In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  I stare at his face.

  Then I stare at hers.

  Are they my parents? Do I have their DNA? Was I taken from them?

  Part of me wants to run to them; another part wants to run away from them.

  Cash must feel me staring, because his gaze shifts to me. His eyes round in an oh shit way.

  I grab the menu on the table to cover my face.

  “Right this way,” I hear the hostess. Footsteps move away. My heart’s thump-thumping in my chest. I hear the swish of blood flowing in my ears.

  I lower the menu and see Cash trying to get the Fullers to sit with their backs to me.

  Panic, like liquid, rises in my chest. My lungs refuse air.

  “Did you find something else you want?” Dad asks.

  I cut my eyes toward Cash’s table, and then back to the door. “I can’t do this,” I say, not meaning to say it aloud.

  “Do what?” Dad asks.

  I stand up, not so fast as to call attention to myself, and head toward the door.

  “Chloe?” Dad calls. I don’t look back.

  I push the door open. Hot air surrounds me. I still can’t breathe. “Shit!”

  I go and lean against Dad’s car. My heart is slamming against my rib cage. And that’s when it hits me. I have to know. I have to know if they are my parents. I have to know if I wasn’t just given away like I didn’t matter. Like I wasn’t loved. I grip my fists.

  Then I hear footsteps. Dread knots my stomach that they saw me, that all of this is going to happen now. As ready as I am, I’m scared. I look up. It’s Dad.

  His steps eat up the pavement and bring him and his frown to me.

  “What the hell?” he asks. His shoulders are tight, his expression pinched; his frustration is a cloud around him.

  His anger sparks my own. My mind races, and the only thing I can think to say is what I’ve already said. “I can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Have a father–daughter date like everything is normal when it’s not.” The second the excuse is out of my mouth, it’s no longer an excuse. It’s true. “You left me. I didn’t matter to you.” I feel abandoned by him, like I felt when I was three. Then out of nowhere, I hear a voice, Your mama and daddy don’t want you anymore. Where the hell did that come from? Tears fill my eyes. “Can you open the car? Please!”

  Dad’s expression hardens. “I divorced your mom, not you!”

  “It doesn’t feel like it,” I counter.

  He stands there, still angry, still frustrated, and still the man I blame for so much of my pain. How can he not be ashamed of himself?

  “Let me go pay for dinner.” He clicks the car open.

  I slide into the passenger seat and try to make myself small just in case anyone else comes out of the restaurant. How odd is it that I’m out here arguing with my dad when my real dad and mom may very well be inside that restaurant.

  I start sweating, but I don’t care. I sit there, windows rolled up, and feel the heat. Then it hits again. The fear. I want to run. I’m afraid.

  I close my eyes, press my head back on the headrest, and try to breathe. Time passes. One minute. Two. Three.

  Five.

  Eight.

  What the hell is Dad doing? Oh God. Did the Fullers see me and confront Dad?

  My phone dings with a text. I pull it out. It’s Cash.

  Him: You okay?

  Me: No. What’s happening?

  Him: Your dad’s getting the food to go.

  Me: Did they see me?

  Him: No.

  I hear the car door opening. I get another wave of fear. I push it back. Dad, looking pissed, hands me the big white bag.

  He crawls behind the wheel. But he doesn’t start the car.

  “You’re my daughter. My little girl. I can’t lose you, Chloe!”

  Tears fill my eyes and I look out the window. The smell of Indian food fills the car, the smell of father–daughter dates. I suddenly don’t like that smell.

  He starts talking again. “I know I was supposed to call and I screwed up. And, yes, I didn’t realize it was your adoption date until late. So your flowers didn’t get to you on time. I’m human. I’m not perfect, Chloe.”

  My chest burns with anger, hurt, desperation. Some of it for now. Some of it from the past. I still don’t look at him, but I say, “You used to be perfect. You used to remember things. I used to matter to you.”

