Chapter Thirty-two
Ellie has a gun.
And we’re going to see Lucinda.
It’s no surprise I haven’t slept much at all the last two nights.
I mean, it makes sense, I suppose, El being from the city and all. But to get it out and draw it just because I told her someone knocked on her door?
Something doesn’t add up.
I’m stalling getting out of bed and I know exactly why. I’ve been dreading this day since Lucinda sent me the text Friday night. There’s no way to tell Maisy where we’re going and who we’re going to see. I have no pictures of Lucinda. What if we walk in the place and Maisy sees her and runs away in fear?
On the other hand, what if she sees her and runs to her?
My hand works my jaw as I contemplate which of the two scenarios scares me more.
Light blinds me for a second. Then weight shifts on my bed as Maisy crawls into it. I can’t help my smile. It may have taken well over a month and an errant cockroach on the wall by her bed, but last week after she ran into my room to escape the bug, we had our first father/daughter snuggle. Ever since, she’s come into my room each morning, Bolt in her arms, and the three of us cuddle until someone’s stomach growls. Today it’s mine.
“Hungry?” I sign.
She nods.
“What do you want?”
She does the sign for pancake.
“You help,” I sign.
She scurries out of the room ahead of me, Bolt on her heels. By the time I hit the bathroom and get to the kitchen, she has the box of pancake mix, a spoon, and a bowl all ready to go. Maisy is a good helper. I shove the suspicion from my mind that she’s a good helper because she had to do so much for herself.
Ten minutes later, the kitchen island is a mess with powder and stray dollops of batter, and hot pancakes are steaming on a platter—two smiley faced ones for her and two snowman ones for me.
The faces on hers are remarkably crooked. She has learned how to drizzle batter for eyes and a smile. The ones she made today look more like Hannibal Lecter than emojis.
She giggles as I slip the creations onto her plate.
Maisy’s giggle has become one of my reasons for living. She can’t even hear it and has no idea what it does to my heart.
She dips a sliced banana into the syrup. The syrup drips off, leaving a trail of sticky dots on the table in front of her. I dab a finger on one of the drips then touch it to her nose. Then I dab another and touch it to her cheeks. She wipes her face, making it one big sticky mess. I laugh, wet a napkin, and get on my knees next to her, wiping her clean.
She smiles, dabs her finger in the sole remaining drip of syrup, then smears it on my nose and cheeks.
I wipe the tip of my nose then lick my finger, making a silly face afterward.
She giggles again. Then she does something that changes my world. She points to herself then crosses her arms over her chest then points to me.
My heart fucking stops. She signed “I love you.”
Tears come to my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away, not wanting her to misread my reaction. I’ve been signing the words to her for a week, even though I’m not sure she knows what they mean.
I love youcan be signed in different ways. I chose the ‘me love you’ way which has me pointing to myself, crossing my arms over my heart, then pointing at her. The ILY sign that is a combination of the three letters just doesn’t seem as emotional and expressive, and I need her to know that I don’t just love her casually, I love her fiercely. And forever.
I think I smile so big, my face just might split in two.
As I take in her delighted reaction to my expression, it dawns on me that her eyes are no longer dark and distant. Hell, they’re almost sparkling. There’s been a fundamental shift in both of us with her declaration. I feel like we’ve turned a corner and there’s no going back. And my heart has never been so full.
“I love you,” I sign emphatically, then pull her in for a hug, knowing no truer words have ever been signed. “I love you so fucking much,” I whisper, nestling her against me.
As she rests her head on my shoulder, her arms wrapped around my neck, I wonder why in the hell I’m about to put someone I love in a position to see Lucinda if I don’t even know if she wants to.
Pulling back slightly, I try to hide the change in my mood from her.
“Let’s clean up,” I sign, dreading how this day may turn out.
~ ~ ~
“Change of plans,” I tell Ellie, when she arrives a few hours later. “Can you watch Maisy?”
“Why?”
“I’m going alone.”
Ellie’s eyebrows knit together.
