“Puppy-Monkey-Zombie-Baby?”
“Nadine showed us that one.”
“Right. Forgot.”
Maggie clanged her spoon against the side of her plate.
“What if Zombie Baby became a Super Bowl commercial?” Thomas said.
“What if Zombie Baby became a Super Bowl commercial with Betty White?” added Savannah.
“That would be awesome.”
“I could finally die happy.”
Maggie clapped her hands—one, two. She waited, then clapped again—one, two, three. They finally looked at her.
“The two of you will be eighteen in less than six months. And it’s gotten me thinking about our recent discussion.” She paused to ensure she still had their attention. “Legally, once you hit adulthood, you can do whatever you like about your father. So, I want you both to know that I’m behind you. One hundred percent. Whether you start your search now, or in six months, or six years.”
It hadn’t been an easy decision to come to. But ultimately, Maggie believed her most important job as guardian was to help Savannah and Thomas grow into confident, independent adults. To fix them with all the skills they needed, and then get out of the way. But this puzzle before them, of from where they came and from whom, was never going to disappear. It was a house of cards built on existential questions. Questions of genetics. Of connection, similarity, difference. Questions of missing pieces, and about the people who held them.
Questions they would ask, regardless.
She really didn’t have any choice.
Thomas and Savannah exchanged glances, a sign of something they weren’t telling her.
What now?
“Well—” Savannah looked at Thomas, who raised a single eyebrow, reminding Maggie of Savannah’s truly impressive ability to read the myriad subtleties of her brother’s nods and shrugs and blinks. “We weren’t sure whether to bring this up yet or not.”
Thomas slid a sheet of paper across the table.
“We got this email through the Dinner Salon website.”
Maggie picked it up and read.
Dear Thomas and Savannah,
My name’s Sam Tamblin and I’m the cofounder of Guava Media. I listened to your most recent episode. I’ll admit, it was Zombie Baby that got my attention, but I’m also intrigued by your desire to find your biological father. I’d like to help you. I want to make sure you find him.
As I write this, Guava Media is producing eight medium-busting shows with more in the works. I want to talk the two of you into conducting your search with us via podcast. You have just the sort of story we’re looking for.
If you’re intrigued, reach out. My details are below. Let’s call this email a small beginning to a huge success.
Regards,
Sam Tamblin
Creator and Producer, It’s Only Murder and Sex Upended
Guava Media
“That’s quite an offer.” Maggie took a breath to buy herself time to think. She’d accepted the risks of searching for a man who could exist anywhere on the human spectrum between Warren Buffett and Harvey Weinstein. But this letter suggested they do their search in public. That was an entirely different equation.
Maggie tried to circle her thoughts around this new set of hazards. If the past two weeks had shown her anything, it was just how quickly the trivial could explode into a phenomenon. Her dilemma, however, remained fundamental. Today, her grandchildren were minors and still under her care, but in six months they’d be free to do as they pleased. Today, at least, she could simultaneously influence and encourage their independence.
“Are you interested in the producer’s offer?” she finally said.
Thomas held up a finger, his mouth full of Chef Bart’s dinner. Maggie looked to Savannah for an answer.
“Kind of. We’ve talked about it.”
“But?” Maggie prodded.
“Well, for starters, I looked into this Sam Tamblin guy and there’s not much information available. The only real information we have to go on is the success of Guava Media. Which I have to admit is pretty impressive.”
Savannah paused to exchange glances with Thomas. “On the flip side, though, it feels like we might be betraying Mom.”
“Like she’d be hurt that we’re going against her wishes or something,” Thomas added.
Maggie knew the conundrum all too well.
The table went quiet for a bit, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Maggie knew there were risks to the proposal before them. Plenty. But, in what context should they be evaluated? On the one hand, looking for a biological father was a very private subject, a question of who their mother had slept with and when. But on the other hand, Thomas and Savannah couldn’t find him on their own. They needed all the information they could get, and that would only come from reaching out.
And what about the publicity of it all? If Zombie Baby had gone viral, who knew what else could happen. Then again, they’d hosted the McClair Dinner Salon for a year and still had only three hundred regular listeners. Zombie Baby was hot now, but she doubted it would prove to be much more than a blip. Certainly, no guarantee that their new podcast would garner the same attention.
Tell me, she pleaded with Bess. Tell me what to do.
Bess didn’t answer.
Savannah broke the room’s silence. “What sort of producer uses a phrase like ‘medium-busting,’ though? Sounds iffy.”
“He’s probably a millennial.” Thomas scooped a mound of crab stuffing onto his fork. “He produces podcasts—that’s mostly a millennial thing, right? I bet he’s twenty-five years old, tops. Probably has a beard, too.”
He held his plate out to Savannah. “If you’re not going to eat your crab, load me up.”
“If I can have your fish.”
“Deal.”
“And his flagship podcast,” Savannah went on. “It’s Only Murder? Seriously. It’s only murder on the ears. Have you heard it? That host has a major case of vocal fry.”
“True,” said Thomas. “But then again, the show averages a half-million downloads per episode. Pretty impressive.”
“What is vocal fry?” Maggie interjected.
“It’s the term internet trolls have given to people who let their voices slip to the back of their throat,” Thomas explained. “It makes the sound sort of crackle. Like they’re sitting on their vocal cords instead of projecting through them.”
Savannah demonstrated. “I’m an internet troll and I can’t use my brain to think for myself.”