by Dana Mason
When did I stop being enough for her?
She looks so much like him. Those eyes and the way they look at me… or through me. Jesus, we were just kids, but still, it felt so real. When I think about Raegan, I know it was real. Mike and I made her, and that means something. But how can I tell her? How can I tell him after all these years? He’s going to hate me. If he didn’t hate me for not telling him fourteen years ago, he’ll hate me now for throwing his life into upheaval. It’s no small thing to show up on someone’s doorstep with a teenager.
I refill my glass then walk into the guestroom, which doubles as my home office. After opening my laptop, I tug open the drawer to take out his photo. The picture is from the summer I got pregnant, weeks before I left town. I shift things around and lift the pen tray, but no photo. Crap. What did I do with it? I pull open the other desk drawers, but I can’t remember where I left it. The damn thing must be in my bedroom.
I sigh as I stare at the screen. I could try to find him. I don’t have to tell Rae, but I could look him up, see what he’s doing. See if he has a family and kids. I didn’t have any luck the last time I tried, but that was years ago. Now, with the popularity of social media, he might be easier to find. I set the glass down and type his name. It’s a pretty common name, but if I’m careful, I can find the right search terms. I know his brother’s and sister’s names too.
I hit enter, but I get so many results. I know it’s useless. So I include the University of Oregon in the search terms. I know he went to school there on a scholarship for football. Once I add this, I find him pretty fast. My heart lurches in my chest. I’m bombarded with memories of high school and how popular he was. I click on a couple of news articles from back then and read about him. A local hero who kept his talents in Oregon. Then I go back to the search results and see a local connection.
I click on it and stop breathing. It’s a photo of him with two other men. He’s incredible. Mouthwatering, even. Big, healthy, and inked. The words tall, dark, and dangerous come to mind. He’s got a layer of stubble on his chin, just enough to make it look like he doesn’t keep it on purpose. He looks so… cool, and that reminds me that I’m a mom, which is about as far from cool as it gets. I read the article and slowly exhale.
CrossFit entrepreneurs to open a chain of CrossFit Gyms in Sacramento. CrossFit is a high-intensity workout that incorporates circuit training, weightlifting, and cardio. Founded in California, it has gained popularity over the years with people looking for a tribe with similar interests in health and wellness. These three men are trying to focus on that community as a way to be accountable for each other. They consider themselves a family and their clients aren’t just clients, they’re friends, or brothers and sisters.
I finish the article and rest back in my chair. Mike’s in Sacramento? That can’t be right.
I Google his name with the term ‘CrossFit’, and there he is, in the first search results. Oakland CrossFit. I click the About link and Mike’s picture and bio pop up. God, he looks good. He’s big—outright buff—and so hot. His dark, whiskey-colored eyes are smiling at me, and it reminds me of when we were in school. He was smaller then but that face is the same, his expression relaxed and looking like he just told the funniest joke. His dark brown hair is cut short and stylish, combed to a faux hawk on top of his head. He has a small mole on his right cheek… I remember I used to kiss it every day. God, we were so good together. I know people say nobody finds real love at that age, but damn, it felt right… until I got pregnant and my mom shipped me down here to live with my dad.
And I just left. No note. No explanation. I just left him. The loathing I feel about myself for doing that is unmeasurable.
My mom had booked tickets that morning without even giving me the chance to call him. Within hours, we were in Sacramento with my dad. She threatened to take the baby away and put her up for adoption and said she’d never forgive me if I tied myself to ‘that boy’ for the rest of my life. My dad said he’d throw me out if I told anyone in Portland about the baby. Mother even threatened to tell everyone that Mike had taken advantage of me. Said she’d ruin his reputation, which would have destroyed his future football career.
I believed her too. She’d done something similar to a former teacher of mine. His first mistake, in my mother’s eyes, was failing me in pre-calculus. Mother was livid. Then when he didn’t let me join the debate team, she really lost it. She blamed him, even though the calculus class was too advanced for me, and I was never debate team material. I didn’t belong on that team and everyone knew it but my mother. She didn’t consider any of that when she got revenge on the poor teacher. Of course, she never outright admitted to it, but I know she’s the one who went to the school administration and told them she’d seen him making out with a student in his car at the mall.
Soon after that, the school board received an anonymous letter with the same accusations. Within a few days, it was all over the news. I’m sure she did that too. When I asked her about it, she denied it, but she denied it with a gleam in her pale blue eyes and a knowing smile.
Poor Mr. Gardner never saw it coming, and even when nobody could find proof, he still lost his job because of the media coverage. Of course, after watching this debacle and seeing the wrath of my mother’s revenge, I believed her when she said she could ruin Michael’s life.
There were so many threats to force me to keep a secret that I’m still keeping. So many threats to a scared sixteen-year-old girl who didn’t know any better. And God, was I scared to death. Even once I was in college, I still didn’t try to contact Mike. It wasn’t until after we both finished college that I really tried looking for him. At that point, I didn’t think my mother had any power over us. Of course, then I couldn’t find him. It was as if he’d disappeared. I know he never got drafted into the NFL, but I don’t know why, or where he went after he graduated.