Me: You’re always telling me to let Maisy help decide what’s best for her. I know nothing about Lucinda. What if she’s Mommy Dearest? I can’t do that to Maisy. So until we can have a conversation about it and I know where she stands, I’m not going to put Maisy in a position to be scared or hurt or even just confused. But I’m going. I have questions for Lucinda. Lots of them.
Ellie looks at me like a proud mother.
Ellie: Wow… you’ve come a long way from the man who I accused of neglect.
Me: You have no idea. We had a breakthrough today. She did a new sign.
“Which one?”
I consider showing her, but then think of who’s standing in front of me. When I sign ‘I love you’ to Ellie, it’s damn well going to be because I’m saying it to her.
Aaaaaand why haven’t you done that yet?
Me: She told me she loves me.
Ellie’s hand covers her heart, her eyes becoming glassy as she smiles as brightly as I did.
Maisy runs out, dressed for the day, sees Ellie, and squeals.
Ellie signs, “You and me play?”
Maisy thinks on it, walks to the dining room table, peruses the drawings until she finds what she’s looking for, and brings it over. She holds out a picture I drew of the park near McQuaid Circle, complete with the playground.
Ellie signs, “You want to go to the playground?” She shows us the sign for playground then points to the one in the picture.
Maisy signs, “Yes,” then grabs my hand and tries pulling me toward the door.
When I resist, she looks up. “Just you and Ellie,” I say as I point to myself and shake my head.
I’m not sure if she understands, because it’s always been the three of us. This is the first time they’re going on an outing without me.
But my smart and trusting daughter simply blows me a kiss then takes Ellie’s hand and drags her to the door.
I get out my keys, take the house key off the ring and hand it to Ellie before they’re out the door.
“Good luck,” she signs.
~ ~ ~
Ninety minutes later, I’m walking up to the rehab center. I hesitate before going inside, debating why I’m even here. Wondering if she’ll even tell me the things I need to know, while at the same time feeling terrified of hearing them if she does.
I’m aware that one of the steps in addiction recovery is to make amends. Is that what she’s trying to do? Or was she simply strongarmed by her therapist into summoning us here?
After checking in at the front desk and being issued a visitor name tag, I’m escorted through the building and out back to a courtyard. There are quite a few groups of people occupying the various seating areas. I scan the faces, wondering if I’d even recognize Lucinda after all these years.
“Ms. Wilcox is over there,” the staffer says, pointing to a woman seated by a fountain of water cascading into a koi pond.
“Thanks.”
The guy nods before he turns to go back inside.
Lucinda doesn’t see me. She’s working her hands anxiously, wringing them over and over as her left knee bounces up and down.
She’s clearly nervous.
I’m also stricken by how thin she is. Then again, drugs can do that to a person.
When she looks up and sees me, I almost gasp. Her eyes are sunken. Her face gaunt. She’s pale, her skin almost yellow. She immediately looks behind me, surely scanning the area for Maisy.
“Where is she?”
“Where is she?”I bark. “That’s all you have to say? Are you fucking kidding me? Do you even know what I’ve gone through these past few months?”
Seeing her this way, her body screaming with the evidence of years of drug use, has me seething even more. I lose all sense of self control and everything that’s been percolating inside me comes spewing out.
“You almost ruined her. What in the hell did you do, keep her locked up in your apartment because you were ashamed of her? Why didn’t you get her checked out by a doctor? Why didn’t you learn how to communicate with your own daughter? And why in God’s name didn’t you try to find out who her fucking father was? Look at you, Lucinda. You’re a pathetic excuse for a human. People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have children.”
Lucinda’s face is stoic, which somehow pisses me off even more.
“If you think you can do all the shit you did to Maisy, dump her on me, go to rehab for a few months, then get her back, you’d better think again. Because guess what? Despite your criminal neglect of her, she’s thriving. She’s going to school. She’s learning how to sign. She’s fucking happy. For the first time in her miserable life, she’s happy. She calls me Dad, for Christ sake. Tell me, Lucinda, did she ever once call you Mom? And you wanted me to bring her here? You look like death warmed over. You’d have only scared her. Thank God I left her at home.”
