He looks up, the way he does in a courtroom, as if searching for words that I know he will find. “It’s like this,” he says. “Kirby is eighteen, right?”
“Yes,” I say, realizing that it is the first time he’s said her name.
“And she’ll be leaving home soon. Going off into the world to do whatever it is she’s going to do. God willing, productive and worthwhile work. And although we would have had all those years with her. You would have had those years with her … She’d still be leaving you now … So I guess what I’m trying to say is that life is fast. And it keeps speeding up. Sometimes I lose track of the season—or even the year. And we just have to make the best of it all. Our choices. Our fleeting moments together.” He takes a gulp of air, then slowly exhales. “We missed out on a lot of days and years and memories with her. But we can know her now. And we can embrace her now. And we will.”
His chin quivers, making him look old again, but he manages not to cry. “Son of a gun,” he says, shaking his head.
“What?”
“I have a rubber band and paper clip but no handkerchief.”
I laugh and he leans over and hugs me harder and longer than I can ever remember being hugged.
“Let’s go home,” he says. “I want to meet my granddaughter.”
* * *
We take the most direct route home, and find my mother in the kitchen whipping up an elaborate spread. Although she often cooks from her own memorized recipes, today she has consulted at least two cookbooks, both open on the counter.
“Hello, my dears,” she says, with a curious look. Her gaze moves from my dad to me, back to my dad. Naturally she wants a report, but my father and I give her absolutely nothing, both of us commenting on her appetizers instead.
“Everything looks delicious,” Dad says.
“And beautiful,” I say.
She thanks us with great impatience, then says, “Well? How did it go?”
“How did what go?” I say.
“Did you talk?” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes,” my dad echoes. “We sure did.”
“And?”
“We sorted through eighteen years of lies,” I deadpan.
“There weren’t plural lies,” she says, covering a plate of deviled eggs with Saran Wrap and putting it in the refrigerator.
“Lie number one,” I say, then quote her. “‘I will not tell your father.’”
“Lie number two,” my father says, ticking it off on his fingers. “‘We can’t tell Marian you know.’”
My mother pretends not to hear us as she puts the finishing touches on her bruschetta. Then she unties her apron, hangs it on a big iron hook inside the butler’s pantry, and spins merrily toward us, revealing a persimmon-colored silk dress with gold anchor buttons. Paired with three-inch heels, she looks beautiful but overdressed—perhaps not for the occasion, but for what I know of Kirby. Still, I think it is important that we all be utterly ourselves today—the true, honest version of who we are, as individuals and as a family. And this includes my mother overdressing and overcooking.
“So,” my mom says briskly. “You’ve decided to make me the fall guy.”
“Yep. Pretty much,” I say.
“That’s an excellent summation,” my dad quips, before going to her and putting one arm around her waist. He clears his throat, his expression changing to a serious one.
“Marian and I had a very nice talk,” he continues in a low voice, as if intended only for her, although we all know that I can hear him, too.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” my mom says. “We’re finally all on the same page.”
For one second, I am filled with a feeling of warmth and well-being—but then I think of Conrad. A worried look must cross my face because my father says, “What’s wrong, honey?”
Deciding that there is no room for deceit of any kind today, I sit at the kitchen table, feeling unsteady, then force myself to reply, “I was thinking about Conrad.”
“Who?” my dad says.
I look at him, puzzled, then even more stupefied as it computes that we never once touched on Conrad in Gillson Park; nor did my mother really discuss him in New York.
“Kirby’s biological father,” I say. “Remember him?”
“Not so much,” my mom says with a shrug. “Vaguely. We only met him once.”
“Yes. Right here in the kitchen,” I say, remembering the day I took the pregnancy test.
As my head starts to spin, I catch my father glancing at my mother with a purposeful look.
“What?” I say. “What was that for?”
My mom shakes her head.
“No more secrets,” I say.
“Fine,” she says. “We saw him one other time.”
“When?” I say, nauseated. “Where?”
“Oh, it was nothing. We just ran into him … somewhere. I think it was that little organic market in Winnetka,” my mom says, glancing at my dad. “By the tomato stand.”
Before my father can confirm that he remembers Conrad or the stand of tomatoes, I demand to know when all of this occurred.
“Kirby would’ve been about six,” my dad says.
“More like eight,” my mom says.
“Did you speak to him?”
“Briefly,” my mom says, stiffening. “We said hello.”
“So you recognized him?”
“Not at first,” she says. “He had filled out a bit. And his hair was … different.”
“Different how?” I ask, my heart palpitating.
“Just … different,” my mom says. “Maybe shorter? I don’t know … That was ten years ago.”
“Did he speak to you?” I say.
“He actually said hello first, I believe. Then we said hello back,” my dad says. “That was it. It wasn’t like we had a conversation. We were civil, but we weren’t too keen on him after how he handled the whole … situation.”
“What?” I say, shifting my gaze to my mom and giving her an accusatory look.
My mother frowns, guilty as charged.
“Mom? C’mon? Lie number three?” I say. Then I turn to my dad and say, “Conrad never knew I was pregnant.”
