He had really turned over a new leaf when we left Boulder. I wasn’t entirely sure what had happened but part of me suspected that his drinking problem hadn’t gone unnoticed and that he feared social services would take me away. The fear of losing me had been enough to get him out of his alcoholism and to start fresh. I might have second-guessed a lot of things in my life but his love for me was never one of them.
And the second reason was the guilt I couldn’t help but feel. He repeated, time and time again, that I wasn’t to blame for my mother’s death but how could I not feel guilty when her death was so intrinsically linked with my life?
I let out a tearless sob, I was just too tired and stressed to deal with all that and couldn’t help wondering what life would have been like if mom hadn’t died.
“I’m sorry,” my father muffled, finally stirring a little.
“No, not anymore Dad. You promised.”
“I couldn’t protect you from him, I failed. He found you.”
I leaned closer, trying to ignore his breath. His eyes were closed, I was not even sure he was awake.
“Who?” I rested my hand on his shoulder and jerked him softly. “Who found me?”
“Your real father.” He replied
My what?
Chapter 2
I woke to muffled voices that sounded like an argument. I blinked at the clock, was my father even sober enough at 7am to have a coherent conversation?
I padded to the door and cracked it open just enough to hear better. It was one of the advantages of living in a shoe box, the lack of privacy. Whilst it annoyed me most of the time, when my father could listen to my phone conversations, today, I was thankful.
“What do you mean she is not ready?” A man snapped with a cold voice I was unfamiliar with.
“Listen, I didn’t have time to –” my father started, his voice almost begging.
I frowned, opening the door more trying to see who was there. My father wasn’t a beggar, and this was out of character.
“I don’t care. I was generous enough to give you 48 hours. It was much more consideration than you ever gave me. I want her now or I swear I’ll call the sheriff and get you locked up.”
“William, please.”
“Now, Luke.”
“Dad, are you okay?” I asked, taking a step out of the room.
“Esme baby just give me a minute.”
“Come closer, Esmeralda.” The man ordered.
Esmeralda? I grimaced; I was not a Hugo’s character.
I tiptoed barefoot to the entrance, not really caring about how I looked.
The man standing in front of the door was so imposing, I took a step back.
I wasn’t tall, barely 5’4’’, but this man was well over Ben’s six foot and towering over my poor father who looked like he was dying. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the man in our doorway or the hangover, but my father never looked as frail and scared as he did now.
The man wore a black three-piece suit with a blue shirt. He detailed me slowly from my bare feet, my Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and my XXL threadbare tee-shirt that I should have thrown away years ago but was just too soft to discard, to my crazy witch hair.
His steely grey eyes, uncomfortably similar to mine fixed on my gaze. His eyes reflected a coldness that made me shiver.
“You look just like your mother.” He commented, twisting his mouth in a slight grimace, I wasn’t sure if his words were meant to be complimentary.
“Dad, what’s happening?” I asked, meeting my father’s eyes.
“He is not your father. Pack your bags, we’re going.”
I shook my head; it was a dream…. A nightmare caused by the horrible night. “Dad?” I insisted.
“Give us 15 minutes, please.” He raised his hands toward the man in a pacifying gesture.
The man sighed, looking at his watch. “15 minutes.”
My dad took my hand, pulling me back to my bedroom. I shook my head as he reached for the suitcase under my bed.
“We can’t run Esme, I tried to save you – I’m not sure how he found out but there’s no turning back now.” He kept on blabbering, opening my drawers and throwing some of my clothes in the suitcase.
I looked at him, running around like a headless chicken, my thoughts going 100 miles per hour.
“Dad,” I tried as he kept going around. “Dad, please!” I stood in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.
“Esme, we need to move, I promise I’ll get you out of this but I need more time. I just –”
I rested my hand on his chest. “Please don’t, dad, I need you to talk to me. I'm scared, I don't understand. Take five minutes to explain. You owe me that much.”
He looked down at me, his emerald eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s just a long story Esme,
“Make it short, give me the headlines. I just can’t leave with this man. Did –” I swallowed in a bid to remove the ball of dread in my throat at what I was about to ask. “Did mom cheat on you?”
He always put mom on such a pedestal, and I knew he missed her ever so dearly. Plus, it didn’t make any sense. Dad and I looked a lot alike. Same light chestnut hair, round nose, oval face, slightly protruding chin.
He took my hand and kissed it. “No Esme baby, your mom was the best woman there was. You need to believe that, please, never doubt it. There are two sides to every story.” He smiled, “Your mom was my sister, and she gave you to me.” He took a deep shaky breath.
I removed my hand from his sharply, taking a step back as nausea hit me. “My whole life’s nothing more than a lie.”
He shook his head, taking a step toward me which I mirror with another step back to keep the distance between us. “No, it’s not. I do love you, you’re my daughter, Esme. I’d give my life for you.”
“Is she even dead?!” I foolishly started to hope I had a mom somewhere.
He nodded, tears now running quietly down his face.
“When did she die?”
“A car accident, when you were five.”
I nodded; I didn’t remember that period well but I remember my father leaving me with an old lady for months then. I believe this was when he took a liking to alcohol.
I nodded as anger and indignation overshadowed any fear and confusion I was feeling. “So you let me feel guilty for her death for 17 years.”
“I always told you it was not your fault!”
I rolled my eyes. “Please Dad – or should I even call you that?”
The pain flashing in his eyes cut me deep, I didn’t want to cause him pain.
“I’ll always be your father Esme; I’ll always love you more than anything in the world. This man,” he pointed at the closed door. “He is – was – your mother's husband. His name’s William Forbes, he’s in the top 25 of America's 500 richest men. Now that he’s found you, I can’t do much.”
“Why only now? Maybe he’s not so resourceful – maybe we can run again?” I asked hopeful.
He shook his head. “No, your mother made him believe you were stillborn. It was our only saving grace. Now he’ll find you anywhere.”
“Will he hurt me?” I asked as fear of the cold man resurfaced.