Surviving Goodbye

by Morgan Parker

  “No, tonight won’t work,” I said, not willing to introduce another woman into Lena’s life just yet. “How about tomorrow at noon again?”

  “Sorry, Elliot,” she said, sighing. “I understand if you don’t want your daughter to think you’ve replaced her mother—” did she just read my mind or was she that good? “—but if you want to find the bio daddy before she delivers that child of hers, you need better candidates on your list of prospects. That’s where I come in.” She stood, indicating that lunch was over and she needed to get back to work.

  I stood and followed her across the street to her delivery van.

  As she backed out of the diagonal parking spot, she mentioned that she had the rest of the week off. “Ava was supposed to have her tonsils removed, but she’s coming off yet another infection. So I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  We drove in silence all the way back to my house, where she stopped the delivery van and let its engine idle. I broke that silence with, “I enjoyed having lunch with you, Veronica.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’m touched that you want to help with my little…” I waved my hand blindly over my lap.

  “Um, your little…what?” she made that strange and unique chuckling sound again, and I caught myself smiling before realizing that my misleading, waving hand suggested “little” belonged somewhere in my crotch. I placed my palms on my thighs so they couldn’t embarrass me further.

  “If you really want to help, I’ll be at Palmer’s between eight and nine tomorrow night.”

  “I know that place,” she said, nodding. “You’re crazy going down there on a game night.”

  “Lena works at Comerica Park. They usually let her off before nine, when the vendors really slow down. She’ll text me, and I’ll meet her halfway.”

  “Why don’t we meet at the New Parthenon? Love their food.” She shrugged.

  “Okay. That works.”

  “And let’s make it seven,” she added, taking charge already and realizing that her need to run the show didn’t go unnoticed. “Sorry, I thought it might give us more time.”

  I nodded. “Seven it is. Looking forward to it.”

  She smiled and I stepped out of the delivery van, noticing the grin on her face as I turned back to shut the door. “Me too, Elliot.”

  I watched her drive off before heading back into the house. The smell left by the cleaning solution tickled my nostrils and had evidently caused some mental damage as well: I had agreed to let a complete stranger, who was more than ten years younger, help me find Lena’s biological father.

  Until Veronica, nobody knew my secret, the demon I had pulled from the muddy depths of my mind. But now someone knew. She knew the truth about my daughter. And it felt incredibly good.

  Chapter 8

  After dropping Lena off at school the next morning, I made a trip out to Grosse Point where Nathan Darien owned a respectable home that might’ve fetched five million back in 2006 but would be lucky to see a hair above one million today. It gave me a small amount of satisfaction to see that the man with the crooked cock, who had shown up at my wedding without saying hello to the groom and who was possibly my daughter’s biological father, had suffered more financial hardship in the housing collapse than I had.

  I slowed down on Lake Shore, hitting the hazards so I could stop and look. Just look. As I did, I closed my eyes and wondered whether Karen had ever made discreet trips out here, whether she had come to see the grown-up version of the boy who had fucked her the best she had ever known in high school. Had her stomach crawled with anticipation as she drove past the gates and up that long, straight driveway?

  Snapping my eyes open, I noticed the familiar face from my wedding video jogging toward me, right down the driveway that I had just been wondering about. Decked out in running gear, Nathan Darien had a body that oozed a lot more sex-appeal than mine ever would. I could see the six-pack cutting through the special fabric of his shirt, and with each pump of his legs, his muscles and veins bulged. I didn’t have to lift my own shirt to speculate as to what it was about this dickhead that appealed to my dead wife.

  I pulled away from the curb, aware that Nathan had seen me and my license plate, but I was doubtful that he would come for me. He was, after all, the guy who had fucked Karen. Plus, it wasn’t like he needed to ask me what I was doing outside his palatial estate. It seemed pretty fucking obvious to me.

