Cold Feet

by Amy FitzHenry

  “At least you aren’t a victim of vaginal mutilation,” she pointed out. “Or a soldier in Vietnam who lost both of his legs and, as a result, his self-worth.”

  “Are you talking about Lieutenant Dan?” I responded, annoyed that she was trying to cheer me up by cheaply using the plot of Forrest Gump.

  In the end, the only cure was, as they say, time. (I don’t know who they are, but they really know what they’re talking about.) I mourned for Laurent over the entire summer I was home before my senior year of college, eating only oatmeal, the one thing I could stomach, and studying for the LSAT. The morning I took the LSAT in October, I woke up, ate the requisite test banana, which I’d been eating before every standardized test since high school, and realized that, against my will, I was over him.

  But Laurent was no Sam.

  It wasn’t going to be that easy to heal from this wounding revelation. Without warning, I was struck by the strangest feeling of nostalgia, and for one quick moment, I had an overwhelming desire I hadn’t felt for a long time. I wanted to call my mom.

  I wanted to be little again. I wanted to be taken care of. I wanted it to be one of the long-ago Sunday afternoons from my childhood, when we would go to the Georgetown movie theater that showed black-and-white classics. Caro always let me pick the movie, and beforehand we would load up on popcorn and Reese’s Pieces. After all, she always said, we need to fill both our salty and our sweet stomachs. No matter what movie I picked, Caro had inevitably already seen it—a fact that I found extremely impressive as a child—and as we walked home she would reminisce about the first time she saw the film, as if she had just visited an old friend, recounting who she’d been with, what she first thought of it, even what she’d worn. But like so many other things, when she finished school and we moved to Virginia, those trips stopped.

  This was brought starkly into place one afternoon a few weeks after we moved in when I ran into our neighbor Mr. Madigan, who mentioned that a small movie theater showed old movies outside on Saturday nights in the summer and fall, a program called Screen on the Green. That week the movie was An Affair to Remember, a favorite of my mom’s. I knew for a fact that she saw it for the first time at the shore with her girlfriends. Mr. Madigan explained that everyone in the neighborhood went and brought a picnic. He told me that you could buy kettle corn and root beer at the park and encouraged me to come along. We could bring the Reese’s, I thought to myself.

  I came home to find Caro hanging up from a conference call and furiously highlighting documents. After grabbing a soda from the fridge, I tentatively perched on the arm of the sofa and suggested we go. She looked immediately annoyed, then stressed, then she flat-out said no, claiming she had a work fund-raiser that would take up all of her time that weekend.

  When the Madigan family, laden with picnic baskets and old, scratchy blankets, stopped by on Saturday night to see if we were going, I made sure to walk out to the safely darkened front porch to meet them, so they couldn’t see my face while I lied. My mom was indeed at work—whether because the excuse was true or because she was using it as a cover, I’ll never know—but, too embarrassed to tell them this, I said I didn’t like old movies, but thanks anyway.

  Mr. Madigan looked at me questioningly, as if mentally recalling the day when I’d said the opposite, but he quickly let it go, mentioning that I should let them know if I changed my mind. Next week, he said, it was Jaws. For a minute I thought he was going to ask where my mom was, and his eyes shifted in the direction of our house, but then he simply smiled and told me to have a nice night.

  I never did find the opportunity to tell the Madigans that I wanted to go to Screen on the Green. As the fall weather turned cooler, every Saturday night I watched the family of five stroll to the park, struggling to carry their canisters of steamy cocoa and their baskets stuffed with Cape Cod chips and homemade brownies, but I never said anything or asked to come along, even though I desperately wanted to. One week I even bought a carton of lemonade in secret, planning to run out and casually join in when they walked by. But week after week, I didn’t move, I just watched. And after that first day, they never asked again.

