Jake looks at me, raises his eyebrows, then glances back at her. “Help him get ice?”
Mom nods.
He glares at me. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Mom says. “Just give us a minute.”
“Sure. Okay.” He slowly walks out of the room.
We both watch him leave.
“He was in the chapel during your surgery,” I tell her.
She smiles. “Jake is my sensitive one.”
I wonder which one I am.
“The nurse said they’re going to send me home tomorrow,” she says. “As long as my insertion site heals okay. In and out.” She stares off into space.
“I wish they’d keep you longer. Just to be safe. It seems so fast,” I tell her.
She turns to look at me. “That’s the way it is, less expensive in the long run. I’ll be seeing my own doctor regularly.”
We’re both quiet again. It’s obvious we’re thinking about the same thing—the elephant in the room. The name. Such a simple name. Such a complicated name.
“I found the papers,” I tell her. “In your jewelry box. With his name. Bob White.”
She sighs. “Morgan. I really thought…I didn’t think I would make it. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Allowed you to find that document about your dad.”
“You mean Bob White?”
She winces. I press my lips tight, wishing I had my ChapStick. He’s not my dad. Dad is something you earn. “Well,” I say quietly, “I didn’t find him—not yet. But I can’t pretend I don’t know his name.”
She sighs deeply. “I know.”
“Why’d you never tell me before?”
She stares at me and I stare back. And then she pats the bed beside her. I half sit, not wanting to get too close. She reaches for my hand, but I move it away and scratch my head.
“I love you,” she says.
I blink back a sudden flood of tears and look away. Now she says it back? I wait, but she doesn’t fill the silence. “I know you do. But I still had a right to know. Even if he didn’t want me. I had a right to know his name.” My toes tingle. I feel it starting there. The anger. I focus it toward him. I can hate him with much less guilt because I don’t know him. It’s harder to aim it at her.
“I can help you with what the insurance doesn’t cover,” I tell her. “I have savings.”
“Are you crazy?” she asks.
I frown at the intensity in her voice. “Don’t get worked up. It’s okay.”
“You are not paying for any of this. Your savings are for college. Do not worry about the insurance. One of my kids needs to go to college. Not that I’m not proud of my boys…but I want you to go. I’ll manage. I spoke out of fear before. I thought I might not make it. I didn’t want to burden you with bills when I was dead. I certainly won’t when I’m alive.”
“I can help,” I say again.
She blows a feeble raspberry. “No. Absolutely not. The money you made is for your future, working with kids.”
The anger in my toes rises a little. She had George to help with some of the boys’ things. But there was no help with me. “What’s wrong? What’s with that face?” my mom asks. “Don’t worry, Morgan. I can deal with this. It’s going to be okay. It’ll all get paid off.”
I take a breath. In through my nose. Out of my mouth. She’s not perfect, far from it, but she made sure I had everything I needed growing up. Well. Except a father. I stare down at my hands. I did a Google search for Bob White and it brought up a lot of images. It’s embarrassing to not even know him to look at him.
“Bob White is a pretty common name,” I say softly.
She sighs. “I know.”
I sit up straighter on her bed. “I don’t want to upset you, but I’m going to look for him.”
She presses her lips together and stares behind me.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Mom?”
A plump tear squeezes out of her eye and rolls down her cheek. She finally looks at me. “I know. I understand.”
My insides ache because I’m adding pain to her recovery. The back of my throat throbs. “I wanted you to know. I don’t want to go behind your back. Or hide it. I wanted you to know the truth.” Even though she hid it from me for so long. It’s the right thing to do.
She stares into space.
“I need to meet him,” I continue. “I’m prepared for him to slam doors in my face. I mean, I know he’s never even wanted to meet me. But I have to find him.” I don’t tell her my fear—that I might be left all alone.
Her face seems to pale even more. She picks at her blanket, looks up at me, but as soon as her eyes meet mine, she looks back down. She’s terrified.
“Mom?”
She picks at the blanket. Her hand shakes. “What’s it going to change?” she says softly. I stare at her, but she won’t look up.
“Everything,” I say, and the resentment in my voice makes it louder than I intend. “Nothing.” I want to know who he is. How he lives. Does he have another family? Maybe I have a sister. Other people. Maybe, just maybe, if he meets me, he’ll see that I’m not so bad—that I am a good person.
She glances up. “Just be careful what you wish for.”
I hear her unsaid words. He’s never looked for me. He’s never tried to find me. But it’s not his choice anymore. And it’s not hers either. It’s mine. I want to see him in person. I want to know what he looks like—maybe even find out why he left me. I’m ready to handle this like a grown-up, even if the two of them aren’t.
“For the record, I don’t want you to do this,” she says, her voice flat.
I bite my lip to keep myself from backing down, telling her I won’t. I inhale deeply and concentrate on breathing in and out.
Neither one of us speaks. The machines in the room whir.
“I’m sorry,” she says after another moment of quiet. “I know it’s not fair…it’s just that…” She stops. Sniffles. Closes her eyes.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“No. It isn’t.”
