Chapter 5
The next morning, I have the window open in the office and the overhead fan circling so fast it’s threatening to scatter piles of paperwork everywhere.
The room smells like stale paper, worn leather, and the tea-tree-oil lotion Dad used on his eczema—it smells like Dad himself.
I gasp for fresh air and swallow a wave of grief that threatens to consume me.
While clearing out the house in a rush to sell, I expected to find surprises—photos, doodles, notes, love letters—tokens to cling to because he left me too soon and too suddenly. But this new truth kills Dad all over again, more permanently than the artery that failed him.
In the last two weeks, I’ve cleaned out the rest of the house, so the office is my last hope for answers. If I don’t find the missing pages of the court order, maybe I can contact the courthouse to track down the entire document—assuming they keep thirty-year-old records.
But before I fall into that bureaucratic quicksand, I decide to search for my mother online, or perhaps I’m procrastinating.
I create an empty spot on the floor and open my laptop.
My first Google search doesn’t produce anything; there are about a million hits for Mary Johnson and Mary Ann Johnson, and very few for Mary Dahl or Mary Ann Dahl.
The image search provides a plethora of diverse faces and profiles, but none of them look like the cherished pictures I’ve clung to.
I catalog the people who might know more. Dad’s parents died years ago, and I never knew Mom’s side of the family. I asked about grandparents, aunts, and uncles, but Dad’s responses were vague. He didn’t like to talk about Mom.
I think I’m beginning to understand why.
All our friends, all the people in our lives, knew us after Mom “died,” and we left Oregon to settle here in San Diego.
I fall into a rabbit hole of amateur sleuth work. I find websites promising biographical information—addresses, court records, marriage, death certificates, traffic tickets, arrests. But I can’t tell which sites are legit and which will implant spyware on my laptop.
I click back to the search window containing all the faces of Mary Johnsons who aren’t my mother and slam it shut.
There’s a knock on the front door before it creaks open.
I look up to see Beau poking his head in the doorway of the office.
His hair is falling onto his forehead the way it would when we were kids—before he learned how to style it and show off the bone structure that was waiting to be discovered.
“You’re back,” I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Still need help?” He pauses in the doorway as if waiting for an invite.
I look around. I’m in the eye of the hurricane and not sure how he’ll navigate the storm. “I may be beyond help. But if you’re offering ...”
“I am,” he says pointedly.
He steps through and hovers beside the seven DVD players stacked in the corner. “Should I ask?”
“Those are relics from Dad’s brief stint volunteering to reproduce piano recital videos.” He bought seven electronics on the precipice of extinction just to support my short-lived run as a terrible musician. “I’m trapped in the graveyard of Dad’s good intentions and short attention span.”
Dad was a super volunteer—scorekeeper for my swim meets, assistant coach for my soccer team, and occasional videographer.
He was messy in many ways, but I could never accuse him of being unsupportive.
Dad fawned over me. But I don’t think he had much faith in me.
I wanted to try soccer? Sure, honey. I wanted to quit after scoring a goal against my own team?
Whatever will make you happy. He didn’t talk to me about failure as an opportunity for resilience.
He didn’t tell me I’d do better next game.
When I brought home straight C’s my freshman year?
I’m sure you tried your best. I was the light of his life, but the shimmer was more disco ball than shooting star.
His greatest wish for me was to be fine. Not great. Fine.
“You could sell them on eBay. There must be a market for collectors.”
“Huh?” I say, losing the thread of the conversation.
“The DVD players.”
I chuckle. “Right.”
Beau steps over an open box, sidesteps a stack of self-help books, and crouches a few feet from me, holding a stainless-steel thermos in his hand. “What can I do?”
I flick my chin toward the growing piles I’ve created to my right. “Storage, donate, dump, recycle.”
He scans the room. It’s still chaos, but I have made some progress. “How do I know which is which?”
“Social Security cards, keep. TV Guide s from 1997, recycle. And if you uncover the truth about my lying parents, let me know.”
“Noted,” he mutters, and gets to work. “Did you tell your friends about your mom?” He spits out “friends” like most people would say “phlegm.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. In their rush to drag me out, I didn’t feel like there was an opening. Besides, Cherry and Simone are friends I escape into, not confide in.
“Is there anyone you can ask for more information? A relative? An old friend from before you moved?”
“Not that I can think of, other than your parents.”
“Why them?” An edge of defensiveness crops up, and I remember we’re not friends—not anymore.
“Do you think my dad told them something? We moved here soon after the accident. He could have let something slip—or confided in them at some point?”
“My parents wouldn’t keep that secret from you.” His posture stiffens, and he stares at me from across the piles.
“My dad did,” I counter.
“Doesn’t mean mine did.”
We sound like we’re on the playground, arguing about whose parents have more integrity. “Fine. Maybe not. He moved here and started over. Perhaps he lied to everyone, even your parents.”
Beau tilts his head to the side, a gesture that is both conciliatory and smug, as if I’ve conceded the point when, really, I want him to tell me I’m wrong.
“Can you imagine my mom being able to keep that secret?”
As annoying as it is to admit it, he’s right. She couldn’t.
I notice Beau’s bare ring finger as he riffles through the paperwork.
He has officially beat me to all milestones—even the unfortunate ones.
Dad sent me YouTube videos of every interview Beau ever did.
He sent me signed copies of his books, Beau’s wedding photos, and a guilt trip for not attending the wedding itself.
I wonder why I didn’t hear about the divorce.
