He grins, a combination of embarrassed and proud. “You’d make a great poker player. You’ve got some seriously stealth moves.”
“With everything going on the last couple of weeks it kind of slipped to the bottom of my ‘things I’m worried about’ list.”
“But you saw the FedEx envelope?”
I nod. “You still haven’t opened it.”
“Well, I thought about opening it and then I thought I should wait and tell you first. I wanted the two of us to be on equal footing. I wanted us both to know that this is something that’s possible.”
“So, it really is possible”—my voice softens and clouds with emotion—“I could be your daughter?”
He pauses, but his look is like a beam of bright, unfiltered emotion. “In this whole world, there’s nothing that would make me happier or make my life more complete.” His voice catches at the end too.
“Here you go, two burgers with everything.” The waitress barges right over the moment. She sets down plates of food in front of each of us. Then she unloads condiments from the various pockets on her apron.
Victor and I are frozen. Struck. Staring across the table at each other. I’m not even thinking about the words. Tiny pinpoints of light explode. All these years I dreamed about this moment and all I wanted was for him—whoever him turned out to be—to be happy about meeting me.
Victor definitely looks happy.
“Are you two playing that ‘see who blinks first’ game?” the waitress asks.
“No!” Victor and I say it at the same time, never breaking eye contact.
“Okay.” She sounds skeptical, like she doesn’t believe us. “Anything else I can—”
“No. We’re good,” Victor says, looking away.
“Really good,” I add, also looking away.
The waitress moves off.
“Just so you know, I was more worried over how I would feel if it turned out not to be true.” Victor shakes his head, swallowing hard. “I’ll confess I didn’t want to face that alone.”
“You don’t have to.” I set my hand on the table next to my plate. He puts his forward and pats mine.
“That’s right. We’re in this together. It’s been one hell of a night; I say we cap it off by opening the envelope as soon as we get home.”
“Yeah. Let’s rip it open,” I agree. “We can do it together. Each take an end and tear.”
I take a bite of my hamburger. “Mmmmm.” He’s not wrong. Juicy and perfectly seasoned. I adopt an expression of bliss and point to the burger.
“What’d I tell you?” He kisses his fingers again, à la the chef.
“So, when did you…” I twirl my finger as I search for the right words.
“First put two and two together?” he asks. “That night, in the hospital. I was filling out the police report after old Carl tried to kill us. I had to call Rachel to get your birthdate. Everything about the report was focused on your mom and dates for specific things and how old you were then and now. And, I don’t know, all of a sudden everything just lined up.”
“Does Rachel know?” I have always suspected that Rachel knew the identity of my father but wasn’t saying. But if she knew Victor was my real father it might explain why she would consider letting me live with him.
Victor vehemently shakes his head. Then he pauses. “Well, let me put it this way: I never said anything to her. But I don’t know about your mother.”
“My mother never told you either. Right?”
Victor heaves a big sigh. “No. And I have quite a bit of guilt surrounding that. It’s the one thing that makes me think this might not be true. I can’t imagine what I might have done that would have made your mother feel like she couldn’t tell me about you.”
“Maybe she knew…” I gasp for a second, summoning courage, then forge ahead. “Maybe she knew you didn’t love her.” These are difficult words but they need to be said. The one thing I always hoped was that my mother loved my father. That I was born out of an exquisite union. And that it didn’t matter to her or to me if he didn’t feel the same way.
“Let me just say that I loved your mother in every way possible. Growing up, I almost can’t remember a time when she wasn’t part of our family. She was family. Then I was gone to the FBI for a couple of years. When I came back for my own mother’s funeral, well, your mother was … she had changed. Or I had. Anyway, your mother was unforgettable.”
“And yet…” I call him out with my look.
“Yeah. I know.” The guilt lies thick in his voice. “What can I say? I was young and didn’t know what I wanted in life. I thought I wanted out of this town. She wanted out too. She was going to Italy and Paris and I was locked and loaded for Virginia. I had just gotten a promotion and a book contract.”
He pauses to concentrate on his burger, so I do the same.
After a few bites, he speaks again. “Just so you know, your mother was way out of my league. She was classy and elegant. She knew which fork to use and how to pull together an outfit that looked like it just came off the runway. I was a science nerd. No one would have ever thought I had an actual chance with her.”
Somehow, we manage to finish every scrap of food on our plates. Victor sits back in his chair. “Do you remember the speech I gave you that day in the hospital?”
“About coming home and wanting a family?”
“Yes. I said it then and it’s still true to this very minute. You changed me, Erin. I honestly don’t care what it says in that envelope. You and me … we’re family.”
Amazing how one night can go from lowest low to highest high in just a couple of hours.
22
The spiral in a snail’s shell is the same mathematically as the spiral in the Milky Way galaxy, and it’s also the same mathematically as the spirals in our DNA.
—JOSEPH GORDON-LEVITT
Victor opens the sunroof for the drive home, then blasts the heater.
