In Some Other World, Maybe: A Novel (28 page)

Kyle Dooley straightening the unfamiliar bow tie at the VFW Hall, Molly already showing in her mother’s yellowed wedding gown. Michael Shipman breaking down the door of his girlfriend’s apartment, finding only empty hangers and a sad stuffed animal he’d won her at a state fair. Some guy (him?) stuck in traffic on the 405, humming along to a dopey song on the radio, oblivious to what Phoebe was going through across town.

“No, there’s nothing I need to know,” he says, realizing this is the truth. That despite Michael Shipman and his good intentions, Adam was right all those years ago when he told his grandpa it didn’t matter who his father was, that it had nothing to do with him. “I’m sorry.”

“Baby, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, feels like he can’t breathe. “I should have come home more often. I haven’t been—”

“Shh.” She strokes his cheek. “S’okay. You’re my good boy.”

CHICAGO

Nothing sums up your relationship with your half sister better than the random Thursday in August when the door to your apartment buzzes after 9:00
P.M.
, the buzzee says, “It’s Natasha,” and you rack your brain for a solid half minute trying to recall if you’ve ever dated a Natasha or if it might be your Russian-born landlord’s daughter who came by last winter with a space heater when the radiator was broken.

“Who?” you ask again.

“Natasha,” says the voice.

You briefly wonder if you misheard, but the building’s intercom system is fairly clear, and it’s not as if you’d been in a deep sleep. You’d gotten home from Advantage Electric an hour ago and had been flipping through channels waiting for the doe-eyed lawyer from your parking garage to get home so you could take her for a drink. There’s really no reason for your profound confusion.

“I’m sorry, who did you say this was?”

“Your sister, Natasha Ryan.”

Another second passes before you ring her in.

Sliding loafers on without socks, you step into the hallway, waiting to see who will show up when the elevator doors part.

It’s probably been six years since you’ve seen Natasha. You’ve been back in Chicago nine months, but since Maura and your father divorced (sometime after you left, the details of which are not quite clear), he has custody only on odd vacation weeks and never remembers to call you about Natasha’s visits until they’re almost over. By then it’s usually too late to alter your plans (and when you’re being completely honest, spending time with Natasha hasn’t been high on your list of priorities). You’ve seen the stray picture at your father’s house, but you’re not sure of her actual age and find yourself doing quick math and settling on something preteen, between ten and twelve. Always, to you, Natasha will be a little girl of four or five whom you’d get down on hands and knees to play with because her life was as lonely as yours and Maura’s.

While you’re expecting the unexpected, it’s downright dumbfounding when the young woman steps out of the elevator with a fat ponytail of red ringlets and slight swells of breasts and butt evident under her jeans and hoodie. She looks a little like Karen—the sister you
do
think of as your sister—but her skin is every bit as milky as Maura’s, though less eerie and translucent. To pronounce her beautiful is probably not right, but there
is
something captivating and otherworldly about her.

“Good evening, Oliver,” she says, strange and formal.

Nodding, you say something along the lines of “Hey.”

Maybe it’s the shock of her transformation, but you let Natasha in and offer her a soda before you remember that you weren’t expecting her, and while she does look decades older than you remembered, she’s still not nearly old enough to be alone in your up-and-coming-but-still-a-little-dangerous neighborhood this time of night.

Probably not wanting to hinder her good fortune at your utter lack of questioning, Natasha volunteers nothing resembling an explanation but accepts a Dr Pepper and the invitation to sit on the tan sofa you bought from the previous tenant.

“Your apartment is lovely,” she continues in her diplomatic and oddly adult way. “And this is in Printer’s Row?”

“Yep.”

“Is it close to Wrigleyville?”

“No, that’s north. Down here it’s mainly old warehouses.”

Her slightly disappointed nod breaks the trance, and you ask what brings her by.

“I was visiting a friend from art camp who lives in the area, so I figured I would see if you were home.” Even if the story were believable, Natasha’s shifty-eyed delivery tells an entirely different tale. “Obviously, I’m in town seeing Dad.”