  The pre-game traffic was light on the I-75 into Detroit. Lena sat quietly while I drove, which told me that something was troubling her, so I kept my hands on the wheel and the classical music loud enough to annoy her into conversation. By the time we passed the interchange for the Walter Reuther Freeway, she sighed and shifted in her seat.

  “I hate the morning sickness,” she admitted within a quarter-mile. “Especially because it happens right after school. I never know whether I’ll make it home before puking my brains out.”

  I patted her hand, patronizing as hell. Then again, so was she. “It’ll pass,” I promised. “Sometime after the first trimester.”

  That got her attention. “How do you know that, Papa Bear?”

  I shrugged. “Your mother was the same way, plus I read it online the other night.” Silence. “What’s really on your mind, Lena?”

  The Chrysler swallowed another quarter-mile before she opened her mouth again. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Papa Bear. When this kid comes,” she said, her voice cracking, “I’m fucked.”

  “I’ll help,” I said.

  “Uh-uh, no way. I’m saving every single dime I make. I’m going to draw from the insurance money Mom left for me. She would’ve wanted that. I…I’m going to make this work for me and my baby.” She rubbed her stomach as she spoke. “I don’t need Joffrey’s support, and I don’t need yours either.”

  “You’ll stay at home,” I insisted, although it came out as more of a question. “I mean, there’s no need for a single mother to find her own place. Not unless Jeffrey with an ‘O’ for orgasm steps up and—”

  “That’s never going to happen,” she admitted, her tone a little lighter at my sad attempt at humor. And then she sighed. “Joffrey is a deadbeat.”

  It’s about time, I thought, but kept the smirk off my face. “There you go. You see, there’s no rush to leave home.” I patted her hand again. “Don’t have to take my money, but I’ll…” I gulped at the promise I was about to make. “Your baby can have the guest room,” I said at last. “There’s enough room in there for a single bed, changing table, rocking chair, and a crib. It’s perfect.”

  “Dad…”

  “No, the basement’s no place for a baby. Not my…” I didn’t want to speak the lies on my tongue, but what was the alternative? “Not my grandchild.”

  Another quarter-mile of silence as my heartbeat pounded in my ears and eyes. I had raised Lena and even though she deserved to know her true father, her biological origin, she was—no, she felt like she was my daughter. I loved her beyond what any words could express and I would love her child with the same immeasurable intensity, regardless of my scientific claim to that love.

  We were getting close to Comerica Park, shutting the gap between now and my dinner date with Veronica. I didn’t exactly know what thoughts were haunting Lena’s mind, but I knew the ones tormenting mine. Worrying about dinner with a young woman surely looked silly compared to the fears of facing childbirth and teenage-parenting.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll clean Mom’s stuff out of there. It’s time. Overdue.”

  Silence.

  We reached the Madison exit, and my stomach tightened. I suddenly understood her anxiety about the mid-afternoon morning sickness, but I kept that to myself. At Witherell, we stopped behind a long line of vehicles, and Lena offered to jump out there.

  I held her back. “I don’t want you to worry,” I explained to her. “I’ll make sure everything’s okay with this baby, as long as you promise to stay healthy.”

  Her eyes lit u
p with tears and relief. “Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

  I made my right and hit another red at Adams. “Okay, get out. Traffic is worse than usual, you’ll be late.”

  She reached for the door handle and pulled it open. “They’re playing Toronto. Bigger draw, I guess.”

  I smiled at her, swallowing the bile rising at the reality of Veronica half an hour from now. “Text me when you’re done.”

  She was already out of the car, but promised she would as she flung the door shut and crossed Adams with the rest of the crowds in their Tigers jerseys and ball gloves. By the time I made my turn, I wondered about the heavy traffic and whether I’d make it to the restaurant in time. After finding a free spot in my regular parking garage, I jogged the rest of the way to the New Parthenon, stepping inside and scoping the dining area as inconspicuously as possible.

