I open my eyes. We’ve passed the truck. I exhale. “That’s why she kept it secret?”
“You have no idea how bad I felt when I had to run and do an emergency surgery the moment you landed. I didn’t want you to arrive at a house with sisters and a stepmom you didn’t even know existed. Tiffany, I felt so bad about that.”
“That really was the worst.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“What about after Mom died? I still didn’t hear much from you.”
“I thought it was best to give you time to grieve with your grandma. I kept my distance, Tiffany. But I certainly didn’t want to. I thought I was doing the right thing. It was a mistake. I see that now.”
It makes some sense. Knowing I had four sisters certainly could have been overwhelming information to get when my mom was dying of cancer. And it would have been a lot to deal with—getting to know Anthony, knowing there was a stepmom. “All this time I thought you just didn’t like me or something.”
Anthony laughs. “Tiffany, that’s silly. You’re my daughter. I love you.”
Unless I’m not his daughter. Will he love me then? We continue down the road in silence. I return to gazing out the window, hypnotized by the blurry highway. Anthony breaks the silence by saying, “Is it my turn yet?”
“Hmm?”
“Two truths and a lie? We’re still playing, right?”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Your turn.”
“Okay.” He taps the steering wheel. “I got it. I am sorry for all you’ve been through. I’m really sorry I went to San Francisco. I’m a moron.”
I turn my head toward him. Watching him nervously clear his throat and repeatedly rub his hand across his forehead like he has a mild form of Tourette’s. I kinda feel sorry for Anthony as he sits there looking as lost as a little kid, trying so hard to properly manage this first attempt to really get to know me. “You’re not a moron. That’s definitely the lie.”
“You sure?” He heaves a heavy sigh. “Because taking away your medicine was pretty moronic.”
I nod in agreement. “True.”
“You forgive me?”
“That depends. Are you giving it back to me?”
“I already texted Darryl. He’s picking up the medicine from the house in Malibu and dropping it off in Simi.”
“Cool. Then apology accepted.”
“Wanna listen to some Black Sabbath?”
I toss him a disbelieving look. “You don’t strike me as a Black Sabbath fan.”
“What type of fan do I strike you as?”
I shrug. “I dunno. Poison, maybe.”
His eyes bulge. “Tiffany Sly. I will pull this car over and make you walk home, you say something like that again.”
I laugh. “What? Poison’s...okay. ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn.’ That’s a good song.”
Anthony rolls his eyes. “That’s so deep. Just like every car has its wheels?”
“Or like...every chicken has its bones.”
Anthony starts to sing to the tune of “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” “Every house has its dooooor.”
I crack up laughing. And as Anthony and I make up more silly Poison lyrics while cruising across the highway, I relax for the first time all day.
* * *
As we pull into the massive driveway of Anthony and Margaret’s home, I check the clock on the dash of the rented SUV—10:30 p.m.
“That was quite a drive.” Anthony turns to me. “Inside the pantry, in a giant box marked Gluten-Free Pasta, is a hidden bag of Cheetos. Wanna sneak it into the den and share it?”
“I would love that more than life.” I grab my bag from off the floor and sling the long strap over my shoulder. “Hey... Curington has an after-school music program. Could I maybe join?”
“Of course. That’s a great idea.”
As we both push open the car doors, Margaret steps outside the house.
“Hey, babe,” Anthony calls out casually as he moves to rummage through the back seat, gathering up his things. “How was the flight back?”
Margaret doesn’t respond. She only stands there, nervously wringing her hands together.
Anthony grabs his small suitcase and slams the door shut. “What? What’s wrong?”
I cover my mouth in horror as Xavior Xavion, in the flesh, steps through the door to stand beside Margaret, towering over her like a Chicago skyscraper.
“Who is this?” Anthony asks caustically.
Xavior and I exchange looks. Of course. Somehow I wasn’t paying enough attention. Somehow the time raced by. Hours like seconds. Days like hours. My eyes, head and heart seem as though they each weigh a hundred pounds, like it’s taking all my strength to simply hold up my body weight and keep my internal organs from combusting.