Our parents gossiped and kept us tethered to each other’s lives even when we weren’t on speaking terms ourselves.
When your contemporaries divorce, it has a definitive middle-age feel to it.
It makes me feel older than when my friends were marrying, birthing babies, and buying minivans.
And the thought of Beau going through it makes me melancholy for some reason.
Perhaps it’s lingering fondness for the kid he once was.
“I’m sorry about the divorce,” I say, testing the waters. “I didn’t know.”
He nods but doesn’t look at me, focusing on his task.
“You didn’t mention it yesterday.” I still think it’s strange that he’d neglected to tell me when I asked about her directly.
“Surprisingly, my failed marriage is not my favorite fun fact.”
“Right. Sorry,” I say, deflating at Beau’s harsh tone.
“It’s fine,” he grumbles. I clearly struck a chord, but he’s not turning to leave.
It’s too quiet, so I cue up music—my favorite eclectic playlist. I quickly cycle through two teeming piles of debris. Turns out, progress isn’t twice as fast with two people; it’s exponentially faster.
“Ophelia, what the hell?” Beau points to the Bluetooth speaker.
“What?” I halt mid-toss, so the fishing magazine lands in Beau’s lap, drawing my attention to thighs that are as thick as my torso. He launches the magazine to its final resting place, and I drag my focus away.
“The music.”
“What’s wrong with the Fray?”
“Too many things to list. But the DJ is a bigger problem. You can jump genres or decades, but not both.”
I scoff. “You live by too many rules.” The song transitions.
“No. Just no,” Beau moans.
“You cannot have a problem with Aretha Franklin.” I hum along, which elicits a deeper frown from my cranky companion.
“I don’t. I have a problem with you denigrating legends by shuffling them in with Justin Bieber.
” He takes a sip from the travel mug he brought along.
Black coffee, I presume. I bet Beau is too health conscious for sugar or cream.
Or maybe it’s tea. Probably green tea—the breakfast drink of the morally superior.
I sip my coffee. It’s filled with extra cream and three sugars. Take that, Beau Augustin, with your green tea, antioxidants, and sanctimony. “Don’t hate on the Biebs.”
“You are a sick woman.” He scoops up a neat stack of paperwork to offer to the recycle pile and grumbles again when Aretha finishes her last notes and Taylor Swift throws melodic barbs at her former flames.
“I bet you listen to elevator jazz,” I say.
“I have terrific taste in music, thanks.”
“Of course you do, Beauregard.”
He grunts before mumbling, “You know I hate that name.”
“It’s your name,” I say. “Do you want me to call you Professor?” I wink and drop my voice to a lower register. “Or Dr. Augustin?”
“Just ... call me Beau,” he says, but his cheeks pink.
“As you wish.” I set a stack of loan documents aside to review later.
“And watch the snark. I’m helping you.” Beau doesn’t look up at me while rummaging through what looks like furniture catalogs.
I nudge his foot with mine. “Did your mom send you back?”
“No.” He glances out the window and taps his thigh, which is his nervous tic.
I study him. “I just found out my dad lied to me for thirty years. So my bullshit meter is on high. I want the truth, Beau.”
He bites his bottom lip. “I came over because ... I know you don’t believe this, but I know a bit about what you’re going through.”
I tilt my head and watch him, but I still can’t get a good read. “How?”
“Well ...” He pauses for a beat before looking away. “My—” He starts, stops, clears his throat, and then spits out in a rush, “I’m writing a book on deceit.”
“Wait,” I say, anxiety and anger mixing as I recalibrate why he’s here. Not as an old friend, but as a researcher? Not as someone who once held my earliest secrets, but as someone who wants to capitalize on my most recent one? “Are you trying to use me as content for your next bestseller?”
“No,” he says. “Of course not. I meant I’ve heard stories like yours—in my research. And I thought I could help.”
“Other people have found out their dead parent is alive right after their lying parent died?” I’m disappointed I misjudged his intentions and feel like I’m under a microscope—a human subject being studied for strange family trauma.
“Well, no ...” he stammers. “But I have stories of women lying about their children’s paternity.
Men with multiple families whose adult children collide years later.
Parents who kidnapped their kids to protect them from an abusive parent.
And all the people caught in their wake struggling to understand. ”
I stare him down but feel my anger burn out—there isn’t enough air between my emotions for any of them to smolder too long. “That doesn’t sound like a history book,” I say.
“It evolved from a project I chaired last year.” He straightens his posture, adjusts his glasses, and settles into professor mode.
I envision him behind a podium with elbow patches and an ink stain on his breast pocket.
“We captured oral histories from everyday people and noticed a theme—folks using it as a confessional. The book is a detour for me, but not as much as it may seem. Lies can change history—or our perception of it. Imagine if FDR hadn’t lied about his disability or if JFK hadn’t lied about his health.
The entire twentieth century could have unfolded differently.
Half of what we think we understand is fabricated—which can change the study of history itself. ”
I look away, absorbing his admission. “You want me to be a research subject—a lab rat?”
“Of course not. You’re not ... I wasn’t ... Forget it. I was just trying to help.” He sighs.
“How?” I challenge.
“Well, I can’t help until you figure out what you want.” Beau folds his arms across his broad chest and bites his bottom lip. His focus is thrown over my shoulder at the bare wall, but then he returns it like a laser beam. “So what do you want, Ophelia?”
Get right to the fucking point, why don’t you, Beau. “The truth.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Not at all.
“Well, that I can help with.”