  I spotted Veronica almost instantly. She spotted me spotting her and, despite the smile on her face as she half-stood and waved me over, I wondered how pathetic I looked to someone like her. This old guy with a pregnant daughter, whose freshman year of college would get pushed back a semester or two. The old perv who received sex toys and, to Veronica’s eyes, blamed them on the pregnant teen when the delivery truck rolled up.

  Ugh, it was hurting my head just thinking about it. I was an idiot to think we could ever have a relationship.

  I sat across from her, aware of the big smile on her face, yet she looked confused.

  “Where’s the stuff?” she asked. “For the names.”

  I told her I thought she was going to come up with her own names, but realized that remark made me sound more like an asshole than a smartass, and then I quickly admitted I had left the yearbooks in the car, back in the parking garage. I didn’t admit that I doubted she would show up.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really, that’s your response, Mr. Liberator?”

  I sat back in the chair, crossing my arms. “You’re wearing lipstick,” I said. “And eye goop. I bet you didn’t think I’d notice, but I did.” I winked. “Still think I wouldn’t know my wife because I’m not a woman? I’m a natural at this line of work.”

  She laughed, dropping her head back and letting that dorky sound escape her mouth. The laughter reminded me of a peace and ease I hadn’t known since Karen’s death. I watched Veronica, admiring her exaggerated dramatization of what laughter really meant, and when she brought her gaze back to me, she asked, “What line of work would that be?”

  I glanced at our surroundings, aware that I stood out like a peacock at a funeral home. I stood out just sitting at a table with someone like Veronica. Where I was old and conservative in my jeans and button-down shirt, Veronica’s youthful top and skin-tight yoga pants looked both sexy and rebellious. We looked about as “matched” as a Ferrari and a lawn tractor.

  “Investigative work,” I confided.

  She started laughing again, but held a hand to her mouth to silence the eruption. I secretly hated her for depriving me of that sound. “I’m sorry. You’re not a detective. You’re a disgruntled husband whose wife kept a secret from him.” Her facial expression relayed a knowing sympathy. She felt my pain, and I wondered if Ava’s father had done the same to her. I bet he had. All pretty girls seemed to come equipped with the same broken radar when it came to picking men.

  I maintained my eye contact and admitted, “I’m not disgruntled. I was hurt. I was in denial. I hated her. But now I’m over this.”

  She raised that eyebrow again, just one, and it captivated me. Her entire face captivated me. Veronica owned a rare natural beauty, her face sprinkled with light freckles (mostly covered up now) that drew your attention to her narrow chin, up across those soft, mildly pouting lips, the long nose, and then up to those perfect eyes that pulled you in.

  She swallowed, aware of my old-man, perverted admiration. When she scratched at her collarbone, she inadvertently pushed the shirt aside so that her never tattoo revealed a little more of itself—never let me. I wanted to ask Never let you what? But I didn’t want to change the subject.

  “Then why are you doing this?” she asked. “If you’re over it, why bother?”

  “My daughter.”

  She allowed a compassionate half-grin. “The one with the sex-toy deliveries and obstetrician appointment,” she said, connecting the dots out loud.

  “Elena.” I gave a firm nod. “Yes. She deserves to know who her true father is, doesn’t she?”

  “And you didn’t tell her because she’s got a lot on her plate?” Veronica asked.

  “That I’m not her biological father? No. Well, sort of.” She stared down at my hands on the table. “I imagined myself in her position. Having just lost her mother and…” I trailed off, remembering my past year of dealing with the hatred and rage and regret and depression. Shaking my head, I admitted, “I was gone this past year. Emotionally truant. She dealt with that loss all by herself.”

  “Emotionally truant?”

  “It took me three months to notice that she’d moved her bedroom, which was always two doors down from mine, into the basement. I just wasn’t there. Emotionally, I was dead. We did the counseling thing together, but outside of crossing paths on our way to the kitchen, she may as well have lost both of her parents that day. I couldn’t stomach telling her I wasn’t her real dad, at least not until I could give the real dad to her at the same time.”