“Perhaps we should discuss that privately in your office?” Margaret looks over at me and gives me a polite tilt of the head. “Tiffany, sweetheart, why don’t you head upstairs and unpack and we’ll be up to speak with you momentarily.”
“Um...” I glance back and forth between her, Xavior and a very confused-looking Anthony.
“Tiffany, please go inside like Margaret asked you to,” Anthony demands as if he senses something’s not quite right and is eager to protect me.
I avoid looking at Xavior as I move past him and Margaret to step through the door into the house. I inch slowly up the spiral staircase, clutching my bag tightly to my side. The sad sound of crying startles me from my feelings of utter agony as I move into the bedroom I share with London. The bathroom door is cracked partially open. A soft pool of light spills onto the dark wood floor. I peek inside. London is kneeling over the tub, hands folded in prayer.
“Please, Jehovah,” she cries softly. “Please forgive me, Jehovah God. Please. I beg You.”
I quietly back away from the door, slumping down onto the mattress, remembering my own middle-of-the-night prayers.
Please, God, I’d pray. Please don’t let my mom die. Please. I beg you.
Mom’s iPad. Something about it calls to me, stops me from curling up and assuming my favorite position. I can hold it close. I can look through her ebooks, play all the games she liked, check her planner, scroll through her photos. Wait patiently while Anthony gets all the details of how I might not be his kid.
I slide my bag off my shoulders and reach inside to retrieve the device. Holding it tightly, I crawl into my bed and scroll aimlessly through the apps. I click the photo icon and hundreds of images load on the display. I stare at them, perplexed for a moment. Videos? I scratch my head. Where did all these come from? I’ve never seen them before and I used to borrow Mom’s iPad all the time. I scroll. There are so many. I tap one of the images and the video bounces to life.
“Hi, Tiffany!” Mom happily waves at me from the iPad. “Today is March 23 and it’s 5:00 a.m. You’re asleep in your room.” She runs her fingers through her hair. Mom had beautiful hair. She blow-dried it so it hung in fluffy bunches on her shoulders. Her dark brown skin looks vibrant and healthy. I wipe a tear. March 23. Two days after she got her diagnosis. Before chemo and radiation left her as a shell of her former self.
“Okay, so this is my third video diary for you. I’m starting to get used to making them. Even though it feels like I’m talkin’ to myself and going crazy. I dunno.” She giggles. Mom had such a girlish, youthful energy about her. “Oh, Tiffany, if you knew I was making you these videos you would be so mad. You don’t wanna believe I’m dying, but that’s okay. Death is okay. I have a peace with it. And these videos...you’ll be able to keep them forever. You can always come back and talk to me. Let’s try it. Hi, Tiffany.” She pauses for a few seconds. “Tiffany Sly. This is where you say hi back. Say, ‘Hi, Mom.’” She pauses again. “Girl, say hi!”
“Hi, Mommy.” I cover my mouth to silence my cry.
“Hi, honey. See? Wasn
’t that easy? We can always talk like this now. For years and years until we meet again on the other side.”
I pause the video, grab tissues from off my nightstand and blow my nose as quietly as I can. I tap another image. Once again, Mom bounces to life from beyond the grave.
“Hi, Tiff honey! You have no idea how weird it is for a parent to see their kid grow up. I swear it was just yesterday you were running around this apartment in your diaper.” She fans her eyes. “I don’t wanna get emotional. Let me stop.” She takes a deep breath. Her warm brown eyes glisten as she repositions herself on her bed. “Okay, my dear. Today I want to talk to you about s-e-x. That spells sex. I know, I know. Gross. Mommy talking to you about sex? But it’s bound to happen. So here are the rules. 1. You should be in a committed relationship...preferably married. 2. You should be old enough to deal with the responsibility behind it. 3. You should be with a man who you love and who loves you and who respects you and admires you.” She smiles. “And finally...you should forgive yourself when pretty much none of that happens. If it turns out that you’re not married, you’re not old enough to deal with the responsibility, the d-bag doesn’t love you and you get your heart broken, you come back and watch this video and listen carefully to my words, okay? You listening, Tiffany Sly? You ready?” She takes a deep breath. “It’s okay. In the grand scheme of life, losing your virginity is like...” She presses her thumb and forefinger together. “This important. God doesn’t care about most of the nonsense we be thinkin’ about. God is love and understanding and sex is just a blip on the radar. Use protection. Be safe. I don’t wanna see grandkids from heaven.” She giggles again. “Not for at least a decade, girl. You hear me?”
