Cold Feet

by Amy FitzHenry

  “What do you mean? You called to explain what?”

  “Sorry! I’m getting ahead of myself. When I said that it was impossible for Hunter to be your father . . . that wasn’t technically true.”

  “Technically true?”

  “Well, true at all, I suppose. As he finally admitted to me last night, my partner, Hunter, it turns out, actually was married to Caroline Moon—of course, he never told me this; it was his big deep, dark secret. I figure everybody has one, so I’m not that angry. And I know I told you that I’d been with him since before you were born, but that was a little math error on my part. It was probably just because of how young you look. I would have thought you were about twenty-five! Which makes sense. I hear Caroline is a very beautiful woman, although I’m pretty sure she’s not his type.” He laughed again. I was starting to realize this was how he finished his sentences, which would have been delightful had we been talking about anything else.

  “Leo, does that mean he’s my . . .” My heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t finish the sentence, but it turned out I didn’t have to.

  “No, honey. Hunter was married to your mom, but—I’m sorry to say this because you seem like you would have been a lovely stepdaughter—he’s not your dad.” The constantly fluctuating balloon in my heart deflated wildly once again. I sat there in a stupor of shock, Liv waving frantically at me for some indication as to what was going on in the mystery call.

  “But if you have time, we’d love to have you stop by. There are some things you need to know.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “I met your mom when we were twenty-two years old,” Hunter started. He had dark blue eyes and black hair and was still quite handsome. Shoots of gray around his temples gave him a kind of gravitas, but his blue button down shirt and corduroy pants were casual. So this man had been married to my mother. I couldn’t get over it. Any of it. Canceling our flight at the last minute, driving to this beautiful house in the Castro, meeting Hunter . . . it all felt like a very strange dream. “At a bar in Ocean City, Maryland, called Seacrets. Get it?”

  Yes, I thought, and I’ve never hated a pun more.

  I silently nodded and took a sip of the tea Leo had insisted on serving once we were seated in the living room. This isn’t kitchen talk, Leo had said knowingly before leading us to a gorgeous room with old-fashioned cyclists wallpaper and an ornate gold hanging chandelier.

  My life had officially become surreal. There was a man sitting in front of me who had once had a relationship with my mother and seemingly held some secrets (or, sea-crets) to my past. Leo was perched next to him, way too excited about what was going on, but then again, he already knew what Hunter was about to say, so that had to be somewhat less stressful. Meanwhile, my best friend was hunched eagerly next to me, taking in every word. And Sam, who I’d spent the past four years loving and telling everything to, was nowhere in sight. Where was I? I wondered helplessly. How had I gotten here?

  Oblivious to my down-the-rabbit-hole musings, Hunter continued. “Back then, Seacrets was essentially the only place to go out at night in Ocean City. It had an outdoor dance floor surrounded by huge flaming tiki torches. You know the type. It was cheesy, I suppose, but we loved it. I remember you could hear the ocean crashing from the bar. The weekend I met Caroline, I was on spring break from med school with a bunch of my classmates. It was an incredible night—”

  “Wait, I thought you were an artist.” I couldn’t help cutting in. He looked like he was embarking on a long story, and to keep any grip on my sanity I had to keep some of the chess pieces in place. My mom vacationing in Ocean City made sense. I knew she went there growing up. But this sophisticated gay man, this Hunter Moon, artist/doctor, swaying under the cheesy tiki torches—that most certainly did not.

  “I am, now. Back then I was studying to be a doctor, one of the many things I was doing to please my family. As fate would have it, I met Caroline the last night of the trip, on the dance floor. We liked to say we fell for each other in the soul train line.” He laughed, recalling a memory that no one else in the room was privy to. I closed my eyes briefly. Could my life story get any more ridiculous? “Eventually this turned into a dance-off”—apparently, it could—“which turned into talking, which turned into a long walk on the beach. She wanted to work in social policy, and I wanted to join Doctors Without Borders. We both lived in Georgetown, we both wanted to make a difference in the world, and we got along great. It worked. When we got back to D.C. we starting dating seriously almost immediately.”