It’s the perfect night. We drive mostly in silence with little pockets of conversation here and there, until …
“So, you must’ve had some notions about what your father would be like. Any thoughts you’d like to share?” he asks. “You know, so I’ll know what’s expected of me.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve had a lifetime of notions and fantasies. “Mostly what I imagined was the ‘big tall guy on white horse rides in to save the princess’ kind of stuff.”
“Really?” He sounds incredulous. “That surprises me, because you are one hundred percent the capable princess who saves herself and the dad. And come to think of it, that is exactly what happened.”
We share a laugh. “I really like how you talk to me.”
“How is that?” he asks.
“Like I’m a regular person and you’re not being overly cautious and worried that I might break. Or overprotective. Or concerned that I might be too sensitive.” I pause to think it through and wonder if I’m properly expressing myself. “Yeah. You just talk to me straight. And I really like that.”
Victor nods. “Straight talk. Check. Anything else?”
“Wait. Now I’m worried,” I say.
“About what?”
“Well, you don’t think that opening the envelope will—” A sudden flood of emotion closes my throat again. I struggle to croak out the rest of my question. “Change things between us. Do you?”
A car passes going in the opposite direction and the headlights sweep over us. I glance at Victor’s face. His lips are pinched together. A quirk I’ve noticed when he’s thinking.
“Good question,” he says after a pause. “I believe that opening the envelope will change everything … but for the better. Right? It could prove we’re actually related.”
“Or not.”
“True. Or not.”
“But we’ve already agreed we’re related no matter what the envelope says. So, opening it or not opening it won’t change anything,” I say. “Or will it?”
He pauses then emits a full-bodied chuck
le. “Dear lord, we have Schrödinger’s cat.”
“I love cats.”
Victor is suddenly ramped up and excited. This is exactly how he looked the night he came home with all the supplies to run a DNA test in our kitchen. “How much do you know about quantum mechanics?” he asks.
I give him my very best raised-eyebrows look.
“Yeah. Okay. Follow with me here,” he says. “So, scientific theory is based on facts that have been observed. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. Miss P was big on our observations.”
“Quantum mechanics describes probabilities, or what could happen over time. In fact, there was this one physicist who believed that our observations actually caused the results.”
“Wait … I’m getting confused,” I say.
“Hang with me,” Victor says. “Schrödinger’s cat is a scientific way to describe probability without screwing it up by observing it. Are you with me?”
“Maybe.”
“So, Schrödinger posed a question: If you sealed a live cat in a box with a radioactive particle, what would happen to the cat?”
“It would die. The radioactive thingy would kill it.”
“Probably. But maybe not.” Victor smiles. “Maybe the cat is really strong and the radioactive thingy is tiny and weak. Probabilities. That’s the key word.”
“So?”
“So, this might freak you out a little, but the theory is that as long as you never look inside the box the cat is both alive and dead.”
I sit up. “Wait. I understand this.”
“You do?” Victor chuckles, sounding surprised.
“Yeah. It’s like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel.”
Victor laughs. “Believe it or not, those were about the only books I actually read as a kid.”
“I devoured them too. But you have to admit they’re a little like Schrödinger’s cat for books.”
“They are,” Victor says. “Those books are Schrödinger’s cat in a nutshell. You’re amazing, Erin.”
“You’re pretty amazing too, Victor. You’re going to make a great high school teacher.”
By this time, Victor is driving down our street. It looks the same, even though everything changed tonight.
“So, we agree. We’re not going to open the envelope?” I ask.
“That’s right,” Victor says. “Envelope stays sealed … unless one of us needs a kidney.”
23
Some 5 million children, or roughly 7 percent of all children living in the U.S., have a parent who is currently or was previously incarcerated.
—childtrends.org
Victor pulls into our driveway and angles his car around to the side of Journey’s van.
Wait. Journey’s van?!
Journey’s leaning against the door, peering at his cell phone. He looks up and flashes that brilliant smile that grabs my heart and pulls it straight out of my chest.
“Oh my god,” I whisper.
I still experience an actual, physical chill when I realize that Journey Michaels is my boyfriend. In a million years, I never thought anything that cool would happen to me.
But then I remember, he’s not just my boyfriend, he’s also Victor’s intern. “Is he here to see you … or me?”
Victor shrugs. “I didn’t make a date with him, so he must be here to see you.”
I squeal and vault out of the car before Victor has even turned it off. “See ya later.” I stop before closing the car door and glance back inside. “Thanks … for everything…” I pause. “I really mean that.”
Victor smiles and nods. “We’re a team now. Or, more than a team. Have fun. Be safe. And, oh yeah, if I’m in charge now, what time will you be home?”
I glance over at Journey’s brilliant smile. “I won’t be late. I promise.” I close the door and dance all the way to Journey’s van.
Journey slings an arm around my waist and pulls me to him. He presses his lips into my hair and murmurs, “I stood you up for our date last night. Don’t hate me.”
I throw an arm around his neck and give him a huge hug. “I could never hate you. And it’s okay. I was worried but then I heard you had a pretty tough day.”