I glance toward the door, hearing the boys chattering, their voices getting closer. “Victoria,” Mom says softly.
I look back at her, wondering if she’s drifted off or if maybe she’s hallucinating that she’s talking to an old friend or something.
“Mom?” I lean forward and pat her shoulder gently. “It’s me, Morgan,” I whisper.
“I know that,” she says and opens her eyes. “I mean, Victoria, British Columbia. The last I heard, Bob was living in Victoria.”
I slowly process that. “You mean in Canada?”
She nods.
“He’s Canadian?” For some reason this strikes me as absurd. I giggle.
“When we met, he was working in the Seattle office of his company. He’s an engineer. Before you were born, he moved back to Canada.”
Of course he did.
God. This must explain my strange addiction to maple syrup.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I manage, and then I rush out of the room. As soon as my toes touch the floor in the hallway, tears burst out of my eyes. The boys are close. Josh is holding a baggie filled with ice chips. My face must look bad, because they both rush to me as I bend over to catch my breath.
“What’s wrong?” Jake says and pats on my back. “Is Mom okay?”
I lift my head, unable to speak. It’s stupid, but it’s the fact that he lives in Canada that slays me. He lives in a different country.
The boys run past me into her room. I start walking. My feet move quickly, until I’m running. Everything I’ve been holding is fighting to come out. The operation is over. Mom is okay. My dad is alive and his name is Bob White. And the thing that tilts me over the edge is that he doesn’t even live in America, that he’s
Canadian.
And now, I’m a mess.
I jump on the elevator to the main floor, ignoring the smiles of an old man in a hospital gown pushing around an oxygen tank he’s hooked up to. I don’t have room in my heart for other people or their troubles. When the elevator door opens, I walk out quickly, avoiding people’s eyes until I’m outside the hospital on the sidewalk.
It’s dark outside, and I’m surprised the sun is down, though when I think of it, I can’t tell when the day started and when it ended. I pull my phone from my pocket, turn it on, and walk to the path that leads behind the hospital. My phone beeps in quick succession, letting me know there are new messages. I ignore them and walk to a nearby bench and plunk my butt down. My heart beats triple time as I click on the Google icon. I type in Bob White + Victoria BC, take a breath, and press search. The connection is slow.
Finally the search brings up a few links. I scan down. One is a pharmacy website, another advertises a paint shop. I sift through pop-ups and see images of people attached to the name Bob White. There’s an artist, a businessmen, even a politician. I wonder which one of them is dear old Dad. I’m furious I can’t tell by looking.
I scroll up and down, clicking on links but nothing jumps out at me, nothing screams, This is your father, Morgan McLean. You’ve come to the right place. Please call this number to speak with the man who made you.
I’m disappointed. I’m angry. I want to eat carbs. How am I ever going to find him?
I tap my way out of Google, to the Twitter icon, and click on it. I think about tweeting my dad’s name, telling my followers about him—asking for help tracking him down online. But no. I want to do this organically. I don’t want anyone or anything to warn him that I’m onto him now. I want to go find him with the element of surprise on my side.
I scroll down, but my heart isn’t in any of the things my friends are tweeting. I can’t concentrate, and I’m close to typing a tweet to express my distress, something I vowed never to do. My online image is peppy. I don’t want to drag people down.
I click out of Twitter and go to my phone. I stare at Adam’s contact number, and then for the first time in my life, initiate a call with a boy. One that has nothing to do with work. Or school.
When Adam’s voice mail picks up, I hang up without leaving a message. He has to have caller ID. He’ll know it was me. If he wants to call me back, he will.
My phone beeps, letting me know a new text came in. I glance at it and frown. It’s from my mom’s phone. But how could she possibly send a text? She must have gotten Jake to do it. Or Josh. I glance at the message.
It’s a picture of a man. I enlarge the image and look closer. It’s a picture from a newspaper article. He’s wearing a golf cap, but it’s clear what he looks like.
There’s a caption under the picture. Tiny. I enlarge it some more.
“Bob White wins the Golf Tournament, for the Victoria Blues.” I recognize him from Google Images, one of the less offensive looking Bob Whites. We have a match. I suck in a deep breath. After all this time, this is it.
I peer closely and disappointment settles in. He’s an ordinary person, this Bob White, just a normal-looking man. Not too tall. Not too heavy or too slim. Not someone I can look at and automatically hate. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Just a man. It’s hard to feel much of anything. It was almost better wondering if he was dead. Or really tall and handsome. Or maybe a famous celebrity who would never acknowledge me as his daughter because it would ruin his career. Not some guy in a golf shirt who looks like he shops at Costco and pays all of his bills on time. He doesn’t look evil. He doesn’t look mean.