  At this point, I started to feel a sense of foreboding. This was not a beach week romance. And, of course, given his name, this guy, this self-proclaimed nondad, was undoubtedly about to factor into my life in some major way. I had the feeling, however, that I wasn’t going to like how he did.

  “At the time, Caro was waitressing and saving up to go to grad school, while taking night classes for her bachelor’s degree. Her family couldn’t afford to help her out, so she was doing it on her own. She was the most amazing woman,” Hunter reflected. “So strong and smart. She was unlike anyone I had ever met.” Leo looked hurt for a moment, perhaps realizing for the first time that his partner had truly loved this woman in some way. As I knew from recent experience, no one wants anyone else to be that close to his or her partner, romantically or otherwise, no matter how ancient history it was.

  “At the time, it seemed like the perfect relationship. We were both very independent; we didn’t need to be around each other all the time. She was working six days a week, taking classes when she could afford them, and in the meantime reading every political book she could get her hands on in the library. I was practically living at school, trying to make it on the pediatric surgery track. An incredibly hard task made even more difficult by the fact that I had absolutely no desire to be a doctor. Looking back, it’s frightening how much of my life was being lived for other people,” he said sadly. It was sad—I felt for him—but it was difficult to focus on anything else besides the turmoil of not knowing the end of this story. I inwardly willed him to go on.

  “To be fair,” he said, brightening somewhat, “my life wasn’t all terrible. I was dating my best friend. When we were both around, we had a great time. We had wonderful talks. We would go out dancing. She used to make what is still the most delicious homemade pasta I’ve ever had, tagliatelle, orecchiette, you name it.” Leo looked even more flustered by this statement than he had by Hunter’s earlier revelations. “We would eat her latest creation sitting on the couch with our feet propped up on the coffee table, her telling stories about her customers, me reciting the names of the bones in the hand. I would think, I can do this, I’m pretty much happy.”

  I couldn’t picture any of it: my mom chatting for hours or dancing ’til dawn, not to mention having an entire relationship with this man. However, this was thirty years, three thousand miles, and one sexual orientation ago—I guess anything was possible.

  “Did you know you were gay? Is that why you were only ‘pretty much happy’?” Liv asked, speaking for the first time since she’d greeted Leo, introduced herself to Hunter, and quizzically accepted her mug of Lady Grey tea.

  “Yes.” He paused. “Mostly. I knew deep down, but I hadn’t let myself acknowledge the truth. Like Caroline, my family was very Catholic, so it simply wasn’t an option. I’d been praying so hard to get into heaven for so many years, it seemed a shame to waste it on a one-night stand with Carlos from my neurological disorders module, no matter how gorgeous he was.”

  Hunter paused and gave a small, rueful smile, while Leo took this as an opportunity to freshen our mugs with hot water from the teapot, fake whispering as he leaned forward, “Makes sense. He’s always loved Latin men.”

  They both laughed appreciatively, grateful to release some of the tension, but I continued staring edgily at Hunter. I felt like I was watching a horror movie and the victim, shakily holding the steak knife
she’d haphazardly grabbed, was slowly rounding the corner of every room, ready to get hosed. Just get to it already, I pleaded inwardly.

  “The point is—we were pretty much happy, and very, very Catholic. Which meant no sex before marriage. This was a huge relief for me, of course. Things progressed as they were. We got closer, although we never got to—or in my case had to—test-drive the equipment, and bam, we were engaged and married six months after we met. A year later, Caro was pregnant.” A sudden shock went through my body. “I’ll never forget the day she told me. We were on a long weekend to Cape Cod. It was Labor Day—I remember because classes were about to start, and I was dreading going back to another year of misery in med school. We were cracking open lobsters at dinner the first night, a vacation splurge, and I poured her a beer. She glanced at it, pointed to her stomach, and shook her head. Then she dipped a claw in melted butter and kept right on eating. I knew what she was getting at—I mean, I was in med school. Although, thinking back on it now, she really shouldn’t have been eating shellfish either. In any case, I immediately knew she was pregnant. With you,” he added awkwardly.

