Before We Were Strangers

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” I kissed her forehead quietly. “But I don’t want to dwell on the past anymore. We’re here now, together. I just want to sleep with you in my arms, okay?”

  She cuddled up to me even closer. “Okay.”

  Her breath evened out and her body relaxed. That was the last thing I remembered before I woke up in her bed, alone.

  23. Who Did You Think I Was?

  MATT

  Grace’s bedroom was bright with morning light, and I took in my surroundings for the first time. There was an antique dresser, a floral quilt, and Impressionistic paintings of the French countryside hanging on the walls—surprisingly generic décor for someone like Grace.

  When I heard Grace tinkering in the kitchen, I slid out of bed, feeling invigorated. I put on my jeans and shoes and searched for my shirt, but I couldn’t find it. The door was cracked open, and I peeked down the long hallway. At the other end of the hall was the kitchen. I could see Grace sitting at a small, round table, sipping coffee, wearing a robe and pink slippers, her hair in a topknot. She looked up as the door creaked. The smell of coffee was beckoning me, but as I stepped into the hallway, something caught my eye.

  The walls were covered in pictures. On the right was a black-and-white photo of Grace and Tatiana on a balcony in Paris, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. It was the face I had known, plump with youth. I smiled and looked down the hall at Grace, who was watching me with a blank expression.

  I saw another photo of Dan conducting, with Grace sitting in the orchestra, her bow poised over her cello.

  Then I saw a photo of Dan and Grace sitting in a park, a baby on her lap. I stepped closer and stared at it, my mind racing. They had a child? Had I even asked her if they had a child?

  There was another family photo of the three of them right next to it, but the little girl was older, maybe five, sitting on top of Dan’s shoulders in Washington Square Park. And then another when the little girl was even older, maybe eight. I looked at Grace, whose eyes looked more weary than I had ever seen.

  The little girl progressed in age as I walked toward the kitchen until I found myself at the end of the hallway, staring at a school photo of a teenager, maybe fifteen years old, with Grace’s long blonde hair, Grace’s lips, Grace’s light skin. But it was her eyes that sent me reeling.

  They weren’t the spectacular green of Grace’s eyes, or the dull blue of Dan’s.

  They were deep-set, so dark they looked black. . . .

  They were my eyes.

  I covered my mouth as a moan escaped from my chest. I heard sniffling and looked over at Grace to see tears running down her face. Her expression was still blank, as if she had learned to control it, even when she cried.

  I blinked as tears fell from my own eyes. “What’s her name?”

  “Ash,” Grace whispered. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.

  Oh my god.

  I put my hand over my heart. The evidence of a life burning well. “I missed everything, Gracie,” I said, still in shock. “I missed everything.”

  She looked up. “I’m so sorry. I tried to tell you.”

  I stared at her for what felt like a wordless eternity. “Not hard enough.”

  She sobbed loudly. “Matt, please!”

  “No . . . you can’t. What the fuck? What is happening?”

  “I wanted to tell you.”

  “Am I losing my mind?”

  “No, listen,” she pleaded.

  I wasn’t looking at her anymore. I couldn’t look at her anymore. “No talking. Oh, Jesus, what is going on?” I had a daughter whose childhood I had totally missed.

  I headed out the front door and walked home, shirtless and dazed. I kept repeating in my head, I have a daughter, I have a daughter, I have a daughter.

  I spent the next six hours in my loft, drinking vodka straight from the bottle. I watched people walking up and down the street, fathers holding their children’s hands, couples in love. The anger I felt toward Grace and Elizabeth was boiling over inside of me. I felt powerless, as if these two women had decided my entire adult life without me.

  I called my brother but got his voice mail. “You’re an uncle,” I said, flatly. “Grace had a baby fifteen years ago, and I think Elizabeth kept this information from me. Now I have a teenage daughter who I don’t know AT ALL. I’m fucked. Talk to you later.”

  He didn’t call back.

  I hid in my apartment, mostly drunk, for the whole weekend.

  On Monday morning, I kicked a pizza box across the floor and punched a hole in the wall. I decided that it felt really good, so I did it again, and then I spent a few hours trying to patch the holes. I thought about calling Kitty or one of those numbers on the back of the Village Voice, but instead I went to the liquor store and bought a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in more than a decade, but it was like riding a bike. Really, it was.

  I chain-smoked on the bench outside my building until I got a call from Scott.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re gonna wanna kiss me again.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Why so sad? You miss your fwiend?” He attempted a baby voice.

  “No. What do you want?”

  “I have good news.”

  “Talk.”

  “I got you something in Singapore.”

  I didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’ll take it. How long?”

  “Wow, you really want to get the hell out of New York, don’t you? Anyway, there is no ‘how long’—it’s a permanent job. You’d be working with production on our live series based out of Singapore, but you can keep shooting on the weekends. It’s a great location.”

  “Great. When?” I never thought of myself as the type who ran away from things, but I was utterly helpless and hopeless. I felt like a caged animal.

  “In the fall.”

  “That far away?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it.” I hung up.

