Chapter 18 The Neonate and the New Parents #2
I stared, stunned. I’d been so swept up in my romance with Andreas that I’d forgotten to do more digging into my dad’s fraud case, a fact that now made me feel like a traitor.
“Oh my gosh,” I said, clutching the folders. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Kaitlyn shrugged, modest but pleased. “I figured you’ve been busy and I know how important this is to you.
It’s everything from the initial fraud complaint to the bankruptcy filing—I think you had that already, right?
—to his death certificate. I also had them pull Genetix’s initial corporate filing paperwork, just in case. I hope you find something helpful.”
“Seriously. Thank you. This is amazing.” I set the pile to one side and gave Kaitlyn another hug, tighter this time.
She said, “I just want you to be happy.”
After the hug, I picked up the pile again and said, “Let me go put this next to my phone. I’ll be right back.”
I carried the folders and thumb drive to the kitchen counter where my cell was sitting. I realized, with a pang, that the phone was dead. I plugged it in and called back to Kaitlyn, “My phone is dead, I’m using your cable to charge it.”
She called out, “Sounds good. Take your time.”
I hovered, waiting for it to reboot. When the power finally came on, I had several missed texts, including a few from Diya, one from Tara, and one from Andreas.
I checked the one from Andreas first.
Andreas: Please message me when you get this.
Oskar died four days ago and I’ve just been notified today.
I’m on my way to the airport and will fly out immediately for the funeral, which takes place tomorrow in Oslo.
Tara will pick you up this evening. She has your travel and hotel information.
You need to be in Paris for the will reading Sunday morning.
I sat down at the kitchen table and reread the message several times before it truly sank in.
Oskar was dead. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to think. I’d thought we had more time. And now . . .
Shaking myself, I texted him back.
Sam: I am so sorry I didn’t get your message until just now. My phone was dead. I will do as you’ve said and see you at the will reading on Sunday in Paris. Please take good care of yourself. I miss you.
I considered texting, I love you, but decided against it. Not yet. Not on the day he found out his father died.
I set the phone down, and for a long, long time, I just stared at the kitchen wall, trying to process the fact that everything had changed. My world had been turned upside down by a missed text message while my phone was dead.
Silently. And with no warning.
* * *
I’d texted Tara from Kaitlyn’s apartment and she’d appeared outside within twelve minutes.
Now, thirty minutes after I read Andreas’s message, I was in the back seat of Tara’s Mercedes, staring out the window at the city, feeling oddly wired.
I kept checking my phone, freshly revived and plugged into the charging port in the center console. No new messages from Andreas.
As the Mercedes sliced through the damp cold, the reality of what I was about to do caught up with me like a slap.
I should have been thinking about the logistics of packing and getting to the airport, asking about travel arrangements once we landed in Paris.
But all I could think about was Andreas, how he must have found out, what he was feeling right now, whether he’d had anyone to talk to on the way to the airport.
I wanted to be the one holding his hand, or at the very least the one texting him back within a reasonable timeframe, not after my phone spent six hours dead on the kitchen counter.
I felt, for the millionth time, the bone-deep guilt of missing his messages, of not being there to offer a single goddamn word of comfort.
For the tenth time since Tara had picked me up, I opened the messages app and scrolled to the top, hoping for a late-breaking missive from Andreas. Nothing. But just below his thread, I noticed the messages from Diya that I hadn’t yet checked.
Diya: Your grandfather came looking for you at the apartment today. I hope you don’t mind, I told him your new address. He said he would call you and arrange a time to meet. It didn’t occur to me until after he left that maybe you didn’t want him to know where you live? If so, I am so sorry!
Diya: Please message me back.
I reread Diya’s words three times, trying to parse them. The last time I’d seen my mom’s father, he was packing everything that had been legally determined to be his into a moving van after my grandparents’ divorce. He’d tried to hug me. I’d pushed him away.
He’d raised me from age fourteen to sixteen, and then filed for divorce the month my grandma was diagnosed with cancer. I’d never forgiven him for it. I wasn’t sure I ever would.
“Hey.” Tara’s voice floated back from the front seat. “You want a protein bar or anything? Have you eaten? This traffic is dogshit.”
I looked up at the rearview mirror. I could see the outline of her head, the edge of her ponytail, her eyes flickering to meet mine for a split second. “No, thanks. I’m good,” I said, which was a lie, but she didn’t press.
The car lapsed back into its private storm of engine noise and bad thoughts.
I pulled out the thermos of tea Kaitlyn had given me before leaving her apartment and tried to take a sip, but my hands were trembling too much to unscrew the lid.
I jammed it back between my knees and turned my attention to the world outside.
Bridges, overpasses, the blur of holiday lights in shop windows.
All I could think about was Andreas’s face, and how I would find him at the Paris hotel, and whether I could say anything that would make any of this less terrible.
I knew he had complicated thoughts about his father, but the man was still his father.