“He didn’t?” My father looks confused.
“No,” I say. “I never told him. I never even saw him again after I took the pregnancy test. And that was my choice.”
“Right,” my mom says. “That was your choice, Marian. So don’t go blaming me.”
“So wait. He never knew?” my dad says, clearly as shocked as Peter and my friends.
“No. And Mom’s right—that was my fault. He did nothing wrong,” I say.
My mom sighs and says, “Okay, fine. But can’t we all agree that that’s water under the bridge?”
I shake my head, resolute. “No. We can’t agree to that. And we certainly will say no such thing to Kirby. Conrad is just as much part of her as I am.”
My mom makes a face. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You wouldn’t?” I say. “So I belong to you more than Dad?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” my mom says, with the sudden audacity to be indignant. “The point is, you carried her for nine months and made the responsible choice to give her away—when that boy probably—”
“Conrad,” I say. “His name is Conrad.”
Deep down, I know that my self-righteousness doesn’t make any sense when I set the whole chain of lies in motion. But still. Kirby is in the picture now. And we are going to find Conrad. And at the very least, I think we all need to acknowledge that he has a name and a place in this story.
“Furthermore, we have no idea what he would have done,” I say, remembering my conversation with Peter, realizing that I am now taking his side in the debate. “I never gave him that chance.”
“Well, what are you going to do, Marian? Go tell him now?” she asks, throwing her hands up.
“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow with Kirby.”
My mother stares at
me, her eyes wide. “Isn’t it a little too late for that?”
“Was it too late for her to find me? Is it too late for you to meet her?” I ask.
My father shakes his head, although I’m not sure whether he’s answering my question or simply digesting the whole situation.
“So what else did he say? When you saw him that day? Besides hello?” I say, wondering if he asked about me.
“Nothing else,” my mom says.
My father winces as if concentrating, then says, “I believe he also said, ‘Those are some nice-looking tomatoes.’”
Coming from anyone else, I would have heard sarcasm, but my father is simply being as accurate as possible about the details, one of the many reasons he is such an amazing trial lawyer.
“And that was it?” I ask.
“That was it,” he says quietly.
I nod, then tell my parents I’m going to my room for a few minutes before Kirby arrives. As I turn toward the stairwell, I picture Conrad at the tomato stand, remembering his hands, the way they looked and felt, warm on my skin, wondering if there was a ring on his left one that day my parents saw him. Wondering whether he’ll be wearing one tomorrow.
25
kirby
I have another forty or so miles to go on I-55 and about ninety minutes left in my five-hour trip which, so far, has been a breeze. I’ve only stopped once to fill up my gas tank and use the restroom. I also remember to call my parents, reassuring them that I am completely fine, and that it’s a clear, sunny day with very little traffic. My father reminds me to stay in the right lane, no passing, avoid big trucks, and stay off my phone.
“Oh. And your mother says don’t forget the pecan pie. It’ll melt if you leave it in the car,” my dad adds, referring to the pie she made as my hostess gift, along with four linen cocktail napkins hand-embroidered with the letter C. She screwed up the first time on both projects, overbrowning the crust on the pie and choosing a mauve satin stitch for the napkins that just “didn’t thrill her.” So late last night, I found her in the kitchen, still baking, still sewing. She was deep in concentration, with the look she gets when she’s praying hard for something, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her as I poured myself a glass of chocolate milk.
“Do you need any help, Mom?” I asked, standing over her. She had switched to a peacock blue thread for the napkins, and according to the pattern book on the table, a Celtic knot.
She looked up at me over her reading glasses, shaking her head with a wistful smile, and said, “Kirby, honey. You know you can’t sew. Or bake.” She sighed. “One of my many failings as a mother.”
“You don’t have failings as a mother,” I said, mostly believing this to be true.
“Of course I do,” she said. “Every parent does. It is inevitable. You’ll see.”
I nodded—how can you argue with such a thing?—then asked if she wanted company.
She looked at me, surprised. “You should get some sleep.” But she didn’t protest when I sat down at the table.
“Are you excited?” she asked.
“A little,” I said, through a monstrous yawn.
“It’s okay to be excited,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m excited for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about your … second family.”
I could tell it was a test, and an annoying one at that, but I still said what she wanted to hear. “They’re not my second family. I only have one family.”
“It’s okay to think of them that way.”
“But I don’t,” I said. “They’re strangers.”
“Marian’s not a stranger.”
“Okay, well, not her. But she’s more like a friend.”
“She doesn’t feel like a mother—”
“Mom, don’t. Okay?” I said, cutting her off.
She stifled a yawn of her own, as I told her I was going back to bed.
“Yes. Go to bed. Tomorrow is a big day.”
I finished my milk, put it in the sink, and walked back past her on my way to the stairs.
“Mom?” I said, awkwardly pausing beside her.
“Yes, honey?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?” she asked with her wide-eyed, martyrlike stare, as if it is perfectly normal to bake and sew at all hours of the night.
