Chapter Four
The sound of Mom’s key in the front door wakes me from a fitful doze at my desk. I glance at the clock, she’s been gone for over twelve hours, which either means she actually had legitimate work to do, or she’s been hiding out at the studio to avoid more questions about my father.
Knowing her, it’s probably both.
I close my laptop, where I’ve spent the last hour alternating between staring at Jeremy’s website and researching heart conditions that run in families.
Turns out there are dozens of genetic cardiac issues that could be passed from father to child.
Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy.
Long QT syndrome. All these scary-sounding conditions that might be swimming around in my DNA, waiting to cause problems.
All things I could know about if I had access to my father’s medical history.
All things my mom continues to keep me in the dark about.
I also spent time checking and rechecking my email.
The message I sent to Jeremy last night is still sitting in my sent folder, but there’s no response.
Nothing. Part of me is relieved; what would I even say if he wrote back?
But mostly I’m disappointed. I’d built up this fantasy he’d respond immediately, and he’d been waiting eighteen years for me to reach out.
Clearly, that was naive.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, followed by a soft knock on my door.
“Liv? Can I come in?”
I consider pretending to be asleep, but my light is on and she probably saw it from the driveway. “Yeah.”
Mom pushes open the door, still wearing her work clothes but looking rumpled in a way that suggests she’s been running her hands through her hair. She’s holding a manila envelope in one hand and has the same expression she gets when she’s about to deliver bad news.
“I talked to Mr. Henderson today,” she says, settling on the edge of my bed. “About the permission slip.”
“And?”
“And apparently there was some confusion with the office staff. Your form got mixed in with the substitute teacher applications somehow.” She holds up the envelope. “But it’s sorted out now. You’re back on the trip roster.”
Relief washes over me, followed immediately by suspicion. “Mixed in with substitute teacher applications? How does that even happen?”
“Clerical error. These things happen.” Mom shrugs, but she won’t quite meet my eyes. “The important thing is it’s fixed.”
I study her face, noting the way she’s picking at the envelope’s edge, the way her shoulders are tensed like she’s bracing for impact. Something doesn’t add up.
“Mom, did you actually turn in my permission slip yesterday?”
The question hangs between us. Outside, I can hear the neighbor’s dog barking and the distant hum of traffic on PCH. Normal sounds from a normal evening that feels anything but normal.
“Of course I did,” she says, but there’s something in her voice that makes my stomach clench. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because Mr. Henderson specifically said he didn’t have it. Because the main office didn’t have it. Because it mysteriously appeared today after you spent all day ‘fixing’ the problem.”
“Olivia.”
“Did you forget to turn it in and then spend today making phone calls to cover it up?”
The silence stretches too long. Mom opens her mouth, closes it, then looks down at her hands.
“I had a lot on my mind yesterday,” she says finally. “With the client meetings and the studio rent increase and…yes. I forgot to turn it in. But I fixed it.”
The admission should make me feel better. At least she’s finally telling the truth about something. But instead, it makes me angrier.
“You lied to me. You said you definitely turned it in, and it must be the school’s mistake.”
“I was embarrassed.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it. Her chin dip as he fumbles thumb at a chip in her nail polish.
“You were covering your ass.” The words come out harsher than I intended, but I don’t take them back. “Do you have any idea how it felt to sit in Mr. Henderson’s office while he told me I couldn’t go on the trip because my own mother couldn’t be bothered to remember one simple thing?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?” I stand up, needing the height advantage. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve been so busy keeping secrets about my father that you can’t even handle basic parenting responsibilities.”
Mom’s face goes pale. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that I’m eighteen years old and I don’t know anything about half my genetic makeup?
Is it fair that I found out my father’s name by accidentally seeing my birth certificate?
Is it fair that you’ve been lying to me my entire life about where I come from? ”
“I was protecting you.”
“From what?” I’m fully yelling now, all the frustration and anger from the last few days pouring out at once.
“From knowing that my father is apparently a successful businessman who runs an electrical company? From knowing that he’s not some deadbeat who abandoned us but someone who might actually want to know me? ”
Mom stands up abruptly, her face flushed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Because you won’t tell me!” I grab my laptop and open it, pulling up Jeremy’s website. “Here. Jeremy Cole Kline, Kline Electric. Family owned and operated. Glowing customer reviews. Looks like a pretty decent guy to me.”
Her eyes widen as she sees the screen. “Where did you—how did you—”
“I looked him up. Because I’m eighteen years old and I have the right to know who my father is.” I click on the family photo, and her face crumbles when she sees it. “And apparently, I have the right to know about my half sister too.”
The laptop slips from her hands, and she sinks back onto the bed like her legs won’t hold her anymore.
“Emma,” she whispers.
“You knew.” It’s not a question. “You knew about her, and you still kept it from me.”
Her hands are shaking now, and when she looks up at me, tears fill her eyes. “Liv, there are things about that situation, about your father, that you don’t understand.”
“Then explain them to me.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I mean I can’t.” Her voice breaks on the words. “Some stories…some stories are too painful to tell.”
For a moment, seeing her so broken, I almost back down. Almost apologize for pushing too hard and let her keep her secrets. But then I think about Derek’s words from earlier: You’re allowed to be pissed off that the people who are supposed to take care of you keep letting you down.
“I need to know,” I say quietly. “About him. About Emma. About why you’ve spent eighteen years lying to me about my own family.”
Mom wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s not lying. It’s protecting.”
“Same thing from where I’m standing.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the laptop screen where Jeremy’s family photo is still visible. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“He hurt me. In ways that…in ways I’m still healing from. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him hurting you too.”
“How did he hurt you?”
“I’ll tell you everything. But not tonight. I need… I need time to figure out how to say it.”
It’s not the answer I want, but it’s more than she’s ever given me before. And something in her expression tells me that pushing harder right now would be cruel.
“How much time?”
“This weekend. Saturday morning. I promise.”
I want to demand answers now, and I want to threaten to call Jeremy myself if she doesn’t start talking. But Mom looks so fragile sitting there, clutching that manila envelope like it’s the only thing keeping her together.
“Okay,” I say. “Saturday morning. But if you change your mind, if you try to back out or make excuses, I’m calling him myself.”
Actually, I already tried that. Maybe she’s right about him not wanting anything to do with us.
She nods, fresh tears spilling over. “I understand.”
She starts to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “I know I’ve messed up. I know I’ve kept too much from you. But everything I’ve done, every choice I’ve made, has been because I love you more than anything in this world.”
“I know,” I say, and I do know. But love isn’t always enough to make the right choices. Sometimes love makes you so scared of losing someone that you end up pushing them away instead.
After she’s gone, I curl up on my bed. I check my email one more time, hoping maybe Jeremy responded while Mom and I were fighting. But there’s nothing. Just the silence that’s been surrounding my father’s existence my entire life.