When I next looked up, we were gliding to a stop outside Andreas’s building, the familiar stone-and-glass box on the Lower East Side.
I blinked, surprised at how quickly we’d arrived, then realized that my sense of time had been completely scrambled by the chemical cocktail of stress and shock.
Tara double-parked and turned around in the front seat to face me.
“Can you wait here for a minute before going in?” she said. “There’s someone at the door talking to Costa. Not one of our people.”
I craned my neck and looked out the tinted window.
Standing on the front steps, next to the doorman, was an old man in a navy peacoat and gray slacks, a heavy wool scarf knotted at his throat.
He was hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his head inclined toward the doorman as if listening to a secret.
The angle was bad, but even at a distance I recognized the shape of his jaw, the stubborn set of his shoulders. My grandfather.
“That man is my grandfather,” I said, my voice flat.
Tara raised her eyebrows, then looked out the window again. “Want me to take you around the back? Or wait until he leaves?”
I shook my head, surprising myself with the intensity of my own answer. “No, it’s fine. I should see him.” The words tasted bitter and unfamiliar, but I knew they were right.
Tara paused, studying me for a moment. “You sure? We can circle the block until he’s gone.”
“No,” I said again, this time more certain. “I want to talk to him.”
“Okay,” Tara said, and put the car in park. “But Peter will meet you in the lobby to take you up to the apartment while I park. I’ll be right behind you. If you want privacy, I’ll keep the team away, but they’ll be watching.”
I nodded, grateful. “Makes sense. Um, can you bring up these files when you come up?” I gestured to the folders that Kaitlyn had given me, which now sat on the seat next to me. I’d placed the thumb drive in my bag.
“Sure thing,” she said.
I opened the door and stepped out into the air, which felt like it had become colder over the last half hour.
My legs were still wobbly from adrenaline, but I forced them into motion and walked up the steps to where my grandfather stood.
He was arguing with Costa in the amiable, practiced way of old men who have spent years perfecting the art of polite combat.
He saw me first. His whole body snapped to attention, and for a second he looked exactly as I remembered him—sturdy, confident, more granite than flesh.
But then I saw the age in his face, the slack at his jaw, the thinned patch at his hairline.
His mouth worked for a moment, unsure what shape to make, and then a small, hopeful smile tugged at one corner.
“Hi,” I said, stuffing my hands into my own coat pockets, suddenly fourteen years old again.
He nodded at Costa, who tactfully stepped inside to give us privacy. “Hey, kid,” my grandfather said. His voice was softer than I remembered, a little worn at the edges. “How you doing?”
I shrugged. “I’m okay. How are you?” The words felt rehearsed, but it was the only thing I could think to say.
“I was in town and thought I’d look you up,” he said, eyes skittering away from mine and then back again.
I felt my throat tighten, but I pushed past it. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. It’s been—” I gestured to the city, the sky, my entire existence.
His eyes glistened, but he didn’t look away. “Oh, it’s okay. I know you’ve been busy.”
I nodded, then blurted, “I have a plane to catch tonight, so I only have a few minutes.”
His face fell just a hair, but he rallied. “That’s okay. I just wanted to see you, make sure you’re alright.”
There was a silence, the kind that’s both too short and too long, and I realized I wasn’t angry at him anymore. Or maybe I was, but it was drowned out by the greater urge not to waste another second.
“I’m coming back in a week,” I said. “Will you still be in town? Would you want to meet up then? Or, I don’t know, maybe talk on the phone before that?”
He smiled, and this time it stuck. “Yes. Anytime. I can fly out here, too, if you want. Whenever you want.”
He fumbled in his pocket for a phone. “Can I get your number? I, uh, only seem to have the old one.”
I recited it, watching as he typed, then listened as he called the number. My phone, which was still in my hand, buzzed with the new contact.
I held it up and flashed the screen. “That’s me.”
He laughed, a little sheepishly, and then said, “I’ll let you get going. But I’d like to see you. When you get back.”
“Yeah,” I said, and this time I meant it. “I’ll call you.”
He nodded, his smile going shaky at the corners. “Thank you, Sammy. I really miss you.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I felt my eyes sting, and before I could second-guess it, I closed the distance and hugged him, hard.
His arms came up around me, strong and warm, the same way they used to when I was a kid.
He smelled like his usual aftershave and cold air, and for a second I wanted to take him with me upstairs and tell him everything.
But instead, I just said, “I missed you, too,” and let go.
As I walked toward the lobby, I felt lighter, not because I’d let go of anything, but because I’d decided to carry it differently.
I didn’t know what would happen with my grandfather, or whether we’d ever be close again, but for the first time in years, I was done pushing people away.
I wanted to believe that we all could change, including me.
I wanted to believe that they wouldn’t let me down, that they wouldn’t leave. That it was safe to love someone.
As I greeted my guard and followed him to the elevator, I said a silent thank-you to Andreas. Without him, I wasn’t sure I would’ve ever opened myself up again.
I felt . . . optimistic.