Jules aims the remote again, and the TV goes blank. “That’s it. He moves on to someone else now.”
Silence settles between us. I don’t know what to say. A thousand thoughts are crowding my mind.
My daughter wants to meet me.
She’s beautiful.
She wants me to be on a reality show.
All I have to do is call that number.
Who gave her my picture?
A reality show? Me?
Jules leans over and squeezes my knee. “Talk to me. What are you going to do?”
What am I going to do? No way I’m going on a reality show, especially this one. Jules has told me all about it. I’ve heard about the harsh conditions, the lack of food that drives contestants to insect consumption, the duplicity that’s required in order to win. How can I willingly subject myself to that?
But how can I not? My daughter wants to meet me. My daughter. Jessica. For years, I’ve put her out of my mind. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. It was the only way I could survive the heart-wrenching decision to let her go. And letting her go was the only way I could ensure she had a good, happy life. I never expected to see her again. But now, I can.
My daughter wants to meet me. And I will do whatever it takes to meet her.
I look at Jules, blinking hard. “Can I use your phone?”
3
What did you do?”
When Jules gave me her phone, I had every intention of calling the number on the TV screen. But halfway through dialing, a thought occurred to me. How did Jessica’s family get that photo of me? She said her parents had it since she was a baby, but there was only one other person outside our little group who knew what I was doing.
“What do you mean, dear?” My mother’s voice is smooth, innocent. She’s obviously not a fan of Last Family Standing because she has no clue what I’m talking about.
“You gave a copy of my high school graduation picture to the Becketts, didn’t you?”
Thick silence is followed by a long, deep sigh. That’s admission enough for me.
“Mom, how could you? You know I wanted to stay out of their life.”
“If you wanted that, you never should have given them your baby.” She sighs again, but this time it’s short and final, more like a snort. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”
Maybe not, but it came out exactly the way she meant it. Mom has never understood how I could give up my baby for adoption, and she never agreed with my decision to cut all ties with the Becketts. If she’d had her way, we would have been one big, extended family, exchanging letters and pictures, getting together on holidays. It had almost killed me to walk away from my child when all I knew of her was the glimpse of her tiny, newborn body. How could I stand to get to know her, watch her grow, and have to leave her again and again and again? Mom’s philosophy was “better something than nothing.” But I knew better. It was like the one time in high school that I took a drag off a friend’s cigarette. There had been something seductive about it, how it warmed my whole body. In that second, I knew I had two choices: keep smoking and become addicted, or never, ever smoke again. I chose the latter, just like I did with my daughter. If I stayed in contact, spent any time with her, I would have become addicted. I would have needed more and more of her, until I’d want her back, all for myself. The only choice, the one that would result in the least amount of broken hearts, was to go cold turkey. But Mom never got how I could quit my daughter.
“When did you even see the Becketts?”
“At the hospital, the day after she was born. I was looking at her through the nursery window, and there was a young couple next to me. It didn’t take long for us to realize we were looking at the same baby.” More sighing blows through the phone.
I’m not an insensitive fool. I know this whole thing has been difficult for her, too. But right now, I need information. “What did you tell them?”
“That I was your mother. That you were a good person who just lost her way. And I showed them your picture, the one I kept in my wallet.”
They already knew what I looked like, and Mom knew it. But I guess she wanted them to see what I looked like before I fell into a life of sin and questionable choices. “And you gave it to them.”
“Because they asked if they could keep it.” Her voice has a hard edge. “And I’m glad they did. At least someone realized that sweet baby needed a connection to her real mother.”
“Susan Beckett has been her mother for twenty-five years. She deserves that title way more than I do. I’m more like an after-the-fact surrogate.”
“Be that as it may.” Mom’s dismissive tone is more than a little insulting. “Why are you asking me about this now? How did you even find out?” She gasps, sucking back in all that previously sighed-out air. “She contacted you, didn’t she?”
“Not exactly.”
“Have you seen her?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Either you’ve seen her or you haven’t. It’s a simple question.”
This situation is many things: bizarre, uncomfortable, thrilling, confusing. The list goes on and on. The one thing it’s not is simple.
So, I tell Mom about the TV show, which I was right, is not on her list of shows-she-never-misses. In fact, she’s never even heard about it, so I have to take a side trip and tell her not only what it’s about but also what time it’s on and which network.
“Well, that explains why I’ve never seen it,” she says. “It’s on at the same time as my cooking program. The one where they have to make a three-course meal out of whatever leftovers they find in the fridge. I never miss that show.”
“Mom, focus. We’re talking about Jessica.”
“Who’s Jessica?”
I fall back on the couch, my head lolling against the cushions. “She’s my daughter.” Before Mom can run off on another tangent, I tell her about Jessica looking for me to be on the show with her, and how she showed my photo on air.