  CHAPTER 12

  As any good attorney will tell you, you can trust the testimony of an eyewitness to a crime about as far as you can throw him. This isn’t only because witnesses can be liars or because of the inherent problems with mistaken visual perception. It’s more than that. It’s the things we miss when we think we are observing carefully, the things we choose to focus on, and, most of all, the things we automatically use to fill in the gaps.

  If you saw a man in a broken-down Chevy parked across the street from where your neighbor’s child was later kidnapped, upon reflection, yes, he did look suspicious. But was he dressed in a blue shirt, as the kidnapper was proven to be wearing? That sounds about right. Minutes later, you’re positive. It was robin’s-egg blue—not unlike the one you actually saw on your grocery store checker that morning.

  Also, did you notice a rattling tailpipe, which would explain the sound the car made during the ransom drop-off? Yes, that makes sense, your brain says, because the image of a broken tailpipe fits in with the look of the car you actually saw, and poof, it becomes your memory. Before you know it, an innocent man has been convicted, all because you chose to go to Whole Foods that day instead of Trader Joe’s.

  As psychologists have discovered, and lawyers of the accused are quick to point out, the paradigm of how you expect the world to appear, combined with what you actually see, determines what you observe. Memories are not entirely accurate records of our experiences and what we see isn’t always what’s right in front of our eyes. We are influenced by biases, beliefs, and an automatic attempt to structure events into our existing worldview. Thus, what we observe is often a distortion of reality, but one that makes sense to our imperfect human brains.

  That’s probably why, when the strong oak door on Powell Street swung open on Monday morning, I knew exactly who was staring back at me. On the other side of the threshold was an attractive older gentleman in his sixties with thick salt-and-pepper hair, striking blue-gray eyes, and a dimple in only his left cheek, a mirror image to the one in my right. The second I looked into his eyes, I knew he was my father.

  “Good morning,” I said robotically. “Are you Hunter Moon?”

  “It is I,” he said, a stickler for accuracy like his grammarian daughter. My heart jumped. We had to be related. I couldn’t wait to discuss our favorite dangling prepositions.

  “I was wondering if we could have a few moments of your time. We’re here from the Democratic National Committee,” I heard myself say randomly. Where did that come from?

  I felt Dusty turn to look at me slightly. Liv had woken up that morning with a migraine, mostly likely brought on by the several carafes of wine consumed at Tony’s the night before. I could tell she felt terrible, but there was nothing she could do but climb back into bed with a hot washcloth on her head and a handful of Excedrin. Luckily, I passed Dusty on my way out, who was heading to work but offered to take the morning off and accompany me to Hunter’s, pointing out that as the boss he could do that kind of thing on a Monday morning. I was nervous enough to agree, and now, considering how wacky this situation was becoming, I was glad I did.

  “Ah, canvassing on a Monday. You young people certainly are passionate. I was about to sit down for a second cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?” he said, in a friendlier tone than I would have predicted, almost like he was expecting us. But then again, maybe he was. Maybe he was feeling the same thing I was, the father-daughter connection zapping between our identical lopsided dimples.

  Ushering us inside, he offered us mugs and poured two cups of coffee, taking his time to offer us milk, sugar, and even fresh pastries. I noticed he was also a two percent milk devotee. Genetics sure had done a number on us. No wonder all I got from Caro was her hair. The rest of my DNA code was used up
before she even had a chance.

  Hunter turned the radio down, but not off, leaving the news on low in the background. I approved. I’d always preferred a radio to a television in the kitchen; it made me feel old-timey, like a line cook from the 1950s. I surreptitiously studied my surroundings. Gorgeous, brightly colored Le Creuset pots hung from the ceiling above a long white island, which we sat around on high stools. In the back of the kitchen there was a window seat overlooking a small backyard brimming with bougainvillea.

  As Hunter turned around to fix his own cup of coffee, I nervously bit into my croissant and tried not to think about how much Sam would love the cookware. He was a sucker for a heavy ceramic pan. Perfect for bacon frying. My stomach tightened. I shook my head, annoyed that despite my resolve not to think about him, he kept creeping back in.

