“Mr. Bellandini, let me explain,” I said, one hand still in the air and the other blocking the light. “This girl here is Marianne’s daughter.”
A pause. “What did you say?”
“This is Anne Marie Rhones.”
The rifle clattered to the wooden porch.
“Your daughter.”
Mr. Bellandini rocked on his feet, then his knees buckled and he sank to the porch beside the gun. “My . . . what? How . . . I don’t understand what—-”
“Michael Rhones took Anne Marie and moved to Kansas and changed both their names. He raised her as his own and never told her about you. We don’t want anything from you. She just wanted to meet you. Michael passed away a -couple of days ago, and we found all this out by reading his letters to Marianne.”
“His . . . ?”
“Right,” I said. “Michael sent her a ton of love letters. Like a hundred and fifty of them.”
“Is she here?” Petty said.
“Marianne?” The shadowed form on the porch covered its face with its hands. The dog ran to his side and sniffed him.
“Yes,” Petty said.
I felt a little choked up, in spite of all the shit that had gone down between me and Petty in the last two days.
“Can she—-can you uncover your face?”
Petty dropped her hands to her sides and squinted at the dark figure.
“Oh, my God,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “You could be Marianne.”
“Is she here?” Petty’s voice was vehement.
The noises coming from the porch sounded like Mr. Bellandini was trying not to cry and failing.
Petty took a step backward, and I wondered if she was going to bolt.
“Where is my mom?” she asked.
“I’ve searched for years,” he said. “I never stopped.” He wiped his face and hoisted himself up.
“For my mom?” Petty said.
His hands dropped to his sides. “What?” he said.
Nothing anyone was saying made any sense at all at this point. I could not imagine how the stress of this situation must feel to these two -people.
Petty’s breath hitched and she started to fall. I caught her before she hit the ground.
“Please,” Mr. Bellandini said. “Bring her inside.”
I led Petty up to the porch and Mr. Bellandini held the door open for us. He was even taller than me—-around six--foot--five maybe. I was still a little blinded from the klieg lights outside, so it took a minute to adjust. The cabin was rustic, a little dingy, but better by far than Motel 9.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Bellandini said. “I think I’m in shock.” He pointed in Petty’s direction. “Her too. Let me get her a glass of water.”
I helped Petty sit on a green couch. She had a dazed, faraway look in her eyes, and my heart broke for her. She seemed smaller now, deflated.
Mr. Bellandini returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, which he held out to Petty. His hands were huge, the backs of them covered in black hair.
Petty didn’t move, just stared, so I took the water for her.
“Poor thing,” Mr. Bellandini said. He had thick lips that covered small teeth. His black hair was wavy, and he wore gold--rimmed glasses with chunky lenses that miniaturized his eyes, making them look almost artificial. The contrast between the tiny eyes and teeth, and the giant proportions of the rest of him, was striking. There was absolutely no resemblance between father and daughter that I could see.
He let out a big breath and sat down in a chair. “I always knew we’d be reunited one day,” he said. “I knew that nothing could keep us apart.” He stared at his hands. “How did you find me?”
“It’s kind of a long, convoluted story,” I said, “but the upshot is we found Petty’s grandmother in a nursing home in Denver.”
He sat forward again, the expression on his face sharp, as if I’d said something insulting.
“You know she has Alzheimer’s,” I said.
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Bellandini said, casting his eyes downward again. “Jeannie.”
Hearing him say that name had the same effect on me as biting on tinfoil with a metal filling. A painful shock jolted through me, because it was all true. This was Petty’s father.
Shit just got real.
Mr. Bellandini did not look at Petty, but I could tell he wanted to. Maybe he believed she was a mirage he could only see out of the corner of his eye. It must have seemed like a dream to him.
“So . . . Jeannie couldn’t have told you where I was, am I correct? With her condition, she didn’t remember me. Did she?” Mr. Bellandini snuck a glance at Petty then looked back at his hands.
“She remembered your last name, that’s all,” I said. “She only remembers that something sad happened, not that—-well, that Petty is your daughter, and not Michael Rhones’s.”
Mr. Bellandini let out another big gust of breath. “Well. Yes. It’s probably better for Jeannie that she doesn’t remember.” His eyes only briefly met mine, and then they flitted up.
I felt Petty’s body shake violently beside me. I turned to her and saw that her face and eyes were a deep shade of red, as if she’d been holding her breath this entire time.
Mr. Bellandini noticed too.
“Is she all right?” He rose from his chair.