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I wasn't sure how much time passed between that news being given to me and packing what little possessions I had to start my new life.
All I knew was that it was enough time to start to get hopeful, to conjure up little boy fantasies about his long-lost father, about how amazing he would be, how strong and smart and interesting. I dreamed about what we might do together, how we would get to know each other, learn to love the way my grandparents and I had loved one another.
"I w-was a-a s-s-stupid k-kid."
"You were a kid," Annie corrected, hand squeezing mine.
I was.
Young.
Clueless to anything in the world except love and comfort and good people.
How poorly prepared was I for this little thing called the Real World.
My father's name was Ricky.
Rick, technically. Rick O'Shea.
A play on "ricochet."
His father was an asshole, clearly.
And the fruit didn't fall very far from that tree.
All I knew was he was a big guy - tall, wide-shouldered, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and I finally understood where my looks came from since my mother's pictures had always shown a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, small woman.
He was silent for a long minute, sizing me up, listening to the caseworker, taking the bag she handed him along with her contact information.
Then I was shuffled into some boxy old muscle car with a rusted back end and a complete lack of muffler.
"The fuck is wrong with you, kid?" he asked as soon as we were out of sight, watching me with squinted eyes as he reached to pull a cigarette out of his back pocket, lighting up without rolling down the window. "Got nothing to say to your old man?" he asked, sparing me the briefest of glances, shrugging, then cranking up the music.
The superhero I had been imagining, he was not.
But I was a kid. And he was all I had.
I spent the long drive toward West Virginia trying to convince myself that we would get closer as time went on, that this would start to feel like a family eventually.
My old man lived in a semi-decent trailer in the back of a park, his front yard littered with forgotten beer cans and spare car parts, the grass high enough to reach my knees.
The inside was somewhat sparse, at least compared to what I was used to. There was a single loveseat in the living room, a big TV. No end tables or pillows or blankets around to make it more comfortable, homey.
"It's only a one bedroom," he told me. "And I'm not sharing. So you get the couch. Think I might have a blanket around somewhere. Kitchen, bathroom through that door. And that's the grand tour. I have to get to work. Don't burn the fucking place down while I'm gone."
He seemed wholly oblivious to how insensitive that phrase was as he grabbed a toolbox just inside the door and headed out.
I had never been left alone in my life before. If one of my grandparents couldn't be around - which was almost never - there was the next-door neighbor who would bring me to her place to play with her three kids.
Hearing the car chug off into the distance, I dropped down on the couch that was somehow also my bed, giving in to the need to cry for a long while before getting up, going into the bathroom, finding it as dirty as the usual convenience store bathroom. After that, I followed my stomach to the fridge, finding precious little save for uncooked meat, blocks of cheese, beer, and two slices of leftover pizza.
I ate the pizza, drank water from the tap since I couldn't reach the cupboards to get a cup.
Day quickly took a turn toward night, the walls thin enough to allow the wind to whistle in, a creepy, off-putting sound that suddenly made me wish even for my non-superhero father.
But he didn't come.
I went into his bedroom, finding a blanket and pillow, taking myself back out to the couch, curling up in a tight ball, palms pushed against my ear to keep the sounds away.
At some point, I fell asleep there.
I woke up to the sound of female laughter.
For one blissful second, I thought it was all just a bad dream, that my grandmother was sneaking up to give me a treat.
But then I heard my father's voice.
"Yeah, that's the kid I told you about," he said, making me turn around, relief at no longer being alone washing over me.
"He looks like a little you. 'Sup little dude?" the woman asked. Long legs in a short black skirt were all I saw at first. Craning my neck up, I saw a bare midriff with a shiny ring in her navel, then a low-cut blouse, long blonde hair, and black-rimmed green eyes. She seemed young. At least young compared to my father. Which was saying something.
