Family Affair (33 page)

How do you start a relationship with your father as a grown, married, soon-to-be-divorced woman? What does that even look like? Do you go through scrapbooks and catch each other up
on everything you missed? Do you start as if this is the first day of your life and pretend the past doesn’t exist?

“I’m making black-eyed peas,” I say. Completely off topic, but I just don’t know how to respond. Of course I want a dad. But I don’t know this man. This man is a stranger.

“And you don’t have to decide right now,” he says. “I just want you to know that if you have any interest in having a relationship with me, I would love that. That it would mean the world to me. And I know you don’t owe me anything—I know that.”

I start to feel nauseated. I don’t know if it’s the donuts I ate for good luck turning out not to be such good luck or if it’s the stress of this situation, but it comes on suddenly, and I feel nauseated and clammy and almost like I’m going to faint. Or throw up. Or both.

And I do. I run to the bathroom and throw up.

“Hey, are you okay?” my father says.
Nick
says. I don’t know what to call him.

“I am,” I say, as I wash my face and brush my teeth. I come out and shrug at him. “I ate three donuts today. For good luck. For the new year. It’s a Dutch tradition.”

“Is your husband Dutch?”

“No,” I say. “I just thought I needed some good luck this year.”

He smiles at this. Cocks his head. “You remind me of your mother,” he says.

I burst into tears. I’ve had nobody say this to me … ever. I have no relatives who knew her, and it’s the biggest compliment and probably the most comforting thing I’ve ever heard. I remind him of my mother. The most amazing woman in the world.

He walks to me and hugs me. It feels nice. But I feel ill. Too many emotions. Sensory overload. I hear an odd ringing in my ears and everything starts to dim.

And the next thing I know I’m on the floor, my head propped in Nick’s lap, while he has a cell phone in his hand and is frantically talking to a nine-one-one operator.

• • •

I lie on the bed in the freezing-cold room they took me to and wonder if this is it for me, if I inherited a weak system from my mother, if I’m going to die. I’m afraid and antsy and frustrated at how long it’s taking the doctor to come in, and angry at my father for suddenly being here and seeing me in this vulnerable position.

“I feel like this is my punishment for leaving you all those years ago,” he says, genuine tears in his eyes.

“Well, I’d say between the two of us, I’m getting the worst of the punishment about right now.”

“Does she have any allergies?” the nurse asks. Nick looks at me, pained and clueless.

“My dad sees the role of father as more of an emeritus/figurehead/sperm donor position,” I reply.

The nurse looks at us blankly.

“I don’t have any allergies,” I answer.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Stop saying that,” I grouse.

“Okay.”

He walks to the window. We remain in silence for a long while. “Do you want me to leave?” he finally asks. “I don’t want to, but I will if you want.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t have anyone else.”

He walks to me and gently touches my head. He starts running his fingers softly through my hair, moving it away from my face. I close my eyes. It feels nice. Then a doctor pulls back the curtain and steps in.

“I’m Dr. Trevino,” he says, and smiles widely at us. “I’ve just looked over all of the preliminary test results. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. And I have wonderful news. You two are going to be parents.”

“Oh,
God
, no,” my father says, laughing very nervously. “I lost my parenting license a long time ago. I got fixed during Reagan’s first term.”

“TMI,” I say.

“This is my daughter,” Nick clarifies. “I got snipped right after she was born.”

“No offense taken,” I say, clearly offended.

“Then you’re about to become a grandfather,” Dr. Trevino announces. “Congratulations.”

I look at my father in shock. He’s beaming with pride. I’m stunned. Speechless. How can this be happening? I knew I’d missed a couple periods, but that’s happened in the past during times of shock, and with everything going on with Brett and the Fosters, I just … I don’t know what to say. I have no words. Except: “Did you shut off the stove before we left?” I ask my father. “The black-eyed peas.”

• • •

The phone rings when I get home, and it’s Bill. I wrestle with answering. Here I have my real dad in my house and my surrogate dad calling me.

I answer. “Hey, Bill,” I say, trying my best not to sound pregnant.

“Hi, baby,” he says. “Do you have some time?”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

“It’s Ginny,” he says. And it sounds like he’s crying. “What is it? Did something happen?”