I’m not swayed in the least when her eyes become misty. She doesn’t deserve my pity. “Oh, you’re sad,” I say, laughing incredulously. “You want me to feel sorry for you after what you did to her?” I throw up my hands, completely exasperated. “Jesus, why did I even come?” Then I remember why. For answers. So instead of spinning around and walking out after saying my piece, I sit and stare daggers. “Do you have anything to say?”
“I’m dying.”
Ah, shit.Of all the things I thought she’d say, and all the excuses I was sure she’d spout; this was definitely not what I was expecting. “You’re… dying?”
She nods. “It’s amazing what clarity is brought to your life knowing you’re going to die.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But did you really think having Maisy see you like this would be good for her? Or are you just wanting to make amends so she doesn’t forever remember you as the monster you were?”
My words are harsh, I know. But being sick doesn’t excuse her past actions.
“I guess it was a bad idea. It’s one of the steps.”
“Maybe normally it would be. But nothing about this situation is normal. Maisy didn’t even know her name. She didn’t even know people had names. She didn’t know one goddamn thing until she came to live with me. You expect a child like that to understand why she’s been brought here? I mean, you do know she’s deaf, right? How could you not?”
Guilt crosses her face. “I never had her tested. I know it happened because of me. My drug use. I didn’t want to admit it was my fault. Having her tested would mean I’d have to accept the blame. So I chose to ignore it.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I got excited at first. I thought having a baby was going to save me. Be my way out of drugs. It was going to be me and her against the world. The first few months after I had her were amazing. But then she didn’t act like other babies. She didn’t look at me when I came into a room. She didn’t react to sounds. I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe she was autistic or brain damaged. I guess… I guess I didn’t want to know.”
I shake my head in disgust at her selfishness. “If she had gotten early intervention it would have changed everything. She’s doing well, but it’s been a struggle. Every day is a challenge. She’s almost five and we can only have simple conversations. It took a long time for her to adjust. For her to understand I’m her father. How could you have been so goddamn self-centered? What did you think was going to happen to her as she got older?”
“I don’t know!” She covers her face with her hands. “I’m a drug addict, Blake. My number one priority was how and where I was going to score my next high.”
Seething over her admission, my brain is at odds with itself knowing she’s going to die. I’m not a complete jerk, after all. “What’s going on with you?”
“Cancer.” She laughs sadly. “I deserve it after what I’ve done. It’s my punishment.”
Even though I don’t share her view that she’s somehow being punished by the universe, I’m not about to argue with her. I will agree, however, that it’s a good dose of karma.
“Are you really dying or are you just saying that to get sympathy?”
“Do you know anything about stage four pancreatic cancer?”
I don’t know much about cancer, but I’ve heard that’s a really bad one. “Not really.”
“They call it EOPC—early onset pancreatic cancer. I was fifteen when my mom died of the same thing.It was horrible for her at the end. I guess it must have been hereditary. Or maybe it was just fate.”
“They can’t treat it?”
“By the time they found it, it was too late. I missed all the signs. When I was using, the drugs masked the symptoms. And then when I came here, we all assumed the lack of appetite, the weight loss, and the fatigue were all part of withdrawal. Last month, when I wasn’t showing any signs of improvement, I was given a full workup.”
“How long do you have?”
She shrugs. “A few months maybe. It doesn’t really matter. As soon as they kick me out of here I’m going to go out my way.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what you think it does.”
I look around at the expansive gardens. “Why even stay here if you’re going to use again when you leave?”
“Because there’s nothing for me out there,” she says, staring off in the distance. “Here, I have friends for the first time in a long time. Addiction is a lonely disease, Blake, when your primary relationship is with drugs. These people get me. They’re just like me. I’m staying here until my ninety days are up, then I’m going to go out on my own terms. End stage pancreatic cancer is unforgiving. Even if I deserve every bit of pain and suffering. But I can’t go through it. Not after watching what it did to my mom.”