“That’s your mom?”
I turn. London is standing beside my bed. I blow my nose again and nod.
“She’s so pretty.” London climbs over me and sits beside me under the blankets. “You look like her.”
“Thanks.” London glances over my shoulder as I scroll through the videos. “She made these for me,” I whisper. “I never knew. Not until now.”
“That’s amazing, Tiff. Now you can always come and say hi to her. It’ll be kind of like you have her back, huh? In a way, I mean.”
“In a way. I guess it will be kind of like that.”
There’s a knock on our door before it’s pushed open. It’s Anthony, looking as disturbed as Margaret did a few minutes ago.
“Tiffany, may I see you in my office downstairs?”
Fuck my life, for real. I swing my legs out of bed. Countdown to ultimate destruction begins...right...now.
“Is everything okay, Dad?” London asks curiously.
“Yes, London. Go to sleep,” he replies. “School in the morning.”
I swallow and follow him out the door.
* * *
I squirm in the fancy leather chair across from Anthony in his giant home office. Xavior sits in a matching armchair beside me. Margaret stands beside Anthony, a hand resting on his shoulder. She smiles comfortingly and gives me a polite tilt of the head.
“Xavior is not a friend from school, Tiffany.” Anthony shakes his head. “You lied to me. Why did you lie?”
“Don’t accuse her of lying, man,” Xavior says. “This is a lot. She didn’t know what else to do.”
“Excuse me?” Anthony’s pissed. “Don’t tell me how to talk to my daughter.”
Margaret squeezes Anthony’s shoulder. “Everything’s fine. We’re having a peaceful discussion. Right, everyone?”
Xavior sighs. Anthony rolls his eyes.
“Xavior’s right.” I hang my head low. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“How long have you known this man?” Anthony asks.
“This man has a name,” Xavior cuts in.
“Uh...” I look over at Xavior. He gives me an encouraging nod. “Mom never mentioned him. I swear she didn’t. He showed up at my door the day before I left. I didn’t tell you guys because I was scared. I don’t want to upset your home this way. I feel terrible.”
“Sweetheart, don’t feel terrible. You’re not upsetting our home.” Margaret politely tilts her head again. “None of this is your fault.”
“You won’t be going to school in the morning,” Anthony declares.
“Are you sending me back to Chicago?”
Anthony looks up, frowning. “What? No.”
“Tiffany, we would never do that,” Margaret states. “We are your legal guardians. Your mom left you in our care. We hold that in the highest honor.”
“Besides, we don’t even know who this man is. He could be a local Chicago crackhead, for all we know.”
“You know what, man?” Xavior stands in anger. “I’ve had just about enough of you!”
“Honey.” Margaret turns to Anthony, irritated. “We have to take this seriously. Xavior has hired a lawyer to determine paternity. He has every right to know if Tiffany is his child.” Margaret motions to Xavior to sit. “Please. We apologize. This is just...well, it’s a lot. You understand, Xavior?”
An angry Xavior slams back into his seat.
Anthony calmly rests his elbows on the glossy wood of his massive desk, not seeming the least bit intimidated by Xavior. “Anyway, there’s an express DNA testing facility in Los Angeles which Tiffany and I will go to alone.” He glares at Xavior when he stresses the word alone. “Because we have a legal case on our hands, our family lawyer will facilitate. We can have the results same day. As quickly as eight hours.”
“And then what?” I ask. Like what if it says I’m not a Stone? What will happen then?