“Thank the good Lord. You see, I knew I was right. I knew she’d want to find you one day.”
“You still should have told me. Then at least I would have been prepared.”
“Monica, your attitude is baffling. You should be thanking me for helping your daughter find you, not haranguing me for doing the right thing.”
Jules comes back in the room, and through a series of exaggerated facial features, we share a silent conversation.
How’s it going?
Exactly how I expected.
Oh man, I’m sorry.
There’s only one way to end this phone call. “I’m sorry if I upset you, Mom. I know you only want what’s best for me.”
“I always have.” She sniffs for effect. “When are you going to see her?”
“I have no idea. I still need to call the show.”
“You haven’t called them yet? What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”
We’ve gotten to the point in the conversation where Mom pulls out the clichés and platitudes. My instant response is sarcasm. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m waiting for.”
She laughs, because we’ve done this dance enough times that she finds my dry wit, as she calls it, endearing. “Well, you got something better. You got an invitation in front of a national audience. You’d best stop chewing the fat with me and give them a call.”
“Yes, Mom. I will.”
We exchange the usual I love you and I love you too, and I end it.
Jules plunks herself down next to me. She’s holding two bowls of ice cream. One is plain strawberry, the other is vanilla surrounded with sliced bananas, covered in chocolate fudge and whipped cream, and crowned with three maraschino cherries.
I point at the big, decadent bowl. “Please tell me that’s for me.”
“Of course. We’ve passed the point of root beer floats. Now, it’s sundae time.”
“God bless you.” I take the bowl and dig in.
“I
figured if you needed to avoid the issue for a bit, at least this is a tasty way to do it.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.” I give her a stern look, but there’s no conviction behind it.
She laughs, and a little bit of ice cream flies out of her mouth and lands on her leg. “Of course you are. Why else would you call your mother?”
“Good point.”
She swipes the ice cream from her jeans, considers her fingertip for a moment, then shrugs and licks it off. With three boys who are forever dropping food, Jules is a firm believer in the five-second rule.
The ice cream is having the desired effect. With each sweet, silky mouthful, I relax a little more, until finally, my bowl is empty, and I’m slouched down on the couch, staring at the now-blank TV screen.
“Why do you think she did it?”
Jules takes the bowl and sets it inside her own. “Because she wants to meet you.”
“I get that, but why this way?” I waggle an accusing finger at the big, black rectangle. “Why on national TV? She could have hired a private investigator, kept it all hush-hush.”
“Hush-hush?”
“On the down low. Nice and quiet.” I press my finger to my lips. “Sh!”
“Uh oh.” Jules grins. “Someone’s sugar-drunk.”
“Am not.” But as I draw my brows down into a scowl of consternation, the buzzing in my brain grows louder. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Why don’t you stay here tonight and sleep it off?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Friends don’t let friends walk home while on a sugar buzz.” She stands and heads for the kitchen. “But if you insist, I’ll force-feed you some coffee first.”
The family room is much too quiet and empty, so I follow her. While she fires up the Keurig, I grab two mugs from the cupboard, set them on the counter beside her, and then drop down on one of the barstools surrounding the island.
Jules puts one of the mugs beneath the spout and presses a button. “To answer your question, I have no idea why Jessica is looking for you on television. It could be that she’s a fan of the show, and she figured her unique twist would get her on as a contestant.”
“It worked.”
“Or, she could be trying to shock and embarrass you.”
“That worked, too.” I brace my chin on my fist and sigh.
“But the only way to know for sure is to ask her.”
“And the only way to ask her is to go on the show.”
The coffee stops dripping, and Jules brings the mug to me. I wrap my hands around it, breathing in the rich aroma of French vanilla. As the steam rises, I blink and look up at the woman I trust more than anyone in the world. “Will you help me?”
Without hesitation, she sits on the stool opposite me and squeezes my knee. “Every way I can.”
“If I do this, I’m going to need you to coach me so I don’t kill myself on that show. Or worse, look like an idiot.”
Jules laughs and gets up to make her own coffee. “Your priorities are seriously messed up.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She frowns at me. “You know I was kidding.”
“I know.” But she’s also right. What kind of a person gives away her own flesh and blood? Sure, I’ve always said I did it so my daughter would have a better life, but is that the total truth? How much of my decision was based on what would be easier for me?
My nose starts to tingle, and I sniff it away. “Did I do the right thing, Jules?”
“You did what you felt was best at the time. At this point, it doesn’t matter if it was right or wrong. What matters is that you have a daughter who wants to meet you. What are you going to do about her now?”
If I meet her, it may be the most painful, excruciating experience of my life. Or it could be the best. But if I don’t meet her, then it will be like I’ve abandoned her all over again. There’s only one thing I can do.
“I’m going to sleep on it.”
