Missy Cooke's Private Lives in Silicon Valley

One

The first time I remember meeting my father, I was five years old. I knew who he was before he introduced himself, and I prayed

that he had come to kidnap me and spirit me away.

My mother was in bed as I played in the front yard with Mittens, the black-and-white cat from down the block who would roam

the neighborhood looking for food and attention. The grass was bleached yellow from the summer heat. It hadn’t rained in weeks,

and we weren’t allowed to use the sprinklers. I had been barefoot all summer, the soles of my feet thickened and hardened

so I barely felt the scratchy grass, could walk down sidewalks so hot they should have burned me, but I didn’t notice.

Lucy and her older brother, Noah, were with me, my next-door-neighbors.

Lucy was the same age as me, Noah two years older, but both of them seemed much older and wiser than I.

Even though we had only known each other a few weeks, Lucy was already my best friend in the world, the girl I longed to be.

Noah was so different from anyone I had ever met, I could barely look at him.

There was another brother, Caden, who was twelve, and too cool to hang out with us.

Lucy was tall with a bobbed haircut and short, sharp bangs, a tomboy through and through.

Her hair was straight and shiny, and she was missing two front teeth.

Where I was scared, Lucy was fearless. She would lead me to the empty lots at the end of our street where we would attempt to build forts out of forgotten planks of wood left behind when the houses had been demolished.

“Not that one, Missy,” she would direct me as I lugged the wrong piece of wood. “Bring the other one.” I did whatever she

asked, hoping that Noah would pay attention to me, notice how much I was doing, how grown-up I was. When Lucy’s mom referred

to the three of us as “The Three Musketeers,” I felt a five-year-old thrill, not understanding what it meant, only that it

referred to all of us, which linked me to Noah.

Lucy noticed the car first. I was too busy trying not to stare at Noah hitting a tennis ball against the brick wall of their

house, his hair flopping into his eyes as he grunted like John McEnroe.

Lucy and I had been trying to entice Mittens to wear a cap stolen from a Holly Hobby doll, and watched the car drive slowly

down the street, the driver peering at the numbers on the mailboxes until he reached our house. Lucy and I stood stock-still,

not noticing that Mittens had escaped, tearing off over the naked yew hedge as the convertible slowed to a stop right outside

our house.

Noah stopped hitting the ball and came to the edge of the property, his mouth open as he stared at the car, a vehicle equal

parts compelling and dangerous.

“One day,” Lucy whispered, “I’m going to drive a car just like that.” Cars that glamorous and cool did not belong in our neighborhood,

and I felt my breath catch in my throat. Before the man even stepped out of what I later learned to be a classic Mustang,

I knew exactly who it was.

I didn’t have memories, but I had photographs.

There was an iconic picture of my father that they always used in magazines, a picture of him throwing a ball, but I wanted more; I wanted personal.

My mother had photographs. She stuffed them into the back of her underwear drawer, hidden under layers of flesh-colored pantyhose she never wore.

My favorite was of him wrapping me up in a towel and squeezing me after I’d had a bath.

I would look at this picture for hours, able to imagine exactly what I must have felt, warm and safe, tucked up tightly in his arms as he carried me out of the bathroom; loved.

Whenever my mother was out, I headed straight for her room. I knew every inch of her cluttered nightstand drawers, with their

interesting pills, and small notebooks filled with her slanting scrawl.

Finding the photographs was like finding buried treasure. I slid my favorite one into my pocket, heart pounding, so that I

could study it in the safety of my room. I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t a rule breaker. This small transgression made

me want to vomit. I wasn’t allowed in my mother’s personal things. I wasn’t allowed in her bedroom unless she was feeling

well enough and had called me in, to crawl up on her high bed and answer her questions about my day.

That afternoon she was in the bathroom, and I knew the drawer held photographs. I had seen them when she was getting dressed.

I pulled the drawer open as quiet as a mouse, and found the buried treasure. When I got back to my room, I slipped it into

the pages of The Cat in the Hat where I knew it would be safe. My mother had stopped reading to me months before, but to be extra safe, I slipped The Cat in the Hat underneath my mattress, and pulled it out every night when I was supposed to be asleep. I’d stare at the face of the man

I knew to be my father. Marty Cooke. I’d whisper his name as I gazed at the photograph, often falling asleep with it still clutched tightly in my hand.

I knew who this man in the shiny red sports car was.

Noah, Lucy and I all gaped at him, as if a halo of golden light lifted him and carried him toward us.

In his faded jeans and sneakers (and gray hoodie), his eyes sparkling and curious, he was even more handsome than in the magazine picture.