After a couple of years, I became more afraid of his reaction if I told him than I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. I knew he must hate me for the way I left. Not to mention that he had a life, he’d moved on. My life eventually got too complicated. Too many things had happened that drove a wedge between me and my dream of reuniting with him, and between me and my dream of Raegan finally having a father who would love her, even if he didn’t love me. One of those complications makes me shiver… and that one has kept me from searching for Mike for the last several years. But I need to stop letting it hold me back.
I think about what Raegan said in the car and I know I need to do something. She’s right; it’s time. As frightened as I am, I know I need to move forward with contacting Mike. As much as I fear his reaction and his anger, I want Raegan to have a father. She deserves that and he deserves to know about his daughter.
I sign into Facebook and try looking him up. It doesn’t take long, and I’m happy to see most of his posts are public. Of course, most of them are promos for the CrossFit gym, so that doesn’t help me learn anything about his personal life. My heart nearly stops at the sight of him. He’s certainly grown and matured. He’s not the boy I remember. He looks like one of those insanely hot fitness models you see on the cover of health magazines. Looking at him causes a stir I haven’t felt in a very long time. I can’t help it, he’s incredible, and God, I miss him so much it makes my stomach hurt.
As I search his photos, I’m relieved when I don’t find any that look like they’re with a family… or a wife. He has lots of him surfing and rock climbing. Several workout videos too. I get up and close the door so Rae doesn’t hear, then I click on the most recent video. It’s Mike climbing a rock face, and the guy holding the camera is making fun of him. Mike’s laughing at him as he climbs the rock like a spider monkey. He’s in such great shape and damn, that makes me feel fat and ugly. The muscles in his arms and calves are flexing as he climbs and it nearly makes me groan. The next video is an interview about the new Sacramento CrossFit location. Mike’s answering questions with the broadest smile… oh God, t
he sound of his voice! It’s the same mostly, just a bit deeper. He looks so happy, and I’m glad he’s happy, but it makes me sad that he’s moved on, done something with his life and I’m still in the same place I’ve always been. But now… he’s here.
In Sacramento.
When I get the urge to cry, I switch back to the photos. What I’m searching for, I don’t know. It’s masochistic, what I’m doing, but I need to know about a girlfriend or wife. There are some photos with different girls but most look like they’re in the gym. I click through the few to see if those girls have lots of pictures of him, but none do.
As I’m searching, I get a notification that my mother has commented on one of my photos. I click the notification and read:
Really, Rachel, do you think it’s wise to wear such a low-cut blouse to work? You should try to set a better example for your employees.
I glance at the selfie of Isla and me having lunch on the east-wing patio of The Sutter. I remember the day because we were discussing making changes to the wrought-iron wedding arch used in this particular space. It was a beautiful day and a really productive working lunch for us both. I look at my cleavage in the photo, and I’m not sure what my mother expects me to do about it. I have large boobs. I can’t help that. No matter what I wear or how I wear it, I’m going to have cleavage showing.
It’s something different with her every day. She doesn’t even need to be in town to criticize me. She can now do it daily on social media from Portland for the entire world to see. I never should have accepted her friend request.
I try to shake off her rudeness and get back to looking for more information about Michael. I Google his sister and nothing comes up, but when I Google his brother’s name and Portland, Oregon, I get a slew of results.
“Oh my gosh!” I place my hand over my mouth as I read an article about his brother’s death in a drunk-driving accident. Poor Mike. That must have been terrible.
After reading all of that, I close the windows on my computer and clear my search history in case Rae gets nosey, and then I close my laptop. Never again. My heart can’t take it. My brain can’t take it, and for sure, my relationship with my daughter can’t.
How strange that a feeling can linger for years and years without fading. I can remember the feel of Mike’s touch, how gentle he was with me—but I can also remember another man’s touch, and not a gentle one. I remember a hand over my mouth, telling me to be quiet. I remember rough hands and terrifying—paralyzing—fear.
I think about that single horrible memory from four years ago and know I’d rather never be touched again than have to relive that moment. I shake it away, trying not to let that memory take hold. My thoughts turn again to Michael.
No one has been able to make me feel the way Mike made me feel. Again, I get the urge to cry. Did I really peak at sixteen? Am I seriously destined to be just a mom for the rest of my life without any pleasure for myself? Is that what motherhood is? Not that I don’t love being Raegan’s mother. I love her and I treasure our close relationship, but I can’t help feeling like so much is missing from my life. Is that why my mom was so harsh with me for so many years? Was she jealous that I had someone to love—that he loved me just as much? Was she lonely enough to resent the love I shared with him… Resentful enough to take it away?
I remember how Mike smelled after football practice. That manly athletic, sweaty smell, covered with scented deodorant. I remember the heat of his body when we slept next to each other. The firm grip of his arms around me. As painful as it is, I’m so thankful I remember every minute.