  When I raised my attention, I saw speechlessness in Veronica’s face. It didn’t get too awkward, though, because a waitress arrived with water and took our order—two Greek salads (no onions on mine, please), saganaki, and a handful of desserts. Once the waitress left, we returned to that sloppy silence and almost engaged in a staring contest that didn’t last all that long because I smiled.

  “So, what’s with the makeup?” I asked, bringing the focus back to her.

  She grinned, shaking her head. “Why would she sleep with some other guy, Elliot? I don’t understand. Maybe that’s what has me so interested in this little, um, ‘mystery’ of yours.” She was avoiding my question.

  I shrugged. “She said she wanted to give me a daughter, a ‘perfect daughter.’”

  I reached into my pocket for the letter that Jamie had been holding since before Karen died, the letter he had obviously read and kept from me all this time. I watched Veronica unfold it, open it, and read it. Her eyes hopped across the words, and I wondered if she really saw and absorbed Karen’s message, or if she was just pretending to, like I had when I read my termination letter from Tom.

  When Veronica shook her head, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and assumed she actually digested the words, which made me a little sad. I had hoped to distract her long enough to focus more on me, our conversation at this little table, and not the sad reality of my past.

  “That’s shitty,” she finally said. “This whole letter, it makes you want to cry, doesn’t it?”

  I shrugged, but she was correct—I had cried plenty.

  “Do you mind if I hold on to this, Elliot?” That tipped me off that maybe she hadn’t read the words as closely as her demeanor suggested.

  “Not at all,” I lied. I hated that I would lose the last piece of communication that Karen had intended for me. Despite their cruelty, those words belonged to me and the part of me that still loved her, still hoped she might knock on the front door someday and say her death was all just one big hoax (along with the cheating whore-ishness, naturally). I actually admired the loving parts of the letter, that first paragraph and last line, to be specific.

  “You can keep it,” I said at last, the words stinging as they slipped from my mouth. “I already told you, I’m done.” And by letting her take that letter, I hoped I really could move on. With finality.

  If Veronica believed me, her face sure told a different story. She studied me a bit, then refolded the paper into its original shape and slid it into her purse on the floor. “So, when is your daughter’s due date?” she asked, shifting gears on me again.

  “M
ay,” I said. “I don’t know what that means for her academic year, it’ll be the last one before college, but…” I shook my head.

  “They’ll accommodate her. If she’s intelligent—”

  “She is, surprisingly so,” I cut her off. “Top marks, which is very unlike me. But when you factor in the unidentified father, I guess it might make a bit of sense.”

  Veronica grinned at my attempted humor. “Then the school will allow her to take her exams early.” Her confidence and authority had me questioning whether she spoke from experience, but the years didn’t compute. Unless she had another child, one I hadn’t met, one a lot older than Ava.

  “Did you…?”

  “No, not me,” she said, shaking her head. “But I knew girls in high school who had babies. They made it look easy. And I suppose it is easy when you have helpful parents, a father who wants to participate in the upbringing like you do, and some kind of financial assistance.” She shrugged. “Most teenage-mothers don’t have that luxury.”

  Someone, a male with dark hair and big eyes, stepped up to our table with the saganaki, yelling, “Opa!” and lit the plate on fire.

  As we dug into the salty cheese dish, talking about irrelevant things—she grew up in Troy, gave up on college when she got pregnant in her second year because she didn’t have the resources to study and raise Ava on her own, stuff like that—and then our salads arrived, and immediately after the salads, the dessert.

  “So what have you found out about this other guy, the one with the curved dick?”

  We both laughed at her description of Nathan Darien. I told her about driving up to his house, sitting at the end of the driveway, and trying to “feel” how Karen could’ve slept with this guy. “But then I saw him and…wow.” I rubbed my hand up my relatively flat belly—not flat enough for a six-pack. “I could grate cheese with his abs.”

  Veronica laughed, nearly choking on her water.