  Grace tried calling me several times, but I never answered and she didn’t leave a voice mail. Finally, at ten p.m. that night, she texted me.

  GRACE: Ash is a very strong-willed girl.

  ME: Okay.

  GRACE: I’m sorry to drop this on you. She told me to tell you that if you don’t want to know her then you’ll have to tell her to her face.

  ME: Grace, while you’re at it, why don’t you come here and cut my balls off or steal a kidney?

  GRACE: I’m in so much pain over this but Ash doesn’t deserve any more heartache. She’s your flesh and blood.

  I didn’t even know Ash, but suddenly the thought of causing her pain caused me pain. I knew I had to see her.

  ME: Fine I’ll meet her. What time will she be home tomorrow?

  GRACE: Three thirty.

  ME: I don’t want to see you.

  GRACE: That’s fine.

  When I got to Grace’s building the next day, a taxi was just pulling up and I could see a teenage girl through the window. Ash. I wished I had five extra minutes to prepare what to say, to figure out how to tell this kid that life sucks and it’s too late to go back and fix things, to just forget about me.

  She stepped out of the cab and marched right up to me. “Hi,” she said, holding her hand out. “I’m Ash.” She was bold and confident. Not unlike her mother.

  “Hi . . . Ash.” I was still testing out the name on my tongue. My face was frozen in a look of both curiosity and dread.

  She wasn’t smiling but she wasn’t glaring, either. Her expression was soft. “Just so you know, my mom told me everything, and I’ve seen pictures of you before.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Do you want to get a coffee or something?” She arched her thin eyebrows. I was stunned by her friendliness. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Shouldn’t I be asking her that? I had expected to run the conversation.

  She was taller than Grace and wearing a shirt with the sides cut
out; I could see her bra. I thought she couldn’t really be my daughter, but somehow I knew that she was. How did I have a daughter her age? I felt old in an instant. This girl was a reminder of all the time Grace and I had lost.

  “How old are you?” I asked, though I already knew.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen going on twenty-five?”

  “I had to grow up fast,” she shot back. “Are you gonna start doing the dad thing right away, ’cause I’m cool with that, but I think we should have that coffee first.”

  “You’re allowed to drink coffee?”

  She laughed. I think she liked that I was concerned. “Yeah, I’ve been allowed to drink coffee since I was ten.” A man walked past us and looked at me peculiarly. “Nothing to see, Charlie,” Ash said. She leaned in, “Don’t worry about him, he’s just bored.”

  I nodded. This is my kid. This is my daughter. Reaching my index finger out, I poked her in the shoulder.

  “I’m real,” she said, smirking. “You have a child.”

  “Not really a child, though, are you?”

  “Finally! The respect I deserve.”

  I laughed nervously. I couldn’t believe how much I instantly liked her. She was funny and cute and so much like Grace when she was young. After a few awkward moments, she began walking up the steps.

  “Ash, there’s just a lot I have to absorb here.”

  “I’m not gonna be destroyed if you don’t want anything to do with me.”

  I grabbed her arm and spun her around. I was just realizing that I did want something to do with her, but I didn’t know how to say it.

  “Look, I only learned of your existence less than a week ago.” She looked down at my hand grasping her arm and then looked up into my eyes and squinted, searching for something. I recognized myself in her expression immediately. “Sorry,” I said, looking at my hand like I had no control over it. “Let’s get that coffee.”

  She huffed. “Okay, okay. Let me drop off my bag inside and tell Mom.”

  “Fine.” I nodded, noticing how, instead of saying “my mom,” she had said “Mom,” the way a kid does when she references one parent to the other.

  My mind wouldn’t even let me attempt to make sense of how I felt. I watched the door until Ash came back out. She had wrapped her hair in a twisty bun on top of her head, the way her mother always did. Her face was scrunched up and she was scowling as she handed me my shirt. “Jesus Christ, she’s a mess in there. Way to go.”

  “Your mom and I have some issues . . .”

  “Grown-ups complicate things,” she said before turning and heading down the street. “Come on.”

  I took my shirt and followed her like a puppy dog. She walked confidently, without looking back, as I trailed behind her. “Come on, it’s just two blocks away. Are you gonna walk behind me the whole way?”

  I sped up to walk beside her. “So, tell me more about you. Are you a musician, like your mom?”

  “I can play the piano, but no. I prefer visual media; I guess I’m more like you.”

  “Yeah?” I could hear hope and pride in my voice.

  “Yep. I hope it turns out to be a good thing.” I didn’t know what she meant by that. She continued walking. “I think I want to be a graphic designer.”

  “That’s great. Do you do well in school?”

  “School is a breeze for me. Kind of boring, actually, but I’m doing it. Not like I have a choice.”

  Who is this person?

  She pointed toward a neighborhood café and we walked in. Ash ordered a latte and a scone, and I got my usual black coffee. There was a good-looking young man working the counter, and I caught Ash brazenly shooting him googly eyes.

  I looked at her in shock. Teenage girls were a totally different species to me.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Uh, nothing.”

  We sat at a small, round table near the window and looked out. “It’s a nice day. I love the spring.”