“Xavior?” Margaret asks with her signature eerie calm. “Would you mind giving us a moment alone with Tiffany? You can wait in the den—it’s right across the hall.”
Xavior stands. “Not a problem.” He reaches across the space between our chairs and squeezes my hand. “It’s really good to see you again, Tiffany.”
“You, too, Xavior,” I reply softly, struggling to fight back the tears boiling to the surface.
As Xavior moves toward the door, Anthony calls out, “And we have cameras in the den and pretty much everywhere in our home. Don’t get any ideas.”
You can tell Xavior wants to lurch across the desk and choke Anthony until he loses consciousness, but he only shakes his head in disbelief and pushes into the hallway. A moment of silence passes after the office door clicks shut.
“We’re going to prepare for a legal battle.” Margaret breaks the silence. “We will legally adopt you if we have to. We won’t give you up without a fight. Right, Anthony? I mean, this is what her mom wanted. This was her dying wish. That has to count for something. He can’t come here and take her from us, can he? She’s started Curington. This is her home now.” Margaret’s voice has risen to a fevered pitch, but Anthony Stone only sighs in response and a deafening silence falls over the room. Tragic.
“Tiffany,” Margaret says ever so softly. “Perhaps you can walk Xavior out. I’m sure you’re exhausted. I’m sure he’s exhausted, as well, and would probably like to get back to his hotel. It’s been a long day for everyone.”
I stand, thank them both and move toward the door before the tears spring forth. We won’t give you up without a fight, she said. And what did he say in response?
Not a fucking word.
I push through the office door, move across the hallway and step into the dimly lit den with all its rustic brown leather furnishings and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sprawling backyard. Xavior stands when I enter.
“Um, they want me to walk you out.”
“Tiffany, I’m so sorry I lost my temper in there.”
“That was losing your temper? You should’ve seen me yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“Let’s just say it involved an F-bomb and a kidnapping.” I motion with my hand down the h
allway. “We should hurry.”
Xavior follows me as I move across the dark wood floors of one hallway, turn around a corner and continue down another long hallway. When we finally make it to the front door, my hand rests on the bronze doorknob for a long moment. I turn to him.
“You flew all the way out here, Xavior? I can’t believe you did that.”
“That’s nothing. You know I’m willing to move, Tiffany.”
“I’m sorry?”
“If it turns out you’re mine. I’ll sell my home so you can be in your old school district and close to your grandmother. I won’t be able to buy anything nearly as fancy as this, but you’ll have your own room and office space for your schoolwork and we can get a pet. You like dogs?”
“Um—”
“And we’ll start grief counseling. Together. I’ve never been a dad before, but I’m willing to give it everything I’ve got. I promise you that. I want to be your dad.”
And the tears I worked so hard to hold back in Anthony’s office crawl down my cheeks. I should say, I want you to be my dad, too, Xavior. Something deep within me says he’s a good man and actually would make a great dad. I want to squeal with excitement at the chance to have my old life back. But all I can manage to say in response to Xavior’s heartfelt expression is “Yeah. I know you do.”
* * *
No matter what I try I can’t seem to fall asleep. I’ve counted sheep. Imagined every happy thought imaginable in the universe. Invented a new alphabet. Nothing. I glance at the digital clock on the dresser—4:00 a.m.—and I haven’t slept a wink. Today will be hell. I grab Lucky and squeeze her tight. Weird. I feel a hard object that I hadn’t noticed before. Normally Lucky is as soft as a basket of socks fresh out of the dryer. I sit up. London is sleeping soundly on the bed beside me. I squeeze Lucky again. There it is! I can feel some sort of...object underneath her fur. I twist the stuffed animal around and lift up her T-shirt. A zipper? My brow furrows. That definitely was not there before. I pull the zipper down and reach inside. My fingers wrap around something hard and rectangular. I pull it out and gasp. It’s my phone. There is a note wrapped around it with a rubber band. I pull off the band and open the folded paper. It reads:
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 24