  I hear him bang his hand on the steering wheel and say a four-letter word. After a second, he says, “You still matter to me.”

  Then there’s only the silence of us in the car. All I hear is us breathing and my heart breaking.

  “Other parents get divorced,” he says as if that’s justification. “Fathers and daughters across the world work things out. Why can’t we?”

  His question hits, and the answer rises inside me and becomes like the volcano he and I built for my fifth-grade science project. “I guess their moms didn’t get cancer!” My voice rings loud. “Their dads didn’t leave their daughters to take care of everything. To face their mom puking for weeks on end. To deal with the thought of their mom dying!”

  Words spill out of me. I can’t stop them. I’m breaking eggs left and right. I don’t care. It feels as if I don’t say this, something inside me will break.

  “Mom got cancer! But it felt like I got it, too. I’m the one who cooked tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for her because she couldn’t eat anything else. I was the one who sat on the bathroom floor with her sobbing because her hair fell out. I was the one who had to be strong when I didn’t feel strong. Me, Dad!” I slap my chest. “Me! Damn it! She needed you. I needed you! But you were too busy dyeing your hair and getting a new wardrobe and screwing Darlene to care!”

  He grips the steering wheel and looks away from me. He sucks in air. Holds it. Holds it longer. Then he looks at me again. I see everything in his eyes. Guilt. Pain. Even love. And that hurts most of all.

  “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t … I screwed up. I screwed up so bad, baby.”

  I breathe in, and the sound is shaky. I’m shaky. My whole world is shaky.

  Dad starts the car and drives off. My lap is hot from the take-out boxes in the bag. The smell seeps out. I want to toss it out the window. I don’t ever want to eat Indian food again.

  He drives toward my house. He pulls into the subdivision. But he doesn’t turn down my street.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. But I can’t let you leave this car until…”

  “What?” I ask.

  I hear him swallow. “Until you … forgive me.” His voice is uneven.

  “Then we’re going to be in this car a really long time!” I tell myself not to feel bad that he’s hurting.

  He pulls into the park. The one Cash and I came to when he told me about Emily.

  He parks under some streetlights.

  “Chloe, I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, I wasn’t thinking. You were growing up, dreaming about college and boys. Your mom was all about her writing, dreaming of a new career. And I … I didn’t have dreams. I felt old and tired.” He took a deep breath. “Then I met Darlene, and…” He stopped talking.

  “And you loved her more than me and Mom?”

  He breathes in. “No. There’s no excuse for what I did. I see that now. It’s so freaking clear. I was a bastard. I don’t deserve your love. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I can’t lose my little girl. Please … forgive me.”

  His pain is so real, I feel it. I don’t speak for almost a minute, because I don’t know what to say, but then words pour out of me. “I haven’t refused to see you. But forgiving you isn’t easy.” I swallow. “I still love you, but sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

  He nods. “What can I do to help? I’ll do anything. Tell me. Does your mom need money?”

  “I don’t … think so. But she did tell me to ask why my car insurance wasn’t paid.”

  “It
wasn’t paid?” he asked.

  “She said it wasn’t.”

  “But Darlene said … I’ll look into it. What else can I do?”

  “Nothing.” Hearing Darlene’s name makes me angry all over again.

  My phone dings with another text. I don’t look at it. I’m guessing it’s from Cash.

  We sit in the silent, hot car.

  “We brought you here that first day we got you,” Dad says.

  I look at him, not understanding. He continues, “When we picked you up from the agency, we came to see your grandparents and then we came here. I put you in the swing. I remember thinking how delicate you were. How small, even though you weren’t a baby. I was scared, thinking I was responsible for taking care of you. I put you in a swing, but I was afraid I might push too hard and not catch you if you fell. You seemed scared. I wanted to do something, anything to prove to you that I was an okay guy.” I hear his voice catch. “I fell in love with you then. I swore I’d never let anyone hurt you, and now I’m the ass who’s hurt you. I hate myself for it.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “I know it’s going to take time for you to forgive me, but I’m not going to disappear from your life. I love you,” he says.