“Wait, you don’t have a mom? Then who hired the PI to find me?”
“My dad and his new trophy wife.”
It almost makes sense now, why they didn’t want Maisy. The guy has a drug addict daughter and a ‘difficult’ grandchild his new young wife probably wanted nothing to do with. I scold myself for being one of those men who lets their cock make decisions for them. Or I used to be anyway.
“Do you… have a picture of her?” She looks guilty for asking.
I hesitate to do anything for this woman. But she is dying. So I get out my phone and scroll through until I find one. It’s now when I realize all of my pictures over the past few months are of Maisy. Her alone. Her and Ellie. Her and Bolt. There are even a few selfies I took of the two of us together. It’s a far cry from what my photo album looked like before Maisy.
I hand over my phone, showing her a picture I took of Maisy in one of her favorite dresses. Lucinda’s hand flies to cover her mouth. “Oh my God. I’ve never seen her look like that.” She touches the photo. “She looks so different. And she looks like you, but with my hair.” She swipes the screen and scrolls through more. “You have a cat? She always carried around an old stuffed cat.”
“I know. It’s why I got her one. She loves him. He’s got a disability.”
Lucinda looks up at me, surprised.
“Don’t look so shocked. Maisy is the one who chose him. She’s an amazing little girl.”
“And she’s… talking?”
“She’s signing. She only knows about two hundred signs at this point. That’s not a lot, but it’s enough to be able to communicate her needs. She’s learning more every day.”
“Two hundred seems like a lot.”
“It’s not. The average four-to-five-year-old will know twenty-five-hundred signs.”
She nods, still scrolling through the phone. She stops and studies a photo of Ellie and Maisy. “Is this your wife?”
“That’s one of Maisy’s teachers.”
She scrolls more. “She looks like more than just a teacher.” She closes her eyes and hands me the phone. “I’m glad she’s with you. She’s where she belongs.”
I scrub a hand across my jaw, knowing I have to ask. “You wanted me to bring her here to say goodbye, didn’t you?”
She looks down at the ground, her eyes focusing on weeds coming through the cracks in the sidewalk. It’s strange for me to have a conversation with someone while not looking into their eyes. Oh, how things have changed.
“That was the plan. But I’m not so sure anymore. I know now that seeing her would only be for me. And I guess I don’t deserve it.”
“If she were older and could understand what’s happening, I’d give her the choice. I’m just worried it might cause a setback. But I’m also worried she’ll hate me later on if I don’t let her say goodbye, even if she doesn’t understand. I mean what would I tell her? I’m not sure what the right answer is.”
“You don’t have to tell her anything. She never loved me. I know she didn’t. All I was to her was someone who provided food and a warm place to sleep. She had a better relationship with the maid my dad hired to clean my apartment once a week. I know what I did. I wasn’t high all the time. I yelled at her as if she could hear. I expected her to understand. I shoved her in front of the television when she was awake. I was the worst kind of mother. And I was selfish to want you to bring her here. I’m nothing to her.”
She picks her phone up from the bench, searching through her own pictures, then texts me one. Finally, I see the resemblance to the woman I hooked up with in college.
“If you ever want to tell her about me, you can show her that picture. But it’s okay if you don’t. The lady in the pictures looks at Maisy as if she could be her mother. Maybe you should let Maisy think she is.”
Jesus, this whole situation is truly fucked up.
“I’d better go,” she says. “I’m really tired and nauseous.”
It’s strange to be looking at someone and think this person won’t be alive soon. What am I supposed to say to her?
I stand. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, no matter what they did.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
I walk away, having no idea what I’m going to tell Maisy. I guess the good thing is, I have time to figure it out.
“Blake?”
I turn and look into her sunken eyes.
“If you do tell her about me one day, tell her I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And, Blake?”
I raise a brow.
“Thank you… for everything.”
I nod and walk away.