  “Are we gonna talk about the weather?” she asked directly but serenely. I couldn’t get over how self-possessed she was.

  “There’s no manual for this, Ash.”

  “I know, and I’m trying to be sympathetic, but you’re a grown man. . . .”

  I chuckled. “You’re right.”

  “Look, I know the story. Mom was very honest with me while I was growing up, and now we know you were totally in the dark about me this whole time.”

  I felt relieved. She was good at setting me at ease. “That’s true, I was.”

  “No one blames you.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that. But now that you mention it, what did you think of me before, when you thought I wanted nothing to do with you?”

  “Well, my mom kept a book on you, sort of. It started out with a bunch of pictures and notes and things from when you two were in college, and then she would cut out articles about you and your work and add them in over time.” The thought of Grace doing that choked me up. “And she took me to see some of your photos when they were on display for a workshop downtown, but she didn’t really talk about your circumstances.”

  “Yeah, but what did you think?”

  “Honestly, my mom always spoke pretty highly of you, but the story of your relationship was presented like a cautionary tale or something. A lesson for me to learn from. She didn’t blame you, even before she discovered the truth, so I didn’t think much of anything—just that you had a crazy career and kids weren’t your thing.”

  I stared past her out the window. “I wanted kids. . . .”

  “My mom didn’t know, so you shouldn’t blame her. She would always tell me how badly she wanted me. She told me that when people come together and . . . you know . . . do it”—her cheeks turned pink—“that they should always be on the same page about kids and the future and all that. I guess she thought you knew from the letters and that you didn’t want to be a dad.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “I meant it when I say she never put you down. I’m smart enough to know it’s because part of me is made from you; she’d be putting me down at the same time if she did that.”

  I was experiencing every feeling one could have at the same time, including love. I was feeling love for the sweet child sitting in front of me, defending me and defending her mom, equally, with such loyalty and insight. “You’re very smart.” My throat tightened. “You’re like your mom in that way. Very perceptive and witty.” I collected myself. “And your childhood . . . how was it?”

  “It was pretty good. I mean, my dad totally loved me and my mom always did her best. I had everything I needed.” She sipped her coffee.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Porter.”

  I felt a lump in my throat. “Of course.”

  “It was just easier that way. You’re on my birth certificate, though.”

  “Am I?”

  “Uh-huh. My dad tried to adopt me, like, five times. That’s why, at the end of his life, Mom tried so hard to get in touch with you; you would’ve had to give up your parental rights in order for him to officially adopt me. It didn’t matter because he was always my dad. That piece of paper would have meant more for him than for me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ash. I didn’t know. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” She started to get a little misty-eyed but held it together. I was close to having a breakdown myself and felt conflicted about everything, including Dan. He was dead already so I couldn’t kill him, but somewhere under the shock, I started to realize I should be grateful for him. After all, he raised my daughter into someone I would admire instantly.

  Ash took a bite of her scone, smiled, and looked out the window as she chewed. It was like I was looking at Grace from a long time ago, but with my eye color and a tiny cleft in her chin, just like me, barely noticeable.

  “Do you have any crooked toes?”

  “Yeah, actually. My second toe is crooked. Thanks for that, by the way.” We both laughed, but then w
e got quiet again.

  “What was he like?”

  “Who?”

  “Your dad.”

  She looked me right in eyes, so brave, like her mom. “You’re my dad now . . . if you want.”

  That was it. I started crying. I wasn’t sobbing, but there were tears running down my face, and my throat was so tight that I thought I would stop breathing. I reached across the table, took her hands in mine, and closed my eyes. I realized that I wanted Ash in my life. The pain of missing her childhood was killing me. “Yes, I want to,” I whispered.

  She started crying, too. We both cried together, surrendering to the reality that we had to accept. No one could change the past or give us back the time we had lost, and there were no words to make everything better. We just had to accept the present for what it was.

  We stood and hugged for a long time, and I was surprised that it didn’t feel foreign to me; she didn’t feel like a stranger.

  There were a few stares from café patrons, but eventually everyone ignored us and went on with their conversations as I held my crying daughter. Gotta love that about New Yorkers. I felt bad for how things had worked out with Ash’s childhood, but I was still intensely furious with Grace and Elizabeth.

  On our way back to Grace and Ash’s brownstone, she asked, “What’s going to happen with you and Mom?”

  “There’s a complicated history there, Ash. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “She loves you.”

  “I know.”

  Once we reached the brownstone, she pulled her phone from her pocket. “What’s your phone number? I’ll text you so you have mine. You can call me if you want to hang out.”

  I gave her my number. “You know, I don’t just want to ‘hang out.’ I want to be a part of your life. It’ll be weird at first, but I want this . . . if you do.”

  She grinned and socked me in the arm, “Alrighty, I’ll see ya later then . . . um . . . what should I call you?”

  “Call me anything you want.”

  She laughed. “Okay, see ya, George.”

  I shook my head. “Silly girl.” I messed up her hair and then noticed Grace was watching us from the window. She looked terrible, and had obviously been crying nonstop. She was wearing a sad, small smile. I looked away.