Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
The flight was almost two hours. I was tired as hell, but I still didn’t get a wink of sleep—too much adrenaline in my body.
When we landed, I grabbed my bag and got into a taxi, giving the driver the address from the note that Dorothy had given me.
Now I’m here, sitting on these worn taxi seats.
The roads we’re traveling on are windy, and the car bounces over potholes while I look out the window at the snow-covered Montana countryside and the white hills in the distance. It must have snowed last night.
I find myself jiggling my feet and chewing my thumbnail, two gestures that I repeat in a nearly mechanical fashion. Neurotic. The taxi driver glances at me several times through the rearview mirror, his forehead wrinkling. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me.
“We’ll be there in just a few minutes, miss.
” He smiles at me, probably thinking to reassure me, but my heart only beats more wildly as he says it.
There’s a roaring in my head. I haven’t seen or heard from my father in more than three years.
And he certainly isn’t expecting to see me now.
I’m insanely afraid of what might happen, and I’m starting to think it wasn’t such a good idea to come out here.
The driver stops at the entrance to a private road bordering a series of town houses all decorated for Christmas. He explains to me that the address on the paper is on this street but that, because the area is restricted to residents, he has to leave me here. I pay the fare and get out of the car.
I drop my bag on the ground, raising a puff of snow that settles on my Converse, dampening them immediately. Maybe wearing canvas shoes wasn’t my brightest idea. But I don’t pay it much mind; I’m too busy staring around in bewilderment.
Despite being the largest city in the state, here on the outskirts of Billings, the air feels clean, and the sun warms my face even if the wind is biting.
I look up at the sky, an almost blinding blue that is only accentuated by the blanket of snow on the ground.
I shut my eyes for a few seconds and inhale deeply; the air smells like winter and sunshine.
Okay, I’m here. I can do this.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and set off.
The street is wide and deserted. I walk along for a few feet, listening to the sound of snow crunching beneath my shoes until I find a mailbox in front of one house with the words Turner and Clark written on it.
My heart begins to pound in my chest again.
This is the one. This is his house.
There’s a little snowman standing in the front yard, with a carrot for a nose, two chestnuts for eyes, a little wool hat on top, and branches for arms with a child’s gloves stuck on the ends.
I realize, with a pang in my heart, that my father probably made that snowman with his son. The son for whom he shoved me aside.
I’ve just ginned up my courage and walked toward the house when a disheveled gray cat hurls itself at my feet, purring against the toes of my shoes.
A tiny smile escapes me as I crouch down.
“Hey little guy, where’d you come from? Aren’t you getting cold just hanging around out here?
” I scratch him under the chin, and he seems to really appreciate it.
He lingers there, his belly bared to the air and his eyes closed, just rubbing his head against my shoe.
“Are you lost?” I check to see if there’s a collar around his neck, but I don’t spot anything.
I guess he’s a stray. I pet him for a few minutes, just observing the house in front of me.
The porch is decorated with strings of lights, which are already on even though it’s broad daylight.
There’s a back patio that looks immaculate, and a well-tended garden.
A child’s toys are scattered around in the snow.
My head throbs at the idea that this child is my brother.
The last memory I have of him is from one afternoon in the late autumn when I was at my father’s house.
Dad had gone to take a work call, and Bethany and I were left alone in the kitchen.
Even though we weren’t speaking to each other, I offered to help watch little Liam if she had work to do as well.
That particular afternoon, the baby kept tugging on the hem of my jeans to get my attention.
I barely had time to pick him up, intending to put him in his high chair, when Bethany shoved me aside and took over, glaring angrily at me.
I got the message loud and clear: I wasn’t to touch the baby.
Liam stared up at me with big bewildered eyes while he gummed his fingers with the kind of innocence that only children have.
I was so hurt by the rejection that I just grabbed my things and ran out so I wouldn’t burst into tears right in front of her.
I was only fifteen and trying to be accepted, an effort that she always nipped in the bud.