  “Are you here on a fund-raising mission? Or is this a courtesy call, may I ask?” Hunter inquired politely, taking his own seat at the white granite counter.

  What was he talking about? Oh, right, the DNC thing. Oops. I turned to Dusty and remembered, Hey, he’s done the whole “find your dad” thing before, he can take it. Throwing him as far under the bus as I possibly could, I answered, “Actually, Dusty, why don’t you explain?”

  Without missing a beat, Dusty smoothly began to ask Hunter some generic questions about his voting habits. I watched, surprised, as the conversation naturally transitioned into one about family. Within minutes, Hunter was describing his two sons, a freshman and a senior in college. I was the older sister of two half brothers, I realized with a jolt. I could give them advice on their girl problems and tease them about their facial hair experiments. One attended Berkeley (Tyler, I had to stop myself from adding) and the other, Kyle, went to Stanford. Apparently, they were engaged in some healthy sibling rivalry, both majoring in the combined sciences, molecular biochemical physics, or similar. Okay, so maybe they wouldn’t need the girl advice.

  Hunter also described his wife, who taught at a Montessori school in Marin County. She sounded like the perfect antidote to my icy, bureaucratic mother. I wondered if she would want to attend the wedding. I made a mental note to ask if she would prefer the fish, steak, or vegetarian meal. Finally, Dusty and my dad discussed the recent local election, which I supposed was meant to establish our believability as party-toting Democrats. I was quite impressed by both of their depth of knowledge of Nob Hill parking structure ordinances.

  Having realized that my search was over, I started to relax. It was a feeling punctuated by the occasional jolt of recognition in the way Hunter spoke and the expressions he made when he laughed. We look alike, we talk alike, we sometimes even act alike, I sang in my head. As I watched the conversation unfold, I collected each piece of knowledge Dusty gathered, to pull out for closer examination later. A thought occurred to me—Powell Street. Hunter lived on Powell. Sam’s last name. I felt a sudden rush of longing for him to be there, quickly followed by a gust of regret that I hadn’t told him I was coming in the first place. We could have found my dad together, on Powell Street, then gotten married and become Emma Powell and Sam Powell, and our lives would have been perfect, you know, if he hadn’t cheated on me and ruined everything. I started to feel slightly ill.

  “It’s been lovely chatting with you two today,” Hunter slowly drawled, bringing me back to the present. For the first time I noticed that he had something of a lisp, which I quickly threw out as unnecessary judgment. Who cared? I ordered myself to stop being so superficial. What was more important: a couple of questionable “you thoo’s” or a family? A family, I decided loyally. I would tell Hunter the truth as soon as he finished his thought. I wondered if he would cry.

  “But I have to admit”—thoo admit—stop it, Emma!—“I think I know why you’re here,” Hunter continued, pouring his third cup of coffee. Three cups, wow, I thought. Isn’t he retired? What’s with the caffeine intake?

  “You do?” I replied, smiling nervously.

  “Yes, and I understand why you came here today, but I made up my mind about this and you can’t do anything to change it.” He shook his head regretfully. Hunter took in our puzzled faces and looked slightly apologetic as he continued. “I’m sorry if this comes as a surprise, but citizenship is important to me. My ancestors came over here on the Mayflower. I take my status as an American very seriously.” Hunter might as well have been speaking gibberish. “Isn’t that what you’re here about?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Moon, we’re a little confused,” Dusty said. “A lot of stops on the Democratic train to make today. What exactly are you referring to?”

  “To what am I referring, you mean, son,” Hunter corrected him.

  All right, enough with the grammar.

  “I assume you’re here about me changing my party affiliation,” Hunter said defensively. “I voted Democrat in California in every election since Jimmy Carter, so I understand why you were surprised when I switched parties in 2008.”

  Dusty, so chatty before, was completely silent, stumped by this tangent. “Of course, sir. Why did you switch parties, for the record?”

