3. Stan
Chapter three
Stan
The beer in front of me is still untouched. My focus is on the ancestry documents confirming my fatherhood. I still can’t believe it. Just two years ago, I was working on a short film that made me a rising star. Now I’m about to make another name for myself, the one of fatherhood.
I finally take a swig from the bottle.
“The pizza is so good!” my teenage daughter shouts, pulling my attention away from the paperwork.
The pizza finally came, and we’re sitting together at the kitchen table. Ruth’s scarfing it down like it’s nothing. She gulps down the bottle of Coke, then stuffs her face again.
Sensing my stare, she pauses her meal. “Sorry.” She points to a slice. “You haven’t had any.”
“I’ll eat when you’re done,” I say as politely as I can.
“No, don’t do that,” she says, waving the slice at me. “Please.”
I don’t get this kid. One minute she’s polite as can be, the next she’s a sharp-tongued potty-mouth. With a sigh, I take a slice and bite into it, though I don’t really taste anything. There’s something I want to say, but I don’t know how.
“So, where is your mom?” I ask. “And why did you choose to come here now?”
Ruth doesn’t say anything right away, just keeps her eyes trained on me, chewing her food slowly. She takes another gulp of Coke. “I… Mom… she’s not doin g so good.”
“What happened?”
“Well, my dad—not you, the one she married—they had been having a shaky relationship,” she starts to say. “They were fine together a few years ago, but I guess he started cheating or something. She got into a big fight with him, and he left in a rage. Then he got in a car accident.”
“I… I’m sorry.”
Ruth nods, her eyes on the pizza. “He was a good dad, though. He knew I wasn’t his, but he still treated me right. I didn’t like the fights, and I felt like I had to take sides. I was disappointed in the cheating, but… he was still a good guy. Then he died, and Mom has been blaming herself. Because of the fight that led to the accident.”
Sounds like Catherine, all right. If there was something I didn’t like about her, it was how she always blamed herself for others’ shortcomings.
“It’s been five years, and she’s been slipping. Clinically depressed. We’ve been struggling, too. Financially and all,” she adds. “I finally convinced her to tell me if my biological father was alive. Then I tracked you down.”
“Does she know you’re here?” My eyes narrow at Ruth.
“No,” she answers hesitantly. “The neighbors have been talking, and I know CPS might come to take me away while she gets help. Her health’s getting worse. She’s not been working… there’s debt… I…” She trails off with a sigh.
I look at her, and the arrogant teenager who showed up at my front door looks like a little kid now. Her shoulders are shaking, and she’s trying her best to hold back tears.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t have any other idea what to do.” Her voice trembles as she tries hard not to cry. “I don’t want to be in the foster care system.”
I take a deep breath and get to my feet. Picking up my car keys, I turn to her. “Let’s go.”
Ruth looks at me, defeated. She doesn’t resist, though, just wipes her palm on her hoodie and picks up her backpack.
I pick up her duffel bag, and we head out to my car.
The drive to Catherine’s place takes two hours. I’m worried about all the effort Ruth put in to make the trip to my place. She must have taken a couple of buses and then walked to my house with her two bags. Still, I can’t help but admire her for it.
We pull into Catherine’s driveway. The house looks devoid of life, except for the woman sitting on the porch, her face buried in her hands. She hears the car approach and lifts her face to observe us. When we step out of the vehicle, her eyes land on Ruth, and she races over to her.
“What were you thinking?” Catherine demands. “Where were you?” She grabs Ruth’s shoulders and shakes her violently. “Why…” Her eyes finally dart to me. “Stan?”
Her voice sounds familiar, but the face is a far cry from the Catherine I knew.
“Cat?” I ask hesitantly.
She nods and pulls Ruth closer. “I’m… did you find her for me?”
“More like she found me.”
“Ruth! I told you not to.”
“Mom, we need help,” Ruth says quietly.
“I told you I’d figure it out,” Catherine responds before launching into a serious coughing fit. “I just… I just need more time.”
Looks like Ruth wasn’t kidding. The Catherine I knew was a bright, bubbly girl and had way more meat on her bones compared to what I’m looking at now. She looks sick, with the bags under her eyes, the stench of alcohol wafting from her, her cough, and her weak frame. She really does need help.
“Go back into the house,” Catherine orders her daughter.
“But—” Ruth protests.