“No. It’s just … I’m losing her,” he says. “She canceled her bridge club. You know how much she loves her bridge club. But she kept forgetting little things last time and was embarrassed. It’s breaking my heart.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too,” he says.

I have news that might brighten his spirits. He’s going to be a grandfather. But I just don’t feel like I can tell him. I’ve only known for a few hours myself, and I need time to process it all.

We hang up, and my father looks at me.

“You didn’t tell him,” he says.

“I know.”

“This is good news, isn’t it?” he asks.

Yes. It’s good news. All I ever wanted was a family of my own. A real family. My flesh and blood. I always dreamed of the day when Brett and I would get pregnant and bring a life into the world. A little piece of each of us. Forever blended together. Forever bonding us that much more.

But now? How am I supposed to feel? I have so many mixed emotions. Yes, I’m thrilled to have a baby. But I’m going to be a single parent? That’s what I land on. And that’s what I tell my father.

“It’s great news in theory,” I say. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Then I’m thrilled for you,” he says.

“But this isn’t how it was supposed to be,” I go on. “I was supposed to be happily married. I was supposed to do this with a partner. I know what it’s like to be raised in a single-parent household. I know the stress it put on my mom, and I know how it felt for me.”

“I get it,” he says. “You didn’t have a father. But that baby sure as hell is going to have the world’s best grandfather.” He almost seems happy.

For me, it’s a look into a future hell of chasing babysitters, missing recitals, trading weekends with Brett, the man who’s cast me into this pit. But for Nick, it’s a glimpse of redemption. He’s
definitely
happy.

Despite the queasy feeling bubbling inside me, the happiness is contagious.

Nick and I arrange to meet at his investor friend’s office. He’s some current or former player at a record label—I can’t tell which by the lobby—and I wonder if this is Nick’s desperate way of trying to salvage a career in music and seeking favor by hooking this guy up with me. I also feel awkward about it, since Layla and I aren’t even speaking, and I can’t help but wonder if he has inside information about her and this is all just a ploy to either divulge it to me or get info for her about me.

Turns out it’s neither. This is a business meeting through and through. His friend, Wayne Stanhope, is short and pudgy, with shifty eyes that dodge around the room and a receding hairline. I wonder if the tightly pulled ponytail he wears isn’t receding it even farther.

“This is Wayne,” Nick says. “Wayne, this is my son-in-law.”

“Son-in-law?” Wayne says, with profound surprise. “You’ve been busy.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne,” I say, momentarily stunned by the way I was introduced. Prior to now I’ve never been anyone’s son-in-law. Technically I was, but I didn’t know the guy, so the wording never came into play. It’s kind of cool, the way he’s adopted
me. And I feel more than a pang of guilt over Layla and the situation with my family. I’ve been thinking about her a lot during the past few days.

We go over the proposal, and then Nick takes it upon himself to try the prototype. I didn’t know he was planning to do this—he just takes one of the sample garments and exits, reappearing moments later with his unbuttoned and untucked shirt, the Wonder Armour sucking him in. His mushy, unshapely body actually seems to benefit from being stuffed into the compression garment. He’s not fat by any means, but he’s clearly not been doing any sit-ups. If he showed up at a few of my practices I could certainly whip him into shape. I refrain from telling him this. I don’t know too many rock stars (or rock-star wannabes, in Nick’s case) who live at the gym. Except maybe George Lynch or Henry Rollins, but they’re the exception to the rule. Man, are those guys huge.

“Hey, this isn’t bad,” Nick says.

“I might like to try one on myself,” Wayne says, and proceeds to unbutton his shirt and disrobe right there in the office.

Not wanting to give the impression I’m not a team player, I awkwardly hoist off my sweater and start to unbutton my shirt. Soon after, all three of us are dressed in Wonder Armour and stretching about the office. I don’t have to imagine what a bizarre scene it is, because Wayne’s assistant walks in and stops short when she sees us all standing and maneuvering our bodies to test the fit, and the look on her face says it all.

“What do you think?” Wayne asks.

She looks to each of us for a beat and then deadpans, “If Cirque du Soleil calls, I’ll put them right through.”