  “But then, how do you know?” I sputtered, my face turning red while I blurted out the desperate question I knew I had to ask. “How do you know I’m not . . . yours? If you were married when she got pregnant, how do you know you’re not my father?” My voice trailed off quietly as I asked this and I felt everyone in the room looking at me. I felt completely transparent, as if I were wearing invisible skin. Everyone could see my heart and bones, my desires and fears, my insecurities and mostly my deep, reckless desire to find my father.

  With a small, sad chuckle, Hunter shook his head and explained. “It was about nine months short of impossible. We only had sex once, on our honeymoon, a full year before, and even then I’m not sure we did it long enough for any fluids to be exchanged.” He looked guiltily uncomfortable after saying this, realizing too late he was talking about sex with my mother, even if it was terrible, purely efficient sex.

  “Your honeymoon?” I asked. He nodded, eager to give one of the few explanations he had to offer me.

  “We went to Jamaica. We had one of those all-inclusive packages, which at the time seemed like the height of sophistication. White sand beaches, swaying palm trees, and all the frozen strawberry daiquiris we could drink. We were staying somewhere called Hedonism or something ridiculous like that. I remember Caroline joked, ‘If they’re gonna name it that, why don’t they just call it Group Sex?’”

  “You picked a hotel called Hedonism?” Leo interjected, laughing affectionately, seemingly over his momentary discomfort. “And she was surprised you were gay?”

  Hunter smiled, took Leo’s hand, and, still looking at me, continued. “The point is, we had some great memories, some wonderful times, and lots of laughs. No matter what, she could always make me laugh. Caro was a real funny lady.” We were all silent. I wondered which Hunter thought was funnier, Caro lying about my father’s identity for my entire life or the Hedonism joke.

  “That makes sense because Emma’s funny, too,” Liv said loyally, sweetly mistaking my bitter silence for a need to be included in the compliment. Leo nodded in vehement agreement. I wanted to ask him when he’d ever heard me tell a joke.

  “Anyway, it turns out it took Jamaican-strength ganja to get me to have sex with a woman, and even then I was picturing the parasailing instructor.” Hunter laughed, taking a crack at the humor thing as well. I wanted to lie down on the fancy yellow brocade couch and close my eyes. It was too much. “After that week, I never tried again and Caroline didn’t push it. I think she knew. Like I said, she was smart, she got me. Maybe too much.”

  Wonderful. My entire life story had been reduced to a lesson on casual drug usage and Catholic guilt.

  “That’s how, of course, I knew the baby—er, you—weren’t—mine,” Hunter stumbled. “I did the math. I knew, and she knew I knew. Despite that, we stayed together until you were born. I helped her get back on her feet, helped her take care of you for the first few months. Then I moved back to California and we filed for divorce. It was what was best for everyone. She could blame the whole thing on me, say I left, call me a deadbeat dad and all that. And I could finally get to be myself. I’m sorry, Emma. I know none of this has been easy on you. And honestly, I have thought of you many times over the years. Despite the complicated circumstances, I’m very happy I’ve been able to meet you. Again.”

  Hunter looked over at Leo, who squeezed his hand tight. I was completely blown away. Part of me wanted to yell at him for deserting us, for leaving me, a helpless little baby with no father. After all, I was legally his child. But you aren’t, a voice reminded me, not really. The letter of the law said I was Hunter’s, as his name was on my birth certificate. But the spirit of the law, the meaning and intent behind the classification of father, said he was not. I cursed my Legal Philosophy seminar for ingraining those concepts in me so deeply.

  I had no idea what to say or what I wanted to get across. Part of me didn’t want to let him off the hook. After all, he’d been party to the biggest betrayal of my life. But even while reeling from the shock, I knew it wasn’t his fault. In any case, what could he possibly have done differently? I suppose he could have stayed with a wife he didn’t love, raising a child who wasn’t his, in a life he wouldn’t have chosen. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. The anger started to dissipate, but I still wasn’t happy, and I had no energy left to fake it. I couldn’t be accepting and forgiving while learning that my entire life was a lie. That I came from nowhere, from no one. I had nothing left to say.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Hunter asked gently.