“Now.”
Ruth doesn’t fight back. She takes her duffel bag from my car and returns to the house without turning to look at any of us .
“I’m sorry about this,” Catherine says to me as she pushes the hair out of her face. “I don’t know what she was thinking.”
I stare at her intently. “She’s mine?”
Catherine stares at me and nods.
I let out a sigh and rub my neck. “Why didn’t you tell me or reach out to me? We were—”
“We were a summer fling, nothing more. You know that,” she cuts me off. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, but I had it covered.”
“Had?”
“Thank you for bringing her back,” she says, ignoring my question. “Want to come in for a minute?”
“I didn’t come to bring her back,” I explain. “I wanted to see her living conditions. She told me she’s going to be taken by the state.”
Catherine winces and takes a step back. “Please don’t call them.”
“I’m not going to,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m taking her. She’s my responsibility, too. And I’ll send you some money. Think of it as years of child support I missed out on.”
Catherine shakes her head. “You don’t have to… I can…”
“Cat, you need help,” I insist. “Let me help. I’ll get you into rehab, the best one I can find in the state. You’re slipping.”
She looks defeated, eyes unable to meet mine.
“Ruth didn’t run away from home. She came seeking help,” I say, trying to convince her. “Just let me help. Let me be a part of my daughter’s life.”
She hugs herself, rubbing her arms. “I don’t know.”
“Say yes.”
She sniffles and wipes her face. “I got an eviction notice this evening, and I couldn’t find Ruth. I was thinking of going to my parents’ place with her.”
“You can go, at least until I can find a rehab clinic. Ruth will stay with me in Rose Haven. Okay?”
Catherine stays silent for a moment. “Okay,” she finally says .
“Good.” I grin. “What’s for dinner? The little gremlin ate all the pizza I ordered.”
“I made some mac and cheese,” she says with a smile, leading me into the house.
“You’re still here?” Ruth asks me when we come in. She’s on the couch, watching TV.
“I told you to go to your room,” Catherine chides.
“I didn’t want you to go to bed still mad at me,” Ruth whispers.
Catherine throws up her hands. “You’re…” She trails off, exchanging an awkward glance with me, and then with our daughter. “Never mind.” She excuses herself to get the mac and cheese.
I know what she was about to say. You’re just like your father. I may be foul-mouthed at times and act out of line, but I also hate going to bed with someone angry at me.
“Why are you still here?” Ruth asks me sullenly, eyes trained on the TV.
“I’m spending the night here,” I say with a shrug, taking a seat on the couch next to her.
“You could just go home.”
“Unlike you, I have a sense of adventure,” I tease. “And I’m not sure I want to spend another two-hour trip back with you at this hour.”
She tilts her head in confusion. “With me?”
I nod. “I’m taking you in.”
Shock comes over her face, but she recovers quickly, shaking her head and switching to an indifferent tone. “Because you feel pity for me.”
“That, and,” I scratch my chin, “you’re my daughter.”
The indifferent look on her face vanishes, and she gets to her feet. “Well, I’m feeling exhausted. I need to go to bed. I’m sure Mom can have you sleep on the couch.”
But as she leaves the living room, I see a smile tug at the corner of her lips. To my surprise, it warms my heart.
“Goodnight, Mom,” Ruth says. “Goodnight, Stan.”
“Goodnight, baby,” Catherine says as she appears with a plate of steaming-hot mac and cheese and a bottle of beer.
“Goodnight, Ruth,” I tell the teenager as I accept the plate from Cat .
Catherine takes a seat next to me. “I still can’t believe she left like that. I was so worried when I couldn’t find her.”
“That’s not from my end of the DNA,” I joke. “I’m not that reckless.”
“Says the man who’s popularly known as the failed success.” She grins, taking a jab at my history as a film producer.
“No fair,” I chuckle before taking a bite of the meal. It’s simple but delicious.
“Your father,” Catherine says. “What will he think of Ruth?”
That’s right. I have to tell my parents. But it doesn’t have to be now. I know my father would be supportive, and so would my mom and sister. I’m more worried about the public’s opinion, and the effect it could have on Ruth. As I’ve gotten more famous, the Hollywood PR machine has portrayed me as the hot new producer everyone wants to work with. If they find out I have a long-lost daughter, there’s no telling how ruthless they might be.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” I reply.