  It’s crazy, throughout all of this, I never doubted he loved me. I just couldn’t fathom how he could have loved me and done this.

  I also know he’s hoping I’ll say it back. Say I love him. But I’ve said it once. That’s all I can do.

  18

  “Chloe?” Dad slips his hand in mine.

  His touch brings a jolt of pain. I almost pull away, but don’t because I know it’ll hurt him.

  We sit there. I remember what I wanted to ask him tonight. “What was the name of the adoption agency?”

  “What?”

  I pull my hand free. “The name of the adoption agency? It was in Fort Landing, right?”

  “Yeah. I think it was … New Hope or something. Why?”

  I shrug. “Just curious.”

  “Are you wanting to—?”

  “No,” I say. “And don’t say anything to Mom. I’m afraid it’d hurt her.”

  “I won’t.”

  After another bout of silence, he opens his car door. “Come on,” he says.

  “Where?”

  “Let’s go swing. You used to make me do it all the time.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Humor me. You told me once that swinging was as good as flying.”

  I almost tell him no again, but I remember how hurt he sounded a few minutes ago, so I get out. It’s dark, but the moon’s full and bright. The night’s so quiet, I hear our footsteps. We walk to the swing set with the highest swings. We each take one, leaving an empty one between us. He looks too big to be in a swing. I feel too big. But the pain between us somehow feels smaller.

  I swing. Legs back. Legs front. I stare at the big ball of moon, at the stars twinkling down. The motion, the back-and-forth, feels somehow cathartic. It does feel like flying.

  A whoosh of air brushes past me as Dad starts to swing. As he goes forward, I go back. We aren’t on the same rhythm. I realize it might be a while before I feel the ease of the father–daughter relationship that we had before.

  I don’t know when I’ll be able to forgive him, but this is the first time I’ve felt he regretted anything. It doesn’t fix it. But it’s a start. Maybe it won’t ever be like before, but I hope we’ll find a new rhythm, a new way to a father-and-daughter place that doesn’t hurt.

  I guess breaking eggs can be a good thing.

  * * *

  When I walk into the house, there’s no food smells drifting from the kitchen. Mom didn’t fix dinner. I walk into the living room, hoping she’s awake.

  She is. She’s on the sofa, reading. Not writing. I stand there, remembering how I felt when I saw Mrs. Fuller—as if I’d been cheated out of something—of a mother’s love. Yet I have a mother. And as flawed as she has been this last year, she loves me. I know that. And I love her.

  She looks up, and I suddenly feel guilty. Guilty for feeling she wasn’t enough, guilty for whining about taking care of her to Dad. Yeah, it was a bitch. It was terrible, but not nearly so hard as it was on her. And if I’d been the one to get cancer, she’d have done the same thing for me. Only she never would’ve complained. My chest clutches.

  I pull my cell phone out. “What toppings do you want?”

  “What?”

  “I’m ordering us pizza.”

  “I thought you went out to eat?”

  “I didn’t eat anything,” I say.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “It didn’t smell right.”

  “Did you have an argument?” She sits up straighter, as if preparing herself to get angry.

  “I want Canadian bacon and pineapple,” I lie, because I know she loves it. “Something a little sweet and a little bacony. Sound good to you?”

  “Yeah. What was the argument about?”

  “Do you want a salad?”

  “You aren’t going to tell me?”

  “You know what I think we should do?” I ask.

  “What?” She sounds a little frustrated.

  “Order the pizza and then give that movie you rented another shot.”

  She makes a face. “It was inappropriate.”

  “Maybe. But humor is sometimes inappropriate. And we both need to laugh.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Yeah. But I want to see it again.”

  “Who with? Who did you see this movie with?”

  I frown. “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “Alex?” When I don’t deny it, she looks shocked, but not so much angry.

