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In one of them, I’m back in high school. I’m wearing my typical, trendy popular girl attire, walking through the halls like I own the place. Nameless classmates stop and turn to look at me. My stomach is churning with a dread that gives the atmosphere the unmistakable tinge of a nightmare. Something terrible has happened — I’ve done something unspeakable, unforgiveable. I knew that they are all passing judgment on me. I’m about to fall from grace. I’m about to become an outcast. A pariah.
And even though I can’t see him, I can feel Brody in the crowd. Hating me, judging me, right along with the rest of them.
The dream stays with me long after I’ve woken up, unsettling me on a morning when I need my self-confidence even more than usual. I’m tired and feeling shaky, my stomach growling from eating only fries for dinner last night.
I decide to splurge and grab an egg muffin sandwich for breakfast, to give me strength and hopefully put me to rights. I remember there’s a McDonalds half a mile or so away on the commercial strip where my motel is. I walk instead of driving to wake myself up. I order a breakfast sandwich and a coffee to go, and eat my breakfast on the way back.
As I do, I try to mentally prepare for seeing my father for the first time in years.
I’ve been basically estranged from my dad for almost a decade. Our relationship took a pretty solid hit when I married Brody young, instead of following the traditional path of going to a fancy school and meeting an up-and-coming boy from a good (read: rich) family with prospects. It took another hit when Brody and I broke up. But what finished it off was when Dad threw my mom away for a younger model a year later, when I was nineteen.
From what I’ve been able to piece together over the years, Dad had been sleeping with other women for almost the whole time my parents were married. I guess he was good enough at hiding it that Mom was blind to it for a long time.
Until he met Stephanie.
I don’t know what it was about Stephanie Marsham that was special enough for her to not be just one more in the line of Dad’s affairs. If I had to take a wild guess, I’d say that dear old Dad was creeping up on middle age, and decided he needed to snag some arm candy while he was still able to. For whatever reason, when my mom figured out what was going on and confronted him about it, Dad chose the newer model over the older one. He told Mom the marriage was over, that he’d be having his lawyer draw up the divorce papers as soon as possible, and that he was taking the house, which was in his name alone.
Dad locked Mom out of his bank accounts and made good on his promises. His lawyer made sure my mother went away with as little of his fortune as possible. Somehow, he got out of paying her any spousal support, even though she hadn’t worked since getting married to him and had no employment history to fall back on in a job search. And since I was already over eighteen, there was no question of him paying her child support, either. Mom went from riches to rags before you could say “my asshole ex-husband,” tossed out like so much garbage.
Not long after that, Stephanie soon became the newest Mrs. Wilkins.
Mom never tried to get me to choose between her and Dad. She refused to talk to me about his affair, the new woman, or the divorce. But there wasn’t really much of a choice, anyway. Learning about my father’s infidelities, and seeing first-hand the way he treated his first wife, I lost most of my respect for him.
Plus, once his relationship with Stephanie was out in the open, Dad seemed mostly to want to forget about his life — and his family — before her. I wasn’t interested in talking to him, but the feeling seemed pretty mutual. Once, in one of the few conversations I had with Stephanie right after they got married, she told me with a smirk that my father was looking forward tostarting a family with her, and couldn’t wait for her togive him a son.
It seemed pretty clear that Dad’s goal was to wipe the slate clean and pretend that family number one had never existed. Marrying Stephanie gave him the perfect opportunity to forget all about the daughter who had disappointed him so much, and the ex-wife whose very existence was a reminder that he was less than perfect.
By then, though, I didn’t want his money anyway. When Mom decided to leave Ironwood for good a few months later, I was only too happy to go with her. I had for all intents and purposes lost my father and my husband. There was nothing holding me to the town where I’d grown up. Nothing but bad memories and reminders of a future that was no longer mine.
From then until about a year ago, Dad and I have communicated only a couple of times a year. A phone call around Christmas, sometimes a card on my birthday (picked out, no doubt, by his secretary).
Recently, though, he has started making more of an effort. A few months ago, he even started suggesting I might consider moving back to Ironwood. The only reason I could think of for his change of heart at the time was the failure of Stephanie to get pregnant and produce the much-hoped-for male offspring. Dad’s proud of his legacy, and he’s not getting any younger. Not having anyone to pass it on to would be a bitter pill for a man like that. So, I guessed I was the consolation prize.
But then, late last month, he called me again to ask me to come to Ironwood for a visit. But unlike the other times, he gave me a different reason.
“I’m ill, Aurora,” he said. “And it’s not looking good.”
Dad doesn’t knowI’m in town yet. This way, I can leave on my own terms if I want to. That small measure of control is important to me. As is not staying at his house. His and Stephanie’s house, that is. There’s no way I’m staying under the same roof as the woman my father left my mother for.
My stomach is roiling with nerves back at the motel as I put on the cleanest, most sedate clothes I’ve packed: black slacks, fitted teal button-down shirt, not-too-scuffed ballet flats. I roll my blond hair into a French twist, and even make the effort to put on some subtle makeup.
When I stand back and inspect myself in the mirror, I hope the effect saysI am a mature adult who is totally in control of my life.
I arrive at the headquarters of RJW Commercial in the late morning. Even if he is sick, my workaholic dad is not likely to take time off from the office. Dad’s office is in a sleek, modern office tower. It’s the closest thing that Ironwood, Ohio has to a high-rise. I ride up the elevators to the eleventh floor, then push through the heavy glass doors into a lobby and reception area full of dark wood paneling, travertine, and quartz. The whole thing carries an air of conspicuous elegance, which of course is the point.
Across the reception area, a woman I recognize sits behind a high desk. The firm’s name is emblazoned on the wall behind her in large, powerful letter.
The receptionist, whose name is Tonette, glances up at me. Her face is a mask of studied professionalism. Her eyes meet mine. For a second, there’s no recognition in them. But then, they widen just a fraction.
“Miss Wilkins. What a nice…”
She falters for a moment, and I can literally see her shifting gears. She was going to saysurprise. But Tonette prides herself on being all-knowing.
“How nice to see you,” she finishes instead.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Tonette,” I say primly. “It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”
“It has.” Her lips spread into a facsimile of a smile, then move into a practiced sympathetic frown. “But I’m afraid I don’t have you on your father’s schedule for this morning. Is it possible you’ve written down the wrong time?”
