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Maybe if Scott hadn’t died, I never would have even been curious about my donor father. Because mydad? He was enough, more than enough. A big loving bear of a man—full of stories and belly laughs. The smell of Old Spice can conjure him, his big hugs, the scratch of his stubble.
I always think of it as sadness that killed him, a deep incurable unhappiness that he carried with him, a note I heard beneath every laugh, a riptide pulling at every happy moment. This thing he’d carried since childhood, a voice in his head, a shadow in his periphery. It caused him to drink too much to quiet it, to drive too fast to outrun it.
He fought it for us, I promise you, my mother always said.But it was too much for him.
I was fifteen when he crashed his Indian—the motorcycle he’d restored, worked on tirelessly, polished and babied. We’d drive to swap meets—seeking this obscure part or that. Big, crowded places, dusty and hot, people selling, buying, passionate about old machines. He was happy on those days. I know he was—I remember that smile, the crinkle around his eyes.
But it wasn’t enough.
We weren’t enough.
Iwasn’t enough.
Maybe it was because I wasn’treallyhis, that’s why I wasn’t enough to keep him around. If I’d been his biological daughter, something more powerful would have kept him bound to this world. I offered this theory to my mother only once. She wept.
He loved you. More than anything.Her fading French accent lilted, her dark eyes gleamed. She told me I didn’t understand depression, how it was a con and a thief of joy. How it lured people away, making them believe that the world was better off without them.
She was right. I didn’t understand it then. I do now.
He did it for us. He thought he was doing it for us. The insurance payout.
He was gone and we were set for life. That’s what he thought was important. Money.
And we would have given it all back for one more day with the man who was my father in every way that mattered.
I am thinking about Dad now as I watch the chef put big piles of meat before the diners. I don’t know why, except that I am always thinking about him, really. I wonder what he would have had to say about this enterprise of mine.
“Dad,” I say out loud. “I’ve done bad things.”
Sometimes when the world is topsy-turvy, bad things are good things.
That’s what I imagine he’d say. But probably he’d say what Mom says.I’m worried about you, kitten. Come home.
My parents. They’re good people. They loved me, did their best. I mean, my mom and my dad.
Now my biological father, well, that’s another story. We don’t have to get into that right now.
My dad taught me how to play chess. He was a good player, had competed in college. There were some trophies on a shelf in the living room.
“Chess is a dance. Your moves influence your opponent’s move. When you understand the board, the player, you can anticipate what others will do. Some of the time.”
I’ve found that to be true in life, as well.
They’re all here now. They don’t know it, but my moves have influenced theirs.
Before, I stood in the trees and listened to Hannah talk on the phone. I could hear her soft voice, the tinny voices on the line.
Sleep sweet, Mama.
Her little girl. I feel a pang. Doubt, regret. Of course, I feel them. I’m human after all.
As if he’s connected to me, can feel my energy across time and space, I receive a text:
I saw the security footage from that building in Miami. I know what you’ve been doing. It needs to stop.
I don’t bother answering him.
I haven’t since the last time we were together. But I can’t bring myself to block him, either. I like knowing he’s out there. A good guy in a bad world. I shove my phone in my pocket.