  “Sure,” I said, glad for an excuse to continue the conversation. I still had no idea how I felt, and although this was where Hunter’s story ended and mine kept going, I didn’t want to let go of him quite yet.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Let’s see.” I dug back in my mind to come up with an accurate answer. “The one thing my mom told me about you, besides your name, was that you were from California. I picked up that you’d moved to San Francisco, after hearing her mention it to other people. Then we came here to look for you.” I felt my cheeks flush at this. It was so cloak-and-dagger, so tacky. Especially since it turned out I’d been searching for someone to whom I wasn’t remotely related. “We checked the library and all over the Internet for a couple days, but never ran across any of your information—”

  “I told you that you need a website,” Leo scolded. “He’s so old-fashioned. He doesn’t believe in the Internet.”

  “What can I say? I like to draw pictures, but I don’t have any desire to tweet about them,” Hunter said charmingly. I had a deep stab of wishing this endearing man was my father while I reflected on Leo’s words. That explained why he’d been so impossible to locate. Why he was nowhere to be found online. The pieces were all falling into place. Unfortunately, where they fell was of little help.

  “How did you find me in the end?” Hunter pressed.

  “This part is pretty unbelievable. Liv picked up a postcard advertising your show at a bar one night. It was completely by chance.”

  “Destiny,” Leo said knowingly. “It was destiny that you chose this week to look for him, the week of the show. Destiny that you saw the ad. This was meant to be.” Liv nodded solemnly.

  “I guess.” I tried to smile.

  “Why did you choose this week?” Hunter asked. “Why now?”

  “Oh, because I’m supposed to get married on Saturday. I guess it was a last-minute effort to explore my roots. Or something.”

  “On Saturday? You mean, three days from now?” Leo demanded.

  “Yes. This trip was supposed to be my bachelorette party, kind of. What a hoot, right?” I said, laughing derisively. “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time and energy. It was really nice to meet you both.” I started to stand,
but Liv shot up her hand to stop me from leaving.

  “You forgot the most important thing,” she said urgently. We all turned to look at her. “Who did Caroline have the affair with while you were married? Who’s the guy? That must be Emma’s dad, right?”

  Hunter faltered. “I suppose it is. I’m sorry, I never knew. It didn’t seem right, considering what our marriage had gone through and what a disappointing husband I turned out to be. She respected my privacy and I figured I owed her as much. I never asked, and, needless to say, Caro never said a word.”

  CHAPTER 21

  One of the most important classes you take in law school is Evidence. It’s probably the most practical course because, unlike the majority of what you learn, it actually teaches you how to practice law. The class is all about the—wait for it—evidence you’re allowed to introduce in court. What documents you can show the jury and what your witnesses can say on the stand. You know how on Law and Order, the lawyer asks the witness a question, and the other side shouts, Objection! usually right as the witness is starting to get into the good stuff? Well, Objection! is pretty much a fancy way of saying: You can’t introduce that evidence, so hush.

  Lawyers object to evidence for all sorts of different reasons, but the most important objection has to be hearsay. Hearsay is a big no-no in court. The technical definition is “an out-of-court statement used for the truth of the matter asserted,” which means you can’t try to prove a fact by repeating something that someone else said. You can’t tell a jury, “My neighbor Rhonda told me that she wanted to kidnap her friend’s dog,” or “My grandmother said she wanted to leave me all her money,” with the implication “so it must be true.” Those aren’t facts, they’re hearsay. Objection! sustained.

  The assumption is that people lie all the time, for all sorts of reasons. Maybe (hopefully) Rhonda was joking around about the dog thing, or your nana simply didn’t want to decide who got the Velázquez, so she took the easy way out and let the grandkids fight it out. Hearsay rules dictate that only in court, when the witness has taken an oath, with the pressure of cross-examination present, can what someone says really be considered evidence. Accordingly, as lawyers, we are taught not to believe hearsay, not to trust gossip. “He said, she said” doesn’t count.