  “Yeah. And we laughed our butts off. And you need to laugh your butt off. So we’re eating pizza and watching the movie. And we’re going to laugh at condom jokes. Got it?”

  She appears surprised at my tone. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  I remember Cash saying, You always have a choice. But for Mom, this is the right choice. And I’m glad she’s not arguing. I’ve argued enough tonight.

  * * *

  When Cash and the Fullers got home, he wanted to take off to his room.

  “I think I’m going to read.” Mrs. Fuller headed toward the master bedroom. Cash got to the stairs when Mr. Fuller said, “Cash, grab us two beers from the fridge, and let’s talk outside.”

  What? “A beer?”

  “I know you’ve drunk one before.”

  “I don’t drink that much.” He’d seen his dad do it too much.

  “I wouldn’t offer you one if I thought you did. I’ll wait outside.”

  Cash grabbed two Bud Lights. “What did I do?” he asked, but his knotted gut said this had to do with his bad idea comment about being adopted.

  “Thanks for meeting us for dinner. Susan was afraid you wouldn’t.”

  Mr. Fuller twisted the cap off the beer. Cash did the same.

  “She loves you.” Mr. Fuller lifted his beer and took a long sip.

  “Too much.” Cash took a sip.

  “You can’t love too much,” Mr. Fuller said.

  Cash disagreed. “This is about her telling me she wanted to adopt me, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Fuller set his beer down. “We don’t understand. Why would you not want that?”

  “I’m going to be eighteen in six weeks. I don’t need someone taking care of me.”

  “Everyone needs family, Cash.”

  No, they don’t. “Look, it’s not like I don’t appreciate what you’ve done.”

  “We know that, Cash. That’s just it. You do appreciate it. We can tell. And other than fighting issues, you’re a good kid. Heck, you even put up with Susan’s rules, some of which are ridiculous. And I know that’s because you care about her. That’s why I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want this.”

  Cash shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. I just don’t think it’s needed.”

  Mr. Fuller sipped his be
er. “Do you know what she’s afraid of?”

  “No.” Cash turned the cold bottle in his hands.

  “That on your birthday, you’ll pack up your stuff and walk away, and we’ll never hear from you again. And—damn it!—she’s still suffering from losing one kid. She can’t lose another.”

  Hurt swelled in Cash’s chest. That’s why he hoped Chloe was Emily. “I’m not planning on moving until I graduate.”

  “And then what?” Mr. Fuller asked.

  “I need to be my own person.”

  “When have we tried to make you something you aren’t?”

  “All the time,” he said, his tone firm. You want me to be your son. “You got upset when I signed up for auto tech. You want me to go to some fancy college. And Mrs. Fuller wants me to quit working at the garage. Which I’m not going to do.”

  “Is it wrong of us to want you to go to a better college? You’re so smart, Cash. You have higher SAT scores than either I or Susan did. You could be anything you want. Why would you settle to be a mechanic?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a mechanic. And I’m going to college, just not the one you want.”

  “But we’ve got money—”

  “I’ve got a grant!” Cash stood up.

  “Cash, son, please, sit down.”

  I’m not your son.

  When Cash didn’t sit down, Mr. Fuller continued, “I’m begging you, don’t hurt her more than she’s already been hurt.”

  “I’m trying not to.” He shot off upstairs, barely refraining from slamming the bedroom door.

  In his room, his phone dinged. A text from Chloe. He’d texted her earlier and asked if they could talk.

  Her reply: Can’t tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow.

  “Shit!” He tossed the phone on the bed. He could’ve really used a distraction. He could’ve used a laugh. He could’ve used hearing her soft voice. He wanted to tease her more about reading Fifty Shades of Grey and tell her about the book he bought.

  He wanted …

  He wanted …

  He wanted …

  * * *

  It was eleven when I went to bed. Mom and I laughed. A lot. I think I put on a good show, but in truth, I laughed more for Mom than anything else. Now I can’t sleep. Nothing feels so funny.