Part 25 (2/2)

”Jake and Josh,” Bob says.

”Yes,” I reply, though I want to shout Obviously!

There's a sudden awful taste in my mouth and a whoosh in my ears as my body goes ice cold, as if the heat has been sucked out with a vacuum. ”You were aware that she was pregnant?”

He blinks, clears his throat. ”Pregnant?”

Oh my G.o.d. What has my mom done? An urge to laugh tickles at my stomach and then my breath is sucked out again. ”You didn't know?” I manage, and it's both a statement and a question. Heat rushes through my body and I sway with dizziness.

”What are you saying?” His words sound as though they've been dipped in horror and fear.

”She was pregnant.” The cat mews. The clock ticks. I can barely breathe. ”With me.”

168.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e ”Camille,” he says, not taking his eyes off of me. ”Camille?”

I'd almost forgotten the slight woman. I'm afraid I'm going to pa.s.s out. Drop and fold to the ground. He's got a hand on his heart. Camille quickly puts down the cat. ”Bob, are you okay?”

”She says she's my daughter.” He doesn't take his eyes off me.

”Bob?” She looks back and forth between us.

”Mary McLean. You remember? The American who sent me off with no explanation. About a year before we met.” He looks away from me to Camille and his eyes are wide.

”You didn't know?” I whisper again, but I don't even know if they hear me. The realization punches me in the gut. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. This is worse.

”Why're you here? Why now?” Camille says. Her voice isn't angry, but it's firm. Bob blinks and blinks with his mouth hanging slightly open.

I focus on Camille. Someone rational. A stranger. I want her to help me. Intervene. Tell me what's going on. ”I never knew who my dad was. I never even knew his name. My mom never told me.

Then she had heart pains. She thought she was dying. So she told me where to find the info. So she wouldn't go to the grave feeling guilty.”

”Oh dear,” Camille says softly. A phone rings but no one even glances toward the noise.

Oh dear is right.

”Your mom knew I was here?” Bob asks, blocking the real issue.

My mom had his baby eighteen years ago. Me. And she didn't even bother to tell him.

”Apparently she's good at keeping things to herself.” I'm able to 169.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r breathe by concentrating on it. In. Out. In. Out. I remember get- ting punched in the stomach in sixth grade. By Kim Stevenson. I can't even remember why, but I remember how it felt- exactly like this. ”You didn't know?” It comes out in a whisper.

”You think you're my daughter?” His voice is higher pitched and creaks at the end. The phone rings again. My phone beeps, letting me know I've received another text.

My nose tickles as if I need to sneeze. The sensation that my chest is being crushed gets stronger. ”I thought you knew. I thought you left us.”

I realize that I'm an idiot for believing my mother in the first place. Truth has never been her thing. And it hits me with force.

He didn't even know about me. I've been beating myself up for being unlovable, unwanted, and he didn't even know I existed.

How? How could she do this?

And then I begin to lose the grip I've been holding on to since I found out his name. I came here to see the man who gave me up without a fight. But he didn't fight because he didn't even know.

I think of her frantic texting. That's why she's been trying to get ahold of me. This truth is worse. He didn't reject me. He didn't have the chance.

My eyes spill tears and my nose leaks. How could she do this? For so many years.

Camille slides over and puts an arm around me. But even now, even in this, I can't shake the feeling that somehow I'm the one who caused this mess.

”s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t,” Bob says and then spins on his heels and stomps 170.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e out of the hallway. The sounds coming out of my body get louder. I shrug Camille off and hug my arms around myself, wis.h.i.+ng I could disappear. She pats my arm then gently leads me into the den.

It's carpeted and cream colored and thick under my shoes. I try to protest that they might be dirty, but there's no way for me to talk like a rational person. Camille looks like the sort of person who would care about dirty carpets, but she doesn't say a thing or even seem to notice.

She guides me to a chair, takes my purse, sits me down, and then puts my purse on my lap. I take out my phone. A text from my mom. ”Call me. Please.”

She's fine. It's not her health. It's this. She's been trying to stop this. Too late. I delete her message.

”Bob really had no idea,” Camille says softly. ”It's a shock. Give him a few minutes, okay?” She slips out of the room.

My hysteria dies down. My cheeks burn with humiliation. I'd been judging him for being a man who would abandon his own daughter. But he didn't even know.

When Camille returns a few minutes later, she's holding a gla.s.s of water and a box of Kleenex, and she hands both to me. ”You okay?”

She sits on the chair beside mine and smiles ever so slightly. Her legs are slim, tinier than mine even.

I move my head up and down and blow my nose into a Kleenex.

”So where do you live?” she asks.

”Tadita. Outside Seattle. Where my mom met...Bob.”

My voice is scratchy and high- pitched. I think about standing and walking out, walking through the front door and continuing 171.

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