• • •

Nick and I leave together, and we’re not three feet out the front door when Nick’s cell phone rings. It’s Wayne asking him not to show the prototype to anyone else. He’s sold. He wants to be an
angel investor. I’m stunned by the quick turn of events and ask Nick what
he
wants out of the deal.

“I just want you and Layla to have a good future,” he says.

“You know we’re separated, right?” I ask. “Headed for divorce?”

“Yep,” he says, seemingly undeterred.

“Okay,” I say, confused by his generosity but not wanting to seem ungrateful.

Brett shows up at the studio, which is currently housing yours truly and April (of the Foster family holiday picture debacle), who I found and hired in a terrible hurry once Layla said she needed an extended leave of absence after we called and told PETCO our funding fell through. I can’t say that I’m happy to see my brother. He looks around at the pictures on the wall. Pictures of Sammy Davis Junior. Pictures of Lou. Various random pictures of other customer pets that were favorites.

He stares for a moment at April. I think he must be trying to figure out where he knows her from, but he can’t place it. Lou runs over to greet him, but I stay where I am.

“You know, she really has talent for this,” Brett says. He looks at me. “Don’t get up, really.”

“I won’t, limpdick,” I reply.

“Limpdick,” he repeats. “Charming.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Can’t a brother come visit his sister merely to say hello?”

“He can,” I say. “But
you
never have, so obviously there’s a reason you’re here. What is it?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, tries to look past me to see if Layla’s here. As if I can’t tell what he’s doing.

He holds up a mug. I recognize it. He and Layla went to Color Me Mine a long time ago, and she made what is the ugliest mug in the history of all painted pottery.

“I found this,” he says, “and I thought Layla might be here. I haven’t seen her in a while, and I thought she’d get a kick out of seeing it.”

“After seeing you, the only kick she’d get out of it would be throwing it at your head.”

“I thought it would make her laugh. And I thought it would be nice to see her.”

“Really?” I ask. “Are you seriously going to pull this shit now?”

“What shit?”

“Leave her alone,” I say.

“Look, bridge troll,” he replies. “I’m not in the mood to answer your three questions to gain passage. Is she here?”

“No, Brett,” I say. “She’s not. Take your ugly mug and go.”

“Okay,” he says. “Clearly you’re having a bad day. So I’m just gonna ignore that. Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

“I wish I did,” I say.

“What does that mean?” Brett asks.

“She’s been gone for almost two weeks,” I inform him. “She’s working freelance gigs, and I have a stand-in.” I toss my head toward the rear, where April is arranging cat toys for the sixth time today.

April’s not terrible, but she’s not Layla. Although she did manage to behave in a politic, Layla-like way during an episode earlier this week. That celebutante who’d mistakenly been blowing her bowser came back to have her newest pet’s photo snapped. She was particularly pleased with her new Norwegian blue. It was a funny little thing, she admitted, but she’d bought the ferret off a
different
dealer than her Maltese, and the dealer had sold her on it
after going on and on about its beautiful plumage, which supposedly appears in late fall. (She planned on coming back for more shots then. I didn’t discourage her.) April managed to say nothing throughout. She simply gave the “ferret” a few pieces of cheese, got a couple of great shots, and suggested the woman name it Mickey.

She seems to enjoy the work, and she’s particularly good with felines.

“That’s not possible,” Brett says. “You and Layla are partners. She works here.”

“No, Brett,” I say pointedly. “It’s entirely possible. She’s totally distanced herself from me, our business, and our family. None of us has seen her, and it’s your fault.”

Surprisingly, this seems like news to him. “Oh, really?”

Normally I’d say, “No,
O’Reilly,”
as I’ve done for years, to keep things light. But we’ve grown far enough apart, Brett and I, that the usual niceties all taste sour. So I don’t put them in my mouth anymore. “Yes, Brett,” I say. “Really.”

“Huh,” Brett says, and sits down, clutching the hideous mug for dear life.

“If you ask me, I think she’s started seeing someone,” I say. I don’t think for a minute that it’s true, but I’m trying to dig the knife in a little deeper. Because I’m of the strong opinion that he deserves it.