He is a man. But he’s more. He’s my dad. I try to imagine what his voice sounds like, what he likes to eat, if he has a new family. Mostly I wonder why—why he never wanted to know me. I stare at the photo. I have to go. Now that I know. I have to see him myself. In person. I’ll find a way to go to him and see for myself who he is, and why he didn’t want me. Maybe, just maybe, if he sees me now, sees I’m not so bad…
I shake my head and stop that train of thought. I wonder if he’ll be underwhelmed and disappointed when he looks at me for the first time. I wonder for the millionth time why he left me. “Morgan,” I say, speaking for the man in the picture, “I am your father.”
chapter seven
4. Likeability can be measured by how many followers you have online.
#thingsithoughtweretrue
I’m working in the gift shop, ringing up a woman’s purchases, ignoring the shrieks of her unhappy baby. “Whoa,” a voice says from the entrance of the gift shop after she leaves. “That took commitment.” Adam walks in. “Ignoring a baby’s cries.” He walks inside.
I remember that I’m mad at him, so I fake a smile and act busy. He never returned my call. He doesn’t get off that easy. “So, your mom’s operation went okay?” he asks.
I don’t glance up. “Fine.”
“So…?”
“She’ll be home in a few days.” I bend down to pick up a pencil I dropped on the floor. When I stand again, he’s directly across the counter. Frowning.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks. He’s holding a brown paper bag. Of course he would bring a packed lunch. It’s mature and sensible.
“Why would I be mad at you?” Call display, dude. He didn’t call back. Text. Acknowledge my call in any way. I don’t need to have things spelled out. He’s my boss, he felt obliged to drive me to the hospital, and his interest about my mom is medical curiosity. I made up the connection between us.
“You have a break in a few minutes, and Theresa’s on her way. Are you going to the staff room?”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Break time,” Theresa says as she walks in. “Hey. Is your mom okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I don’t move.
“That’s good.” She smiles at me then turns to Adam. “You find your phone yet?”
He turns to me. “Someone stole it.”
“Contact your carrier. Maybe they can trace it?” Theresa says.
I sneak a look at him. His phone got stolen. That’s why he didn’t call back?
“I called. They couldn’t trace it. I have to buy a replacement.” Adam turns to me. “I’m on my break too. I’ll go with you.”
“I wasn’t going to go to the staff room,” I tell him. I’d been counting down the time until I could go to the old abandoned washroom stall and catch up on my tweets. I grab my backpack and walk out from behind the counter.
“Don’t worry,” Adam says. “You can bring your phone.”
“I know.” I need to recalibrate. I can’t be mad at him for ignoring my call since he didn’t have his phone.
“Come on.” He glances at my backpack. “You need to stop to buy something to eat?”
I shake my head. I took one of Josh’s protein bars so I could have lunch in private. I hadn’t planned on returning to the staff room again. Ever. I want to slip off to the path that leads to privacy, but I’m too chicken to admit it.
When we walk outside, two pretty girls in yellow shirts run up to Adam. One smiles at me, but the other looks me up and down and blinks in slow motion before turning to Adam. “So, I need to get off early this Saturday. Can I do that?”
“Talk to me later,” he says to her and turns to me. We’ve reached the entrance to the staff room. It smells like dirty feet and cotton candy. It reminds me of my brothers when they don’t shower after working out and try to cover their smell with cologne.
“Come on,” Adam says, and we step inside. It’s early for lunch, so there are only a few employees sprawled at one table. I avoid looking at the managers’ table, closest to the far wall.
Some girls at the full table squeal with laughter, but Adam ignores them. “We don’t have to sit over there,” he says, gesturing to
the manager table. “How about the couches?”
I shrug, kind of embarrassed he guessed my feelings about sitting at the manager table, and follow him to the grimy-looking couches that semicircle the vending machines. He walks to a machine and plugs in some quarters. “You want a Coke?” he asks me as he takes out a can.
I lift my shoulder and plunk down on a couch, trying not to think about how dirty it is. I put my phone on my lap.
“Sure, Adam, I’d love a Coke,” he says in a high-pitched voice, imitating me. He puts in more change and pulls out another can. I turn on my phone to Twitter and scroll, but he stands right in front of me, holding out the can until I stop and take it from him.
“Thanks.”
“How about talking to me instead of your phone?”
I put my phone down but glance longingly at it.
“So everything’s okay with your mom?” he says and sits on the couch across from me. I dig through my backpack and pull out my bar, nod, and rip the wrapper open with my teeth.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I take a bite of my bar and pop open the can. Adam watches me as he unfolds his lunch bag.
“Did I do something to piss you off?”
“Besides forcing me to eat in this place?” I smile even though it’s true and take a sip of the soda. It’s awkward. I’m angry about things, most of which have nothing to do with him. I’m being kind of an ass and I know it.
He pulls a sandwich from his lunch bag and glances around the room, seemingly undisturbed by the other people or the mess. “Where do you usually eat?” he asks. “Outside?”
I shake my head, trying to shake off my mood.
He holds up his sandwich to take a bite. “Isn’t anyone allowed to be nice to you?”
I put the soda between us on the table and lean back on the couch, sigh, try to explain. “Sorry. It’s just. Since the video…”
He smiles. “I get it. And by the way, in case you didn’t notice, I’m not exactly Mr. Popularity around here.” He bites his sandwich and shrugs. “At least you’ll be seen talking to me in public.” He smiles again to show he’s joking, but I wonder if he is.
16 Things I Thought Were True Page 6