  “Because, young man, Barack Obama is not an American citizen!” Hunter exploded, grateful to finally get it out. My mouth dropped to the floor, shocked by this crazy right-wing birther posing as my father. Did they even allow those in San Francisco?

  “Hold on,” I interrupted, a thought suddenly occurring to me. “You voted for Jimmy Carter in California?”

  “Yes, I did. As I was saying, until I was forced to switch parties, I voted Democrat in every election since I moved here in 1976,” Hunter finished, annoyed to have the spotlight stolen from his big announcement.

  My mind spun. I knew one thing for a fact. My father, Hunter Moon, lived in D.C. at the time of my birth, married to a mother who made me memorize every president by election year before I was six. So in 1976, when the lispy Hunter Moon was in San Francisco dropping acid and supporting the Carter-Mondale ticket, my real father must have been still on the East Coast, still years away from having baby Emma. This Hunter Moon, despite the dimple, the grammar, and the excellent taste in cookware, could not be my dad.

  CHAPTER 13

  A large red-and-white Muni bus pulled up on the opposite side of the street, and Dusty and I hightailed it over, waving it down like you can only do in a city where everyone is overly nice. As we boarded, I noticed that the plump middle-aged bus driver had a dog-eared Sidney Sheldon novel tucked into his side pocket, which I assumed he read on his breaks. Or brakes. The inexplicably touching image of this sweet man paging through a thriller while he ate a sandwich during his twenty-minute lunch tugged jerkily at my already weak heartstrings.

  Unaware of my observations and over-the-top emotional response to them, the driver waited for us to board, motioning for us to deposit our money in the fare box and move to the back. The bus slammed into action, gliding down the electrical wires, while I searched for cash and attempted not to fall. Finding a few dollars in the side pocket of my wallet, I was struck with an unexpected childhood memory.

  My mom asking me to go upstairs to our landlord’s room to look for loose dollars because I was small enough to fit under the bed. Me gathering up all the money I could find and delivering it to my mother, my face hot with shame, wanting to get the eleven dollars—I would never forget the number—off my hands as quickly as possible. We needed gas money. I shook my head to rid my consciousness of the uncomfortable memory.

  “Plans tonight?” Dusty asked as I slid down in the seat next to him.

  “Not really. More searching for Hunter, I guess, although who knows how.”

  “I have an idea. Take a night off. Carrick’s band has a show at a pretty cool bar in the Mission. Why don’t you and Liv come along?”

  “Hold on—Carrick is in a band?” I laughed despite myself. “I thought he was a venture capitalist.”

  “He is, but music is his true passion.” Dusty grin
ned. “They’re actually pretty good. Maybe it’ll be good for you to take your mind off things.”

  Dusty had no idea how right he was about that.

  “You should have a little fun while you’re here, shouldn’t you? I don’t know if you’ve realized this yet, but I’m really fun.”

  Was he flirting with me? Or just being funny? Did it matter? After all, I was engaged to be married to someone who had cheated on me and lied about it for years. The feelings of anguish rushed back, but I held them at bay. I would not start crying on a San Francisco city bus. I focused on his invitation instead. I did love live music—any kind. And despite the fact that I couldn’t imagine having any actual fun, possibly ever again, it might be an okay distraction. Plus, Liv would probably love it, considering her smiles and hair flips in Carrick’s direction the other night. Flirting or not, I couldn’t spend another night with only the painful jumble of my emotions invoked by Sam and Hunter. I just couldn’t.

  “You know what?” I said before I could inwardly debate it any further. “That sounds great. Let me check with Liv, but she texted me that she was feeling better, so I bet she’ll be into it, too. Thanks for the invite.”

  I turned back to face forward, my eyes settling on an alert from the San Francisco Police Department. If you see something, say something! Under recently passed law, there is a duty to report in San Francisco. It is your legal obligation to report it if you are witness to a crime! I’d read about this. In some cities not only was the crime itself illegal, but they were also putting a burden on any witnesses who failed to report the crime.