Flare of frustration that this is now your problem. That this girl you haven’t known for more than half a decade is putting you in the position of calling her out on a lie, of having to find your father (if he’s even available and not somewhere over India or holed up with a stewardess in Australia) or track down Maura, whom you’ve shared fewer than a handful of words with since you stopped sleeping with her and ran away from home at twenty-six.

“What grade are you in now?” you ask in lieu of more challenging questions such as why
she’s
running away from home.

“Sixth,” Natasha says. “Or I will be when school starts in the fall.”

And you remember being short and hefty before growing six inches freshman year of high school. Remember spending the night at Braden’s, reading his comic books and fantasizing about his mother while your own mother was lying around waiting to die. You were nothing like this precocious girl with whom you share half of your genes.

“Do you like school?” You’re not sure what else to ask someone this age.

“It’s fine; I earn good grades. And you? Dad says you design airplane engines. That sounds fascinating.”

“Mostly it’s a bunch of guys sitting around a table talking.”

A sip of soda. A wish for something stronger, but you don’t have any alcohol in the house.

“Does Dad know you’re here?”

“Of course,” she says without making eye contact. “As I said before, I was calling on a girl I met at art camp last summer, and I told him I might stop by.”

Your father’s parenting was definitely subpar, but it seems extremely suspect that he would let his kid wander around the South Loop after dark.

“Is that really the story you’re going to stick with?” you ask.

Natasha seems very interested in her tennis shoes.

“We need to call whoever you’re supposed to be with so they’re not worried,” you continue, with a pleasantly surprising authority.

You’ve dialed the first three numbers of your father’s house before Natasha is on her feet telling you to wait.

“Please, I have questions to ask you without Dad around.”

Flashback to your own childhood: Old Orchard Mall down the street from your mother’s hospital, Karen telling you to ask her anything. Natasha is probably owed this much, an opportunity to voice her questions about sex or drugs or other grown-up things. Because you haven’t been a great brother to either of your sisters, but you’ve at least talked to Karen since the start of the Bush administration.

“Ask me whatever you want, but we need to call Dad first and let him know you’re safe.”

“Fine.” She takes the phone but doesn’t dial. With the same watercolor eyes as her mother, Natasha looks up at you, more challenging than Maura ever dared. “Are you my father?”

Exactly the same feeling you used to get on takeoff all those years ago—testicles left on the ground ten thousand feet below.

“Excuse me?” you finally manage.

“I want to know if you’re my father.”

“What are you talk—”

“I remember stuff from when I was a kid,” she says, and sounds like a child for the first time. “Mom was always touching you, and you slept in the same bed when Dad was gone. You’d leave before I got up, but I knew.”

What you always warned Maura, that she needed to be careful. That Natasha would catch on. To be fair, not sleeping with your stepmother in the first place would have been the easiest way to avoid this line of questioning.

“I’m not your father.”

“Would you tell me if you were?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. What does your mother say?”

“I’ve never asked her.” Natasha sighs. “She’s my mother. She lies to me about things all the time. I figured you don’t have a reason to lie because you don’t really even know me.”

The logic is laughably flawed, that lies are reserved for loved ones while strangers don’t warrant the effort of covering the truth. But there’s a beauty to it that makes sense, makes you wonder if Natasha was perhaps the one member of your family you could have connected with had circumstances been different.

“Look, Maura and I were close, maybe too close, because Dad was away so much, but I promise, I’m not your father.”

Natasha shrugs. “It’s just…”

In many ways it’s a technicality, a wiggle of fate. You
did
bed Natasha’s mother, but not until Natasha was five, and it might classify as a sin of omission to answer only the specific question she’s asking about paternity. But you wonder if this is really even about that or if it’s actually something more universal for alienated (a girl who talks like Natasha is most definitely alienated) children everywhere.

“When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was brothers with my best friend—that Dad wasn’t my dad,” you tell her. “And Braden’s parents called me their other son, and I always stayed there when Dad was away. I think it’s pretty common to hope you’ve got a secret identity.”