I had spent months gazing at my stolen photograph every night, praying that he was somewhere lying in his bed thinking about the daughter he didn’t know, figuring out a way to come find me.

I knew he loved me, was sure of it, but there was some kind of spell, something that had stopped him coming around.

I knew it was only a matter of time before we found each other.

He looked at me, then Lucy, and I breathed his name in a whisper before he spoke. “Marty.”

Lucy looked at me curiously. “You know him?” she whispered back as he started to approach, leaping up the stone steps and

crunching across the grass toward us.

I didn’t answer. Marty looked from me, to Lucy, over at Noah, then back to me. I recognized him, of course, but more than

that, I recognized myself. I saw my hair with a hint of wave, and my dimples.

“Hey, Peanut,” he said to me. A memory from the long-ago past, a feeling of being loved washed over me with the long-forgotten

nickname.

“Hey, Marty,” I said, as if I had seen him yesterday, as if this was completely normal, expected. I could feel Lucy turn to

look at me, small frown lines in her forehead. “It’s my dad,” I told her, battling the joy that was now coursing through my

small body. A part of me wanted to fling myself at him, to make him hold me tight like he did in the photograph that was now

creased and cracking, but I worried it would push him away.

He didn’t notice that I called him Marty and not Dad. My mom always called him Marty, and it seemed like the right thing to

do. Dad was too familiar. Even though it was factual, time and distance had removed the entitlement.

“You’re looking good, kid,” he said, his face breaking into a smile that was all at once faraway and utterly familiar. “You got big.”

“I have a scar,” I said, showing him my knee, a perfect circle of mottled skin, the scar tissue thin and pale.

He bent down to get a closer look and nodded approvingly. “Nice. How’d you get it?”

I puffed my chest out with pride. “Skateboarding.” I knew he would approve.

He laughed and shook his head. “You’re definitely my kid,” he said. “Want to go for a drive?”

Yes, I wanted to go for a drive. I wanted to jump into the car and go on an adventure with Marty that would last the rest

of my life. I hesitated. If I told my mom my father was here, she’d be down here in a shot. Her rage with him was palpable,

and I knew that if she saw him, she might drive him away forever.

We were living in one half of a small arts and crafts cottage by that time, my mother and I. Upstairs was Nasreen, who served

as my surrogate mother when my own mother was distracted.

There were so many children in the neighborhood. We had moved to Oakland from East Palo Alto after a shooting on our block.

Not that Oakland was much better at that time, but we found a rental on a quiet street, the first floor of a house, with an

overgrown backyard. The landlord was married, but I could see that my mother bewitched him with her long red hair and aura

of helplessness. I now know my mother has two types of effects on men she meets: They want to sleep with her, or take care

of her. Often both. The landlord thought he wanted to take care of her, but later, much later, it turned out he wanted to

sleep with her, as well.

Lucy and Noah’s mother let them run free, but she expected them home by five. My mother let me run free, but didn’t notice if, or when, I was back. This man would notice, I thought, as I turned to Lucy with an idea. This man would take care of me.

“If my mom asks, which she definitely won’t, tell her I went to Nasreen’s vegetable plot to pick strawberries.”

I knew she would be fine with that. Nasreen was soft and curvy where my mother was thin and sharp. She exuded happiness, always

welcomed me with open arms, her deep voice with its slight Indian accent enveloping me with love. Nasreen worked for a charity

helping victims of domestic violence. There were always strangers at her kitchen table, but they never felt like strangers—Nasreen

made everyone feel like her family. I knew my mother wouldn’t bother me if she thought I was at Nasreen’s small garden. Lucy

nodded and smiled, the rule breaker in her delighted at the possibility of danger, as I walked past Noah, a feeling of pride

threatening to burst out of my chest. This was the best thing that had ever happened to me, I knew. Now Noah would notice

me.

Marty helped me climb into the passenger seat of the convertible. Everything inside the car was red—red leather seats, thin

red steering wheel, red dashboard; it felt totally safe and warm, as if the car was a beating heart.

Snuggling down in the seat, I did up my own seat belt in the way I had taught myself to do, and sat quietly, my heart pounding.

Marty climbed in, his body graceful, completely at ease in his skin as he grinned at me. “You ready?”

I was so overwhelmed with emotions I couldn’t name I was unable to speak. I was worried that I might start crying, but not

because I was sad, because I was so happy, I couldn’t contain it. I didn’t dare open my mouth, nodding and looking straight

ahead, as he gunned the engine and we took off down the street. I looked back once, waving furiously at Lucy and Noah, both

of whom were standing in the same spot.

That’s when I started to smile.