4
By the time I get home, I’ve convinced myself that a good night’s sleep is essential to the decision-making process. The fact that I’ll probably toss and turn and be unable to shut off my brain is immaterial. At the very least I need to be in my bed, curled into the fetal position with my covers pulled tightly around me.
I can barely open the front door because Ranger is right there, bouncing and circling and whining.
“Back up, buddy.” Sucking in my stomach, I slide through the cracked door, and shut it behind me. “You missed me, huh?”
Then the phone rings, and his actions make sense. I might have the only dog in the world who freaks out at the sound of a telephone. Ranger isn’t excited I’m home; he’s having the equivalent of a doggie panic attack.
“Come on.” He stays so close to me he presses against the side of my leg as I walk to the phone. I’m about to answer when I notice the digital display. The phone number isn’t familiar. And I have twenty-six missed calls. It’s a miracle poor Ranger didn’t chew his way through the door.
After the ringing stops, I dial into voicemail. The robotic female reports, “You have twenty-six new messages.”
That can’t be good. I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around Ranger. We both need the emotional support. He climbs over my legs until he’s sitting half in my lap and half on the floor. There’s a comfort to the weight and heat of another living being, because it means I don’t have to go through this alone. Sure, Ranger’s just a dog, but he loves me in that unconditional way only animals can. Right now, I need all the love I can get.
My back is against the wall, in every sense of the phrase. A deep breath, a few buttons punched, and the messages begin to play.
“Monica, I think I just saw you on TV! Call me. It’s Wendy.”
“Saw you on Last Family. Are you going to call them?”
“Monica. Wow, it’s been a long time. Do you remember me? Tom. We had freshman biology together. Uh . . . I’ll try again later.”
It’s a weird combination of people. Some I know now, like my pastor, who is concerned about me and makes a point of mentioning that his wife is a fan of the show, not him. Some are people who knew me in high school or culinary school. And some I haven’t heard from in over twenty years. But now, thanks to the marvels of modern technology, they’ve all found me. It’s a slightly disturbing thought. “Maybe I’m overreacting.” My fingers thread through Ranger’s thick, shaggy fur. “Why would anybody care about me, anyway?”
Sure. This is just a momentary blip of excitement for a few people who have nothing better to do than sit glued to their TV screens every Tuesday night, watching a bunch of emotionally vulnerable people live out an exaggerated month of their lives. Tomorrow, no one will give me a second thought.
The phone rings again and Ranger’s head jerks up. If this keeps up, neither one of us will get any sleep. I turn off the ringer, then gently push him off my legs so I can stand.
“Time to hit the hay.”
Ranger bounds upstairs and I follow, turning lights off as I go. Things will look different in the morning.
I’m sure of it.
***
Things look different in the morning, all right. They look worse. They sound worse, too, thanks to the incessant trilling of the door chimes at the obscene hour of 7:00 a.m.
I’m able to extricate myself from the bedsheets without disturbing Ranger, who’s spread out on the end of the mattress. Crazy mutt. A phone call sends him into fits, but the doorbell doesn’t faze him.
Slipping into my bathrobe, I shake my head. “If a thief ever broke in, you would be less than useless.”
The doorbell sounds again. I hurry down the stairs, grumbling to myself that whoever’s out there better have a darn good reason for being so irritating. On my way to the door, I pass the phone table. Thank goodness I decided to turn off the ringer because not only have more calls come in but also for the first time ever there’s a light blinking to inform me that my voice mailbo
x is full.
Go figure. Your photo gets flashed on one TV show, and suddenly you’re the most popular girl in school.
I yank the front door open. “Yes?”
The man on my front porch is much too chipper for this hour of the morning. His smile—which reveals blindingly white, yet not perfectly straight, teeth—rearranges the features of his face, crinkling the skin around his eyes and exposing perfect twin dimples. “Good morning, Monica.”
He acts like we know each other. Even though there is something familiar about this man, I know we’ve never met. None of my friends have smiles like that. And none of them come with a cameraman pointing the big, black eye of a camera straight at me.
The floor is suddenly very shaky beneath my feet. “You’re him.”
“That’s what they tell me.” His laugh rumbles as he extends his hand. “Rick Wolff.”
I take a step backward, as if the mere act of not shaking his hand will fix everything. “How did you find me so fast?”
An easy shrug lifts one shoulder. “Several people called in during the show last night, including a couple of your friends who provided your full name and your address.”
“Some friends,” I mutter.
He lets it slide. “By the end of last night’s show, we were already prepping the plane to come out here.”
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling more vulnerable than usual. “I was going to call in. You didn’t have to fetch me.”
His eyes remind me of a big jug of fresh-brewed sun tea, especially when he opens them wide. “Then you watch the show?”
“No. My friend does. She’s obsessed with you. With the show.” His smile shifts into a lazy grin, and I know exactly what he must be thinking. “She’s married,” I stammer.
Last Family Standing Page 2