A quick smile curtsies on her lips. “You’re welcome, sweetie. In fact, it’s a recipe from that cookbook you gave me for Christmas. I ought to be thanking you.”
I bat butterfly lashes in response, and both of them chuckle. The conversation veers toward the fundraiser Gran’s chairing at the Baptist church, and then Grandpa says something about sandpaper, his benchmark for awesome since retirement. I watch him breathe laboriously through wide nostrils, the way he nods as Gran reels off a list of tomorrow’s chores.
Across the table, he winks at me, sensing my epic boredom. I wink back. Nothing ever changes around here but the housework. Not our lifeless calamine-pink walls, not Grandpa’s bird feeders or Gran’s needlepoints of former presidents. Not the ratio of protein to carbs on our plates. Nutcrackers and kachina dolls line the mantel above our fireplace, but no photographs. Nothing to remember my mother or honor the daughter they lost. If they think about her at all, they don’t do it out loud or in any measurable way. I mean, God forbid I get to see Mom’s face framed on our walls. God forbid they tell me what kind of person she was or if I’m like her. God forbid.
“Johanna?” Wrinkles jut out like cracked glass from the corners of Gran’s eyes as she squints. “Everything all right?”
My gaze follows hers all the way to my hands, clenched into fists on the table, my breath tight and shallow in my chest. A wave of adrenaline bursts through me, and I want to scream that I miss her. Mom thoughts always come fast and unpredictable and sting every time, but more and more, I realize I’m forgetting her, and it scares me.
Only … now.
Now there’s Robert Newton. I try to imagine what would happen if I told Gran that he’s found me, after all these years. In my mind, I explain the letter and how it filled me with a hope I never expected. I want to tell her that I know she means well, shielding me from him, but I can’t go on like this, being forbidden from even thinking about my parents because he makes her mad and she makes her sad. I’m sixteen, and I have a right to find out for myself. I deserve to know.
Before I can stop it, a tiny sliver of truth slips out. “I’m forgetting her.”
Have forgotten her already.
Grandpa smiles. His hearing aid is a piece of crap. But Gran’s body goes rigid. A few times she blinks—Morse code? An apology? Rage? She opens her mouth, and I think, This is it! The moment she finally opens up! But something invisible pulls her back.
“God rest her soul,” she says softly. After another few seconds, she reaches for the pitcher. “More water?”
Oh.
My balloon heart deflates. I’m such an idiot. Of course she’d chicken out, same as every other time—me scurrying after her like some desperate kitchen mouse, begging for crumbs she’ll never drop. Only, now. Suddenly everything’s dusty rose and shimmering. Robert can give me more than crumbs.
So I say, “Yes, please,” like a good granddaughter.
I flash a plastic smile and hold out my glass, then turn back to my plate, succumbing to my thoughts. With each warm, salty bite, I swallow Robert Newton’s name and imagine the color of his hair, the tone of his voice. Picture him cradling me as a baby, cooing over me and pinching my cheeks. The two of them together, loving me side by side.
“I’m planning to fix the rocking chair this weekend. You up for helping a doddering old man?”
“What?” I blink twice at Grandpa. “Oh. Sure, I guess. Can I be excused?”
“Take Magic out, will you?”
All three of us look down at the dog, curly and beige and panting on the rug by my feet. Poor Magic, with his halitosis and his bad hip. He was a gift from my grandparents just before I turned three. Right after we moved to Santa Fe, right after Mom’s car accident. Magic was my consolation prize. Your mom is dead, but look, a poodle! Yeah—no. Mostly, he’s a smelly reminder of the human life he replaced. Still, sometimes a smelly reminder is better than nothing.
In the hallway, Magic nudges his wet nose against my thigh as I pull on my boots. He whimpers with anticipation as I zip my coat, twirl my scarf. We head out into the starry night, and I welcome the crisp air into my lungs. Let it recalibrate my psyche.
The two of us walk along the quiet sidewalk and a calmness settles over me, overpowering my grandmother’s silence. That’s all it takes—the balance scale inside me tips all the way over, clanking heavily in my father’s favor. Toward my future. Toward us.
Instantly, I yank my phone out of my pocket, waiting impatiently for the power to flicker back on. And then I see it: a text.
He. Wrote. Back.
Johanna! I’m so glad you replied! I can drive to Santa Fe by this weekend. Does Sunday work? Tell me when and where and I’ll be there. I can’t wait to see you.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod. I click Reply.
I’ll meet you at Bluebell Café on Galisteo Street. Sunday at 10 a.m.
Holy crap. I’m actually going to meet my father.
4
Sunday morning can’t come fast enough, and when it does, I have a closet fit. Sewing is the only way I feel like me sometimes, but right now, there’s a little too much me to choose from. Miniskirts and cutout jumpsuits, pleated shorts, mod dresses. Plus, regular old jeans and T-shirts. I’m sorry, but there is a lot riding on this outfit.
In the end, I slither into my favorite flared skirt and this wooly, gray sweater with sparrows embroidered on one shoulder. In the mirror, I can’t help lengthening my neck and tilting my head, mimicking my mother’s senior portrait from high school. It’s the only picture I have of her—maybe the only one in the whole house. Gran gave it to me after I begged her on my eighth birthday, after some bitch in third grade made fun of me for not having parents. The picture came with no anecdotes, no context, just a melancholy observation that my eyes were bright green like hers. I glance at the photo now, centered on my wall between Debbie Harry’s headshot and a CBGB poster for a ’74 Ramones show, and I wonder if Robert will recognize me right away. If it’ll be like seeing a ghost.
“Knock, knock?”
Shit. Super fast, I fling my bathrobe around my shoulders and dive under the covers, propping my head languidly against the pillow. This is the plan. A three-part strategy Gabby and Leah helped me devise. Step 1: Fake sick in order to miss church. Step 2: Meet my estranged father for a presumably super awkward and stressful coffee date. Step 3: Slip back into bed before the olds return. Easy-peasy. I hope.
“Your forehead is a bit warm,” Gran says, sitting on the edge of my bed in a pale-pink dress and matching blazer. It’s her favorite ensemble, though not super flattering. I guess God doesn’t care about stuff like that.
“I’m sorry, Gran.”
“Oh, hush.” She gently kisses my forehead, grimacing as she pulls back. “I’m not sure about leaving you. There’s a meeting about the fundraiser after services, but … Jimmy, maybe you ought to go without me. I’ll stay and—”
“No!” I try not to scream. “I just took some cough medicine, I’ll probably be asleep soon. You go. Pastor Thompson is expecting you.”
“You sure, darlin’?”
“I need to rest.”
Grandpa stands in the doorway, tucking a blue collared shirt into his belted slacks and straightening his tie. He pouts a little, then chuckles. “Must have been all that hard labor you did yesterday.”