUV.
Oh crud, press and microphones. I should have sent Krystal ahead with the rest of them. Len and the guys are already there. I can bypass and just leave.
The second my foot touches land, the activity around me kicks up another notch, and the air is flooded with my name being shouted.
Oh damn, is that Jen cutting her way through the crowd toward me? I didn’t know she was traveling with us on this leg of the tour. But yep, it’s her. Short tight dress, Dolce & Gabbana whiff closing in, and an I’m up for anything smile on her face even though I’m standing here with my daughter.
Fuck.
She ignores Krystal and fixes her eyes on me. “You have to take a few questions before you leave, Manny. Let them gets some pictures. It’s a big deal you’re in Mumbai. You don’t want the press to be bad. You don’t want to insult them.”
Bad press?
Really?
After the Kaley debacle, how could it get worse than it currently is?
As I walk toward them, the nonstop flashes from the photographers are blinding. I get to the microphones and then realize I forgot to put Krystal down and send her off to the SUV.
I start pointing and answering questions. Halfway through I wonder what’s going on here. It’s almost like they like me. Nah, the press has hated me for thirty years.
What the fuck is happening here?
I shift my gaze to Krystal.
She’s got Chrissie’s smile on her face.
She’s charming.
A camera hog.
They are being polite to me because of her.
“That’s all, everyone,” I say, stepping back from the microphones.
“That went good, I think,” Krystal announces in her sweet, serious, imperative way.
I fight not to smile. “Really? You think I did well?”
The way she nods makes me laugh. I set her on the ground and she scampers to the black SUV.
I climb into the car. Shit, it’s packed with the usual people who surround me when I’m on tour. Security. PR. My assistant. And fuck, there’s Jen caressing me with her eyes from the seat beside the driver.
I shift my gaze to the nanny from hell. Is that a flirty glint in her eye? Old bat, I’m not interested in you either.
I start to laugh as I pretend to listen to my assistant going through the schedule.
“We have to do all that today?”
I look over my shoulder to see Krystal on her knees, arms spread across the seat at my shoulders, staring at the tablet being held in front of me.
“I have to. Every day I get a schedule like this and you get to have fun.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
No, Krystal, it does not. Touring is not all parties and fun, no matter what people read and believe, and no matter how successful a band gets. It’s a grind of endless work, even with the seven-day hops we have on this leg of the tour. And this much working won’t be good. I don’t need the kids disapproving of another thing. Like a father who drags them somewhere they don’t want to be and is never there.