“For doing all of this,” I said. “I’m sure the Caldwells are going to love the napkins.”
“Yes. I think they will,” she said. “I’m so glad I changed to blue. Everyone loves blue, don’t you think?”
“Yes. And who doesn’t love a pecan pie?” I added, both humoring and appreciating her at once.
She nodded, then said, “God willing they don’t have any nut allergies. That thought just occurred to me.”
“Yes,” I said on my way to the stairs. “God willing.”
* * *
And here I am on I-55, catching myself praying. An actual, specific request to God to have the weekend go well. To have everyone like me and approve of me and be okay with the fact that I am their blood relative.
My phone rings in the passenger seat, interrupting my conversation with God. Although I can hear my father telling me not to pick it up while I’m driving, I see Philip’s name and grab it, pressing it to my ear. As much as I’m thinking about the weekend ahead, at least half the miles logged have been spent on Philip. Since Friday night, we’ve talked every day for at least an hour and kissed two more times. Last night, I even let him go up my shirt.
I also find myself thinking about Conrad and Marian, and wonder if their relationship felt anything like ours. I know that Philip and I won’t last forever, that he will go off to Alaska and then Colorado, and the best that I can really hope for is that we stay in touch. But I can’t imagine losing him as a friend, any more than I can imagine what it must be like for Marian to be finding Conrad, after all these years gone by.
A good hour of Ray LaMontagne tunes later, my MapQuest directions end at Maple Hill Road, a beautiful street with houses that are all quadruple the size of anything in my neighborhood. Marian’s parents’ house turns out to be the most elegant in a whole line of pretty ones with a perfect, crew-cut lawn and jewel-toned flower bed. As I pull up the driveway, I realize that it bears a striking resemblance to the house in Father of the Bride—and then wonder if it is that house. I park behind a Land Rover and a Mercedes convertible, both waxed to a high shine.
Stalling before I get out of the car, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, send my parents a text that says, Made it here safe, then another, slightly wordier version of the same text to Philip. I then take a deep breath, reach back into the backseat for my purse, the pecan pie, adorned with a sticker that says “From the kitchen of Lynn Rose,” and the linen napkins, nestled in a gold gift bag. Then I open the door, climb out, and close it with a hard hip bump.
I am nervous, my breathing shallow, on the way to the door, but I also have a feeling of crazy curiosity to meet Marian’s parents, see where she grew up. I imagine Conrad standing on her front porch, waiting to pick up his girlfriend. Then I ring the doorbell, its chime a grand six-note melody.
I hear heels coming toward me before the door bursts open and there stands Marian’s mother, even more glamorous than Marian, in an orange dress, her arms open to greet me.
“Hello, Kirby!” she exclaims as I inhale amazing food smells.
“Hi, Mrs. Caldwell,” I say as Marian appears just behind her in the foyer.
“Call me ‘Pamela,’” she says as she starts to hug me, then decides against it.
I nod, then hand her the pie and the napkins and say, “My mother made you these.”
“Well, wasn’t that sweet of her,” she says, patting them before placing them on a table in the hall. She then takes the pie, proclaiming it a beauty, as Marian pushes past her mother to hug me hello. Our embrace feels both formal and comfortable at once, and I wonder if both are possible, and
if not, which one is in my head.
“So good to see you,” Marian says.
“You too,” I say.
“Come in, dear, come in,” Pamela says, then leads me back down a wide hallway to a large kitchen filled with food. “What can I get you to drink? We have freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, orange juice, prune juice, water—both flat and sparkling.”
Prune juice? I think, comforted by the realization that everyone is a little weird.
“Mom, give her a second,” Marian mumbles, but Pamela does no such thing, opening the refrigerator then glancing back at me expectantly.
“I’ll take some water, please,” I say.
She nods, removes a large bottle of Evian from the door and pours it into a tall, mottled blue glass that my mom’s napkins will match perfectly.
“Sit, sit,” she says, pointing to the counter as Kirby’s father enters the room, filling it with an immediate, strong presence. I like him instantly.
“Kirby,” he says, walking over to me and covering my hand with his. “At long last. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, overcome with a warm feeling.
He returns his hand to his pocket, staring at me with a smile. He finally nods, as if satisfied with what he sees, and says, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s just … so good to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Caldwell,” I say, knowing that he will correct me, too.
He does, of course, telling me to call him “Jim.” Although Marian’s mother is nice enough, I get a completely different vibe from her dad, and the only way I can describe it is that I feel related to him. Or perhaps, more significantly, he seems to feel related to me.
Sure enough, he says, “Are you looking at my big ears? I understand an apology may be in order?”
I laugh a real genuine laugh and say, “Yeah. I don’t care for them.”
“You don’t care for them on me,” he says, turning to Marian. “Or her?”
“On any of us,” I say, loosening up.
“At least you girls have your hair to cover them up,” he says.
“Yeah. Thin hair,” Marian says.
He runs his hand through his own full head of thick gray hair, only slightly receding at the temple, and says, “Whoah. Whoah! You can’t blame me for that one.”