Journey looks past me at Victor getting out of the car. He waves and smiles. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he says, “I thought maybe we’d head over to the Point for a while … unless you’re hungry?”
I pull back and inspect his face. The Point is the town make-out spot. Our relationship is so new we haven’t done the Point thing yet. But tonight, I’m feeling bold.
“The Point is perfect.”
“It is?” He looks surprised.
“Yes. Let’s go.” I’m not exactly thinking of making out, although I’m not opposed to that either. What I am thinking is that the Point is perfect for the private, uninterrupted conversation we need to have.
Journey helps me up into the van and then goes around to his side.
Once he’s steered us out onto the road he launches into a conversation. “I met my dad today.”
“That’s so crazy. How was it?”
“Both better and worse than I expected,” he says.
“Confusing, I’m sure.”
“It was better because now I have a real person to match up with my image of him.”
“He’s not angry that you came to see him?” I ask.
“Not today. He was smart and calm and really cool. He apologized for freaking out yesterday.”
“And it was worse because…?”
“He’s still in there. And if we can’t change that, he’ll stay in there for at least another ten years.” Journey goes quiet while he makes the winding drive up to the Point. And I contemplate the notion of another ten years in prison. “Yeah. Ten years,” Journey says as if reading my mind.
“What did he say about reopening the case?”
“He’s excited and extremely grateful to Victor … and to you.”
We arrive at the Point, which is a bluff overlooking the spot where the Pacific Ocean and the Columbia River come together. It’s dark, but not gloomy. The star-strewn sky glitters like it’s dressed for a night on the town.
Journey pauses his story to concentrate on finding a place to park. There’s room for about ten cars up here, without being right next to each other. He pulls into a spot, sets the emergency brake, turns off the engine and the lights. He slides his seat back and turns toward me, patting his lap. “I got to tell him about you.”
I release my seatbelt and move over to sit on his lap. “What’d he say?”
“He wants to meet you and hopes you’ll come next time.”
“There’ll be a next time?”
“Yes. He said I could start coming regularly.” Journey’s voice grows thick with emotion. “I’m a man now and he needs to get to know me.”
I lay my head on his chest and melt into his warm hug. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You will, I promise.” Journey digs in his pocket and pulls out a small, hand-carved wooden disc about the size of the palm of my hand. “He also gave me this.”
I take the disc and run my fingers over it. It’s an elaborate scene of two dolphins rising out of the water carved inside the circle, making it more of a ring than a disc. “It’s beautiful. What is it?”
“Apparently, this was one of my toys when I was a baby,” Journey says. “My parents said I used it for teething.”
“Awww.” I give it a closer inspection. “So cute. There are tiny teeth marks on it.”
“Yeah. What’s not cute is where it came from.”
I give him a questioning look.
“My parents don’t know where it came from. They suspect it came from Rodney, the boy who—”
“The victim?” I can’t disguise my surprise.
Journey is surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve been reading.” Off Journey’s frown I quickly add, “Just reading, though. That’s all.”
He nods. “Anyway, I like u
sing his name. I think it’s the right thing to do.”
“I agree. He had a name. We should use it.”
“Apparently, he was an artist. My parents think he carved it and gave it to me. My mom said it was one of my favorite toys.”
“Wow. Do you think he was sending your parents a signal by giving you that toy?”
“Good question,” Journey says. “The part I haven’t told you—which is the creepy part no one ever told me—is that the harassment my parents were dealing with wasn’t as harmless as the newspaper made it sound. They would wake up in the morning and find me out of my crib. They were sure it wasn’t possible for me to climb out by myself.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Journey says. “Most days I’d be sitting on the floor playing with toys. Then, one day, they found me in the kitchen, playing in a pile of flour.”
“Holy crap. How do you play in a pile of flour?” I ask.
“You don’t,” Journey says. “Apparently, I drooled and it was gross and sticky.”
I run my finger across his lower lip. He pretends to bite my finger.
“Anyway, it got real one morning when they woke up and I was gone. Completely gone. They checked every room in the house.”
“Oh my god. That’s terrifying.”
“I know. And then they found me outside, playing in the dirt near my dad’s truck.”
“Which is where he kept the shotgun, under the seat.” I say.
Journey gives me a warning look.
“I’m researching ballistics for camp week and I knew there was gun evidence in your father’s case. I was just reading a little.”
He hugs me tighter and plants a kiss on my head, which I hope means my snoopiness is okay.
“Yeah. Who checks under the seat of the truck every day to make sure the shotgun is still there? It could have been taken at any time. My dad had no clue. Anyway, they called the police, multiple times, reporting things like trespassing or attempted kidnapping. My dad said the cops never believed them. Their theory was that either I was an escape artist or one of my parents was a sleepwalker.”
“They didn’t investigate?”
“What was there to find about a kid out of his crib? My father changed the locks. Put a fence around the property. He installed an alarm system. He tried everything. There was other stuff, too. They would come home and the shower would be damp. Small amounts of food went missing.”
To Right the Wrongs Page 12