If only I knew what kind of a man he is now and whether he’s capable of being a father to Raegan without hurting her. And, God, I wish I knew what prompted Raegan’s new fascination with knowing who her father is. What’s made her so curious all of a sudden? And what should I do about it?
Four
Raegan
Once I’m sure my mom has a glass of wine poured for herself and is distracted, I take the chance to flip through the journal I found in the box from my uncle’s garage. After opening it, I realize it’s more of a sketchbook than a journal—or at least a mixture of both. The first few pages are colored pencil drawings of butterflies. Then there are sketches of dogs, or of a specific dog. A golden retriever, from what it looks like. I try to remember her telling me about pets she had growing up, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any. I actually remember her complaining about my grandma being allergic. Below the drawing of the dog is a caption that reads The Tales of Bart Murphy. The name Murphy jumps out, and I wonder if this was Mike’s dog. I flip the pages and then come across portraits, and I know right away: this is him.
I’ve studied the picture I took from my mom and have his face memorized. The next few pages are of random birds, but nothing particular to help me with my mission. I knew my mom could draw pretty well, but I had no idea she was this good.
I put the book into my backpack and take the zipper pouch out, but before I open it, I check on my mom. I can hear her typing on her laptop, so I go ahead and close, then lock, my door. Settled on my bed again, I open the zipper pouch and sort through the letters. I open one, dated April 21st.
Hey babe,
I can’t wait for this weekend. I can’t believe we lucked out the way we did. My parents leaving for the weekend and your mom agreeing to let you spend the weekend “camping” with Carly’s family. I owe Carly bigtime for backing us up like that. It’ll be just the two of us. We can veg out in front of the TV and hang out with Bart. No interruptions and no family obligations. We can just keep to ourselves, or we can invite a few people over on Saturday if you want to barbeque. I don’t care as long as you’re there too.
Love you, Mike
That didn’t tell me anything new. I sort through again, opening them one at a time. They’re all from Mike. I expected a few, but I thought she’d have some from other friends as well.
After reading several, I start to get discouraged. There’s nothing in here that I can use to prove I know more about him that can’t be Googled. I open another, and it looks like the type of note written during class between two people.
The first line reads:
You think you’re funny, but you’re snot.
With a hand-drawn frowny face, and it makes me laugh.
The next line is written in what’s probably my mom’s handwriting. It’s a little curlier than she writes now but similar enough.
Oh, but that was hilarious! How’s your nose feeling?And she added a little hand-drawn heart.
Mike replies: I don’t know what you mean??
Mom: LMBO! You know exactly what I mean. It’s surprising you didn’t knock out your new tooth. Hard to believe you’re such a great athlete with your clumsiness.
Mike: I’m not clumsy, you brat! Not everyone can have my grace—and the nose and tooth are fine.
Mom: Oh, I wish I had a camera! Hahahaha! Lucky for me, other people saw it, otherwise you’d deny it to the point of making me feel like I imagined it. I guess we’re gonna need to tell the janitor to stop cleaning that glass door so well, otherwise it might kill you. I’ll go ahead and mention it to Coach since it’s in the gym.
Mike: Again, I don’t know what you mean—don’t you mention anything to Coach—and if you do, I’ll tell him you’re off your meds, and that’s why you’re acting so crazy.
Mom: Ur so cute. And there’s another heart with a smiley face.
Mike: Shut up.
I can picture this in my head and to be honest, he does seem a little clumsy between walking into a glass door and falling on his skateboard.
I’m smiling when I open the next note. This one is dated May 15th the year before I was born.
I love you so much, Rachel. I hate that your mom works so hard to keep us apart. I don’t understand why she hates me. Am I that bad? I miss you, and I’m tired of sneaking around. I don’t understand what I did to her. Have you told her something that would make her hate me? Does she know we’
re having sex? You wouldn’t tell her that, would you?
Bingo! This note is dated eleven months before I was born. I find it highly unlikely she moved on from Mike and had sex with a different boy in two months. Impossible, right?
I get up to see what my mom is doing, and I find her sitting in her office, writing. I stand there and stare at her, and the longer I watch, the angrier I get. Why won’t she talk to me?
“Mom, what are you doing?”
Her head pops up quickly, and she gently closes her notebook shut. “I’m working. What are you doing?”
“Is that a journal? I didn’t know you kept a journal.”
“It’s a work journal. I’m writing about my day and what happened. Why are you being so nosey?”
“Can we talk? I want you to tell me about my dad.”
She drops her head back with a heavy sigh. “Raegan, why are you suddenly so interested in this person you’ve never met?”
“He’s my father. Mom, why is this so hard for you to understand? Is it because you had such a bad relationship with Grandpa?”
“If only,” she says.
“I’m not going to stop asking. I want to see my birth certificate. Is his name on it?”
Her eyes narrow at me, and her face flushes with anger. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. She goes from calm to not in seconds. “You don’t seem to understand that I’m the parent, and I make the rules. You don’t get to step into my office and make demands of me. Do you understand that?”