I hurry away, leaving Seth and his dad behind, as a chill goes down my spine that is deeper than the wet, the cold.
25
I jog the four blocks from Seth’s house to my own as fast as I can.
Once home, I take a hot shower, as if I could wash off everything that just happened. I look at myself in the mirror once the steam’s cleared, the way I did that morning, trying to see if I looked different. White skin, blue eyes, black hair with roots that are growing back in pale. Fiona’s gold ballerina settles against my collarbone. I look a little alien. A little older than before.
My secret phone buzzes, making me jump out of my skin. I pick it up off my bathroom sink.
Sorry about that
Typing, then deleting. Typing, then deleting.
You okay?
Fine. You?
Fine
I’m suddenly gripped with the certainty that I shouldn’t have left Seth alone with his dad.
I knew Seth and his dad never really got along. But I wonder now if there’s more than that, more than he’s ever told me.
My dad gets home at six, just as I’m finishing throwing vegetables into the soup pot. Davy messages he’s having dinner at Ethan’s. I hope that kid isn’t spouting off more conspiracy theories. Though, without Davy here, there’s something I can now do.
“Dad?” I ask cautiously as I pass him the bread. “Can I ask you something?”
He blinks at me through his glasses. “Of course.”
“Were you going to pay for the American Ballet Academy, even though you said we couldn’t afford it?”
His eyebrows rise. “We didn’t have the money for it. I told your sister that. That’s why she applied for that scholarship.”
I have to be careful. I don’t want him to think I’m running my own investigation. He would not be happy about that.
Inspiration strikes. “What kind of scholarship was it? Like, is it something I could apply for, too, or was it…dance school specific?”
My dad frowns. “I think it was for ballet only. I don’t know all the details. Madame LeGrand, your sister’s teacher—she helped her with it.”
That proves it, then. My sister lied to everyone.
Dad is dipping his bread into his soup. I decide to wait until he’s finished eating to ask him about Mom. I don’t want to ruin his appetite.
Once Dad’s bowl is almost empty, I say, “Can I ask you something else?”
He nods.
“Did you ever look for Mom?”
When I look at photos of my mom—bright swinging hair; wide laughing mouth; always looking slightly off to one side, like she had a secret you couldn’t see—the differences between my parents are even more pronounced. My dad is ten years older than her, and he looks every day of his fifty-four years. Mom was thirty-five when she disappeared, but even in the last photo we have of her, she looks much younger.
I know very little about her past. Mom was from Nebraska. She was an only child who ran away from home when she was eighteen and spent four years wandering around various parts of the US before landing in New York City, where she met my dad. She didn’t talk to her parents or talk about them. I don’t know who my grandparents on that side even are, or what went wrong between them. Before becoming a stay-at-home mom, she was a waitress, a retail worker, a receptionist. She never went to college, never held a job for very long.
We asked about her a lot right after she disappeared. Dad would say things like I don’t know when she’ll be back, but she’ll be back, and later, She loves you. But she just can’t be with you right now, and later than that, just I don’t know. But I still love you. Never forget that.
And I haven’t. My dad may not be the most exciting guy around, he may not be the best cook, but if love means showing up, I’ve never doubted his love for us. He comes home for dinner, attends all our things: soccer games, track meets, dance rehearsals, graduations. He’s reliable. In a world where people regularly disappear, there’s something to that.
My father blinks. Sets down his piece of bread. He’s looking at me like he’s not sure who I am. I feel a sudden absurd urge to remind him.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s why I was gone so much the year after she left. I was looking for her.”
I’m startled. I wasn’t actually expecting him to say that.
“Where did you go?” I ask. “What did you find? Why didn’t you tell us?”
He runs a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I talked to the people in her past. Those I knew about. Wrote her emails. Called. I knew she’d left me—not any of you—and I knew she wouldn’t want to hear from me. But I just wanted to know she was okay. That she hadn’t…” An exhale. “But I never got answers. I tried again, after Fiona died. I thought she’d at least want to know. But again, I had no luck.”
“So what do you think happened?”
Dad lifts his shoulders. “Your mother was good at disappearing. When we were younger, when we’d fight—she’d leave for days, sometimes a week. I could never find her. She turned back up when she wanted to. Not before.”
“So—you don’t think something happened to her. You think she just left. And doesn’t want to be found.”
“That’s what I hope, at least.” He’s quiet a long moment. “I knew it was a waste of time. Looking for her. But I couldn’t not try.”
His mouth is turned down, and for a moment he looks so much like Davy I want to hug him. But Dad isn’t a hugger. It would be weird.
“Whatever happened—I believe it was her choice.” He meets my eyes. “She was always a little wild, your mother. She burned too bright for…all of this.” He gestures to the space between us, then out, to include the house, the town. “I think it was an experiment for her. See if she could be a wife, a mother, live in a suburb. And in the end, she couldn’t.”