After a brief hesitation, you reach out, place your palm on her shoulder, and ask if she’s okay.

Head still down, she nods, and you pray to a God you’ve never really believed in that she won’t cry, because that would fall completely outside your skill set. When she finally looks up, her eyes thankfully are dry.

“We should call Dad now and let him know you’re all right.”

With a sigh beyond her years, Natasha explains that your father had to go to Singapore that afternoon and she was supposed to fly home to Cincinnati a few hours later.

“I got your address from Dad’s phone and convinced him I was old enough that I shouldn’t have to fly as an unaccompanied minor anymore. So after he left, I called the airline and pretended to be my mom and rebooked my flight for tomorrow morning. Then I took the ‘L’ here.”

“What about Maura?”

“I left her a message saying I was staying with Dad one more night.”

“So no one has any idea that you’re here?”

So quiet it’s almost imperceptible: “No.”

There’s a moment where you contemplate letting it slide. Natasha’s already informed her mother she’ll be coming home tomorrow; what difference does it really make if there were half truths involved? But with a sigh that rivals your sister’s, you realize you’re the ranking adult in the situation.

“We need to call your mom.”

“She’ll want to speak with you to verify.”

So you have her dial her mother and stepfather’s house in Ohio, and she hands you the phone.

“Hartlin residence,” Maura says, and you remember all those times you heard her pick up the phone in your father’s house and say, “Ryan residence.”

“Maura?” you ask, though it’s obviously her.

“Speaking.”

“It’s Oliver Ryan.”

A pause, an intake of breath. “Oliver?” Another pause. “I’ve been calling Dan’s about Nat’s message. Did something happen?”

“Nothing bad. I just wanted to make sure you knew her flight got changed.”

Another pause, and Maura asks to talk to your father.

“He had to work, but Natasha and I wanted to see each other, and there was a bit of confusion about when her flight was.”

“So she’s staying with you?”

For an inexplicable reason, it didn’t occur to you that you were agreeing to harbor your sister when you picked up the phone and made this call. Though conceivably Natasha can hear only your end of the conversation, she looks at you with pleading eyes.

“Yes, she’ll stay here, if that’s all right, and I’ll take her to the airport in the morning.”

“I guess that’s okay,” she says with a bit of reserve.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

After that there’s really no reason to stay on the phone. But since you haven’t spoken to her in years, it’s hard to hang up.

Of all the incredibly wrong things about what happened between you and Maura, the wrongest may have been that you took off without talking to her. Because the situation was inherently horrible on so many levels, it was at first an easy leap to tell yourself leaving was the best choice for everyone involved. That was likely the case for you, but when you
did
think about it—on those endless Alaskan winter nights, when there was time to contemplate so many alternate worlds and outcomes—you’d realized it might not have been the best thing for Maura. The whole affair had always really been about your father for both of you, but she was the one who had to stay behind and deal with the fallout. At the time you fled, you didn’t think you cared if she told your dad (it seemed unlikely she would, anyway), but you suppose you owe her a thank-you. Her silence is probably the only reason your relationship with your father wasn’t completely decimated, the reason that Dad is open to whatever it is you’re building now with almost monthly dinners and discussions about airplane parts and the Bears.

“How have you been?” you ask, because it’s been so long and because her daughter, who could so easily have been your daughter, is watching you as if you were an exotic bird.

“I’m good,” Maura says, and it seems like forgiveness. “You?”

Certainly it’s meant as forgiveness when you tell her, “Yeah, I’m doing all right, too.”

And then you’re handing the phone off to your sister, who is covering the mouthpiece and speaking quietly. Politely you busy yourself in the kitchen, suspecting they’re having the kind of conversation reserved for mothers and their preteen daughters who have done something rash and dangerous. Even after the click of the phone, you give Natasha a minute to compose herself before coming back into the living room.

“Thanks for talking to my mom,” she says. “And for letting me stay here.”