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“I can’t. I’m… sick.”
“You’re sick? How?”
“How does anyone get sick? I don’t know. I just am.”
She shrugs. “Okay. I still don’t know why you’re calling me.”
“Well, I figured I should quarantine. Dad shouldn’t be around me right now. Not with his immune system being compromised. So I’ll take Yuliana back to the hotel and—”
“Dad isn’t here yet. He was at lunch with you, I thought.”
“Yeah, they were. I left because I felt bad. Just send Yuliana out and—”
“She can stay here if you want,” Lana says. “We can watch her while you rest up.”
“No!”
Lana arches a brow that I can see all the way from here.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “But she should be with me. She could be contagious, too, since we were together this morning. It’ll be safer if she comes with me. Can you pack up her stuff and send her out with me?”
Lana hesitates. For a second, I think she’s going to see through this thin lie and demand to know what has my panties in a bunch. Instead, she sighs. “You’re probably right. Yeah, okay. She doesn’t have much so I’ll load her up and ship her out to you. Take care of yourself, okay, Ray?”
“Will do. Thanks, Lana.”
She hangs up and throws a thumbs up in the air in response.
The entire time Lana is inside the house, I look up and down the street. My dad is a notoriously slow driver, and I hope that remains true today. If so, I have a few minutes’ head start on him and Pat.
Just as I start to get antsy, the door opens and Yuliana comes bouncing down the steps. Her purple shoes flash with every step.
Seeing her settles the raging storm in my chest. Things can’t be so bad if this little girl is still mine, can they?
* * *
Things could not be worse.
Whatever thin veneer of composure I maintained after the lunch is gone by the time we get back to our tiny motel room.
“I wanted to play with Lily and Brady,” Yuliana whines. “Why can’t we go back to Grandpa’s house? I don’t want to be here.”
Yuliana has been pestering me since the moment she got in the car. Lana texted to warn me that the sleepover last night didn’t involve nearly enough sleep. Apparently, Lily told the kids ghost stories that had Brady and Yuliana on edge all night.
I didn’t actually need the text to know that. I could already tell.
“Why don’t you lay down and try to rest?” I suggest for the tenth time. “Your body needs energy to grow and have fun. I think a nap would be good for you.”
It would be good for me, too.
It’s hard to try to regulate a five-year-old’s emotions when my own are simmering inside of me like cherry bombs ready to explode. I’m replaying my entire life, every interaction with the man I thought was my dad, every conversation with my mom.
Were there signs of the truth? Did I miss them? Who is my real father?
Yuliana’s scream cuts through my existential crisis. “No!” She stomps her foot, purple light rippling across the faded carpet.
She whips around and grabs the threadbare blanket, ripping it off the bed in several clumsy tugs and tossing it on the floor.
“Yuli,” I say calmly, “it’s okay to be upset, but it isn’t okay to be mean or destructive.”