I snap out of those thoughts with a shrug. I look down at the cat and smile again. “I really do have go, you know?” I stand up, and he stretches before jumping up onto a large rock nearby and posing there like he’s trying to sunbathe.
I, on the other hand, take a huge breath and approach the door. I hesitate a moment before I ring the doorbell. What if she opens the door? She’ll probably chase me off, and my journey here will have all been for nothing.
Anxiety eating away at me, I put my ear to the door in an attempt to try to listen for my father’s voice on the other side.
There’s a bit of confusion, but I think I hear both voices, albeit muffled.
Enough of this. Without overthinking it, I reach out and ring the bell.
Then I step back immediately, like the doorbell has shocked me.
The wait lasts a couple of minutes, and I feel like I’m dying the entire time.
I rub my palms on my jeans, chewing aggressively on the corners of my lips. Then, I hear the sound of heavy footsteps drawing closer and closer, and there’s suddenly a part of me that feels a strong urge to flee. The other parts, however, are practically imploding with the need to see who it is.
Then the door opens, and my father appears in the doorway.
For a second, I can’t breathe. He seems bewildered.
I know I’ve changed since he saw me last. I was smaller; my hair was still my natural color and a lot longer than it is now.
Plus, I’m sure that of all the people in the world, I’m the last one he expected to find on his doorstep.
The moment he registers that the face in front of him belongs to his daughter, he grabs onto the doorjamb like he’s about to faint.
“Vanessa…” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
“In the flesh,” I breathe.
“What…what are you doing here?” I watch him swallow hard.
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” I babble through an arid throat, wringing my hands. “I thought it was time that I pay you a visit.”
The shock on his face slowly turns into a frown. He sticks his head out the door, checking down one side of the street and then the other. “You’re alone?”
I nod.
“How did you get this address?” he asks, even more shocked.
“Mrs. Gorman. The woman who lives in your old house,” I stammer, wondering why he didn’t invite me inside. He didn’t ask how I was either. Or any one of the many goddamned things you should ask your daughter who you haven’t seen in three and half years.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?” I prod him hesitantly.
He rubs his forehead, and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s struggling. Maybe he’s even embarrassed.
“Look, this isn’t a good time,” he whispers, casting several glances over his shoulder. Probably worried that Bethany’s going to spot me. “If you had called or told me you were coming, I could have—”
I interrupt him, scowling. “How?”
He looks at me like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “What?”
“How could I have possibly told you? I haven’t heard from you in years. And your old phone number hasn’t worked since you left.”
He rubs his thumb along his eyebrow, thicker and whiter now.
Just like his hair, which is thinning a bit at the temples.
In all other respects, he looks like the man I remember, the one who was my hero.
Maybe with a few more wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.
Broad shoulders, a bit of a belly, and his usual casual clothes: a flannel shirt and worn, baggy jeans.
Yet, I can’t feel that bond that once tied us together—that made us inseparable.
My father opens his mouth to answer me, but Bethany gets there first, her disembodied voice making him jump. “Peter, who’s at the door?”
He turns suddenly and, breathing rapidly, answers, “Uh, um, no one, sweetie. Just the neighborhood kids asking me to help shovel.” Then he steps out, quickly shutting the door behind him.
“The neighborhood kids?” I repeat to myself, disturbed. I’m his daughter. The daughter who he abandoned without looking back. The daughter he seems to have forgotten about entirely. I came hundreds of miles to see him, and he’s hiding me from her like I’m some kind of monster.
I can’t believe it. It feels like I’ve traveled back in time. Back to when he walked out and picked that woman over me. And even though I’m older now, it hurts just like it did the first time.
I stare down at my snow-sodden Converse, feeling like a fool for hoping that this encounter would go any other way.
For hoping that he might welcome me with open arms. Or that he might be even a little happy to see me again after all this time.
For a moment, I even stupidly deluded myself into imagining that he was behind the anonymous check sent to pay for my tuition.
I let myself be tricked by the fantasy that, despite all this time and distance, he still wanted to be around me.
“I pictured this differently.” Now my voice is a barely audible murmur.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”