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I stood up. If I didn’t leave now, I would punch him in the face. I was halfway to the sliding doors when I turned around and stormed back toward him. He stayed in the same spot in his wheelchair, looking like a miniature LEGO version of the man I’d met only a month ago.
“She wanted to come back to me?” That was my first question. Maybe that was what had been bothering me the most about my origin story. How a mother could turn her back on her son for a steady dick.
He managed to nod, just barely. Whatever was wrong with him, it put a huge strain on his muscles.
“Yes. She talked about you nonstop. Went to visit you every few weeks. She wanted us to be a family. Me, I was the asshole. I’d only seen you once. Your grandfather dragged me by the ear to meet you. He thought it’d make a difference, make me change my ways. You were tiny and angry and fragile. Colicky and very red. I took one look at you and figured it was too big a responsibility, too hard a job.”
A revolted smirk found my lips. “And I guess you extended that notion to after she died too. You never came back for me.”
Charlie’s skin budded with goose bumps. “Not for lack of wanting to. You don’t have to believe me—hell, I don’t expect you to—but that’s not why I didn’t come for you.”
“Why then?” I was yelling now. I needed to tone it down before I got kicked out of a hospital for abusing a patient. Adyingpatient.
“Shame. Embarrassment. Seeing your grandfather doing my job so much better than I ever could. Knowing deep down that you were better off without me.” He stared at the ground. “I took your mother away from you. And I treated her goddamn poorly. I only knew what you looked like from pictures. It seemed insane to go to California and rip you apart from the only constancy and stability you’d ever known. Your grandfather loved you. You were his pride and joy. I thought I was doing both of you a favor.”
How did a conversation about a fucking joint escalate tothis? CharlieBlack Mirrored my ass to oblivion. And yes, I usedBlack Mirroras a verb.
“Yeah? Well, thanks a bunch.” I bowed mockingly. “Your sainthood awaits at the counter in heaven. Make sure to collect it—you get great discounts for your halo and wings.”
He winced. “You have every right to be angry.”
“I’m not angry.” I laughed. “I’mdelighted. You’re right. I wouldn’t have loved spending my life under your wing. After all, I could’ve ended up like you. A washed-out, lonely, soon-to-be-former hunk with no family, barely any friends, no ties. Oh,wait a minute.” I pressed my finger to my lips, frowning. “That’sexactlywhat I am right now. Well, well. At least you didn’t have to watch it happen. Don’t worry, Granddad was kind enough to drop dead onlyafterI was old enough to go to a private prep school, so I skipped the whole foster-family routine. Of course, I had to stay on school grounds every Christmas and Thanksgiving because I had no one to claim me.”
He swallowed again. His eyes were misty. I hoped he had a disease where you would drop dead if you cried. He deserved it.
“Where did you spend summer vacations?” he croaked.
“I’d usually convince one of my friend’s parents to sign me out to spend the summer with them and pick me up from school. But I didn’t want to impose, so they usually dropped me off halfway to their house, and I’d just hitchhike. At least I had money for nice hotels. You know I’m loaded, right?”
He bit down on his lip, reclining his head. A silent yes.
I tilted my head sideways. “Please don’t tell me this entire confession happened so I could pay for your lengthy hospital stay. I’d rather burn the money. Literally. On fire.”
He snarled, turning in his wheelchair sideways so as not to face me. “I’d never do that.”
“No, of course not,” I said easily, feeling like worms were eating at me from the inside. “You hold yourself to such high moral standards. I almost forgot.”
“What I did was inexcusable. I’m not looking for forgiveness.” He sounded stern and serious. Almost—and that was really ironic—like afather figure.
“What are you looking for then?” I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. “Why did you even tell me? No, wait.” I held up a finger. “Before you answer that—when did you find out? And how?”
Charlie blinked at me, like the answer was clear. “The first time we met. It was damn obvious you were mine. You looked like me, talked like me, smelled like me.” He paused, lifting his hand with great effort to pull the collar of his hospital gown down at his neck. “We both have a birthmark the shape of South America on our neck. Kind of like a pointy tooth.”
My hand went instinctively to my neck.
“Now answer my other question,” I prompted. “Why now?”
Charlie closed his eyes. “Because I have a rare genetic disease that is killing me. And you might have it too.”
My hatred and shock were put on pause. He told me about Huntington’s disease while I sat on the bench next to him and read about it on my phone. When I saw that headaches were a part of the symptoms, I speared him with an icy glare.
“You told me you had a daughter. That she died when she was eight months old. Was that true?” I asked, remembering the time we went working together in Harlem.
Charlie tried to shake his head, moaning in pain halfway through. “No. But I couldn’t tell you the truth. Leaving you behind felt like mourning a child. So that’s how I articulated it.”
“Liar on top of a shit dad. Your talents know no bounds.” I paused. “Duffy knows you’re my father, doesn’t she?”
“She found out, yeah.”
