“You’re right. It does.”
“You have every right to hate me, but I really, really hope you won’t. You have no idea how sorry—I mean, I owe you a whole world of apologies. But I’m having a hard time getting past the fact that I’m sitting across from my teenage daughter. In my mind, you’re still two years old, you know?” He pauses, eyes and expectations bobbing up. “I hoped we could make up for lost time. Get to know each other? You must be into all kinds of cool stuff, same as Mandy. God, it’s wild how much you remind me of your mom.”
Your mom.
A punch to the gut. I have to look away to catch my breath. Hearing her name centers me, though. Injects me with a ripple of calm. “You really think so?”
“That you’re like Mandy?” he says. “Absolutely. That can’t be a surprise, though. You must see the resemblance in pictures. I bet your house is full of ’em. Mandy was like the second coming for your grandparents.”
I shiver.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I hesitate and bite my lip. “Actually, that’s not how it is at my house. With pictures and stuff. We don’t even talk about her.”
“Seriously?” Robert seems stunned at first, then he shrugs. “I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. Her death was devastating for all of us.”
My whole body fills with this weird mixture of sadness and relief. “Thanks for saying that. I mean, not about them being devastated. But you wouldn’t know it by looking at them. Whenever I try to talk about her, they get so quiet. Sometimes I think they want to pretend the car accident never happened and my mom didn’t exist.”
Robert’s face pales. “The car accident.”
I look away to rub my nose, swallowing a teary, tingly ache. When I look back, he’s frowning, squinting into his coffee. “You miss her too?”
It takes him a second to respond, to get past the shock of being asked. “Oh, God,” he says. “I mean, not a day goes by …”
His words fade away, and I get this urge to squeeze his shoulder. Which I, of course, ignore. But it makes me want to punish him a little less. Open up more. Be humans together. “Do you think—I mean, I was hoping you’d tell me a little bit about her.”
“About Mandy?” He blinks a few times, shoulders releasing. “God, where do I start? She was immensely cool. Funny, smart, beautiful. And I’m not kidding, you look exactly like her. Your hair, your smile. Even little things—the way you’re chewing your lip, and those sparkly, curious eyes. That was so Mandy. She was this lightning bolt of a person. I can tell you are too.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m not a lightning bolt of anything.”
The music changes from experimental jazz to sleepy indie, and Robert reaches into his backpack, resting a small manila envelope on the table.
“What’s that?”
“Old photos. Go ahead, take a look.”
At first, my fingers hesitate. What do you do when someone offers you the key to the city? But I take a deep breath and empty the envelope, cradling the half-inch stack of printed photographs and old-school Polaroids. The pang in my heart creates an earthquake through my entire body. Picture after picture of Mom with her tongue out, hair teased, pouty faces, and wild grins. Robert beside her, young and skinny, his arm around her waist. For the first time, the man across from me seems old. Spun through the washing machine too many times. In the photos, his hair is buzzed, his face clean-shaven. My mom, though. All you really notice is the way she lights up the frame. As if anyone in her vicinity was instantly happier, prettier, smelled perfume-ier, just by sheer proximity.
I look at the pictures forever, until tears well up in my eyes.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, you didn’t. These are—I love them.”
He smiles.
“Do you mind if I make copies?”
“What? No, those are for you. I want you to have them.”
My heart bursts at the thought. A chance to remember her.
An alarm buzzes on my phone, and we both jump.
“Crap, I gotta go.”
“Already?”
“I have to be home before my grandparents get back from church.”
Robert scrambles to his feet as I do. “Can we do this again? I can stay in town a bit longer.”
I hesitate. Thirteen years without me, and now he seems desperate.
“What do you say?” he asks, voice inching up.
Yes, no. No, yes. I shift my hips. I could pretend I’m not interested, but I obviously am, or I wouldn’t have come. “How about Wednesday?” I decide. “After school.”
He grins. “I’ll be here.”
A few uncomfortable seconds pass. I mean, we’re standing so close. Less than a foot apart. Normal relatives might hug, but that’s not us. Not even close. In the end, I sort of dork-wave and duck around him, rushing out onto the street, head and heart spinning, mind exploding. As soon as I’m buckled up, I text Gabby and Leah.
Me: I did it!!!
Leah: What did he say?
Gabby: Where has he been?
Me: He didn’t say exactly.
There’s a pause, long enough to make my heart lurch.
Me: He brought a bunch of pictures of my mom. Oh, and he called her Mandy. Can you believe her nickname was MANDY?!
Leah: So cute. Is he nice?
Me: He was nervous. But nice, yeah.
Gabby: But he srsly didn’t apologize or ANYTHING?!?!
Me: He DID. He apologized a lot. Just without going into any details.
Gabby:
Leah: Are you going to see him again?
I hesitate.
Me: Yes.
Leah: Are you excited?!
Yes, I type, then erase it and write maybe, then erase that too. Words can’t compare to the colossal feelings tugging me in every direction. The epic wonder of coming face to face with my actual dad after all this time. Eventually, I type in a couple of screaming-face emojis and put away my phone.
That about sums it up.
5
But I can’t stop thinking about the photos.
After Gran’s checked on me and funneled chicken soup down my throat, I pull the photos out of my bag. Mom in a hospital gown, cradling a bald, red-faced baby wrapped in pink. Tired but glowing as she holds my swaddled body close to her chest. I stare at it, taking in the curve of her lips, the basil hue of her eyes. I wish I could feel myself there, warm and safe in her arms.
There’s a cute one of her and Robert, grinning for an off-kilter selfie in the back of a truck. And another one of Mom, posing in front of a café sign for Amanda’s Kitchen.
Amanda. Mandy. Mom.
I pore over this better-than-Christmas snapshot goldmine, her smile overpowering me. Glass half-full and rosy cheeks. Sunshine and laughter. Details appear like lightning bugs. A crooked tooth. Killer bangs. I’ve always pictured her with long, straight hair, but here it’s shorter and more feathered, framed with a thick hem of fringe. Bangs look good on her, and I wonder if they’d work for me too. Debbie Harry obviously rocked bangs.
I wonder if my mom was into Blondie. God, I hope so.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
Wish I’d known you.
In a sentimental whir, I grab my phone and snap a picture of my favorite picture. It’s of the two of us—her blond hair and bangs framing her face, her chin resting on the top of my head, the both of us wearing giant sunglasses. I’m looking up at her, grinning.