Page 58 of Blue Sky

Cucumber Sandwiches

Ileft this morning like a coward, driving straight to San Diego. Tomorrow I would go apartment shopping, but today we checked into an extended stay hotel.

I handed Mónica a brand-new cell phone.

“Oh my god! Are you serious? Is this mine?”

“Yes, I have to go somewhere now. But I’ll be back in an hour. If there is an emergency, call me. I’ll just be down the road.”

“Okay. Where are you going?”

I didn’t want to tell her in case it didn’t happen.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay. Bye. Don’t worry. Ana María and I will be fine.”

I gave them both kisses and left the room. As I drove away from the hotel, my nerves rattled. I should’ve told Mónica where I was going, who I was going to see, and why this was so important to me. But I needed to see this stranger alone.

The stranger who was my father.

I drove down the Coronado streets. San Diego was glorious, even better than in the pictures. I was so excited to live here, where I could drive to the ocean and dip my feet in the sand. No blistering summers to keep me indoors.

I finally found an old Spanish house with a blue and gold sign out front.

Home of a Naval Aviator.

John Emerson.

A chill took over me. In my twenty years, I had dreamt of meeting my father. What would he look like, would we share any interests, was he quirky like me, did he love cooking?

But most important of all, would he accept me.

I checked the address from the background report. And then I checked it again. This was it. I was about to meet my father.

I parked the car and could see the raised hair on my arms. Was he living alone? Was he married? Did he have kids?

It was now or never. I had to meet him. I had to go in.

I opened the car door and slowly walked outside. The salty ocean air hit my face. Twenty years of dreaming and wondering had come down to this.

The Spanish style house had an arched doorway and talavera tiles lining the entrance. Adorned with a red clay roof and a turquoise frame around the windows. Did he ever look at his home and remember the poor Mexican girl he had left behind?

My hand pressed the buzzer, and I pushed the nausea down my throat.

I heard footsteps. But instead of a man greeting me at the door, a woman with brown hair in a crisp bob opened it.

“May I help you?”

Ay. I couldn’t do this. What if she didn’t know? I had no right to break up his family by revealing his secrets.

“Oh hi. I . . . I’m sorry. I must have the wrong house.”

I dashed down the steps and fumbled for the car keys. God, I had been so stupid. I had no right to meet him and demand answers.

I finally opened the door and began to cry. I had chickened out. I wasn’t brave at all. And now I would never know my father.

I turned the key in the ignition when I was startled by a rap at the door.