“How could it not have mattered to him?” I ask, looking into her eyes—the eyes that none of us had inherited. Mine are more brown, like his, I’m sure, and River’s and Bell’s are greener, like Nick’s.
“Your father and I loved each other, and the time we were apart took its toll on both of us. Once we were finally back together, we vowed we’d never let anything tear us apart, and I tried to keep that promise.” She cries a little more and her words trail off. She doesn’t have to finish. Walking over to the mantel, she lifts a crystal-framed photo of River, Bell, and me. “When I told your father I was pregnant, he stared at me for the longest time. We both knew whose baby it had to be. I expected anger, or worse. But instead he put a protective hand on my belly and with a calm and certain voice he said, ‘We’re going to have a baby, Charlotte, so now you have to marry me.’ That’s what he said.”
“How do you not hate me?” I ask her.
“Why would I ever hate you? You’re my son. I love you. You healed me.”
At her words my gut wrenches. I swallow hard. “Healed?”
“Healed, mended, made me the person I wanted to be. You made me grow up and, Xander, I loved my life with your father. I loved him. I know he had his flaws and I know you saw him in a way that highlighted those flaws, but he was a good man. He loved us. He loved you, Xander. You were his son. It made no difference whose blood ran through your veins. And I think he was more afraid of you finding out and not loving him than anything else. He was so proud of you. He loved you so much.”
I wince at the raw emotion in her statement and stare at her, at a loss for words. I hated my father for so long I never looked at the good in him. I buried those memories the day he killed himself. But he was my father, not the man with the brown eyes, but the one with the green ones. And he loved me. He did.
Everything is a jumbled mess in my head. I can’t look at my mother anymore because she’s right. I feel a need to flee from any more emotional conversation. I stand up and cross the room to the sliding doors, go out onto the deck, then across the wet lawn. The sprinklers are on, but I sprint across the yard and fall to my knees. Holding my head in my hands, I think of Nick taking us to every concert, instilling in us everything he knew about music, teaching me to drive in the Corvette he never drove anymore because it wasn’t a practical family car. He was my father, but over the years I’d forgotten all the good things.
“Xander!” The slight wind carries her shaky voice, but I can hear it. I can hear the worry and concern.
At first I don’t move. She calls to me again. I raise my head and see her wiping her tears, the tears I’m causing to fall, and I lift myself up. And in this moment of clarity, I realize I don’t give a shit who my biological father is. And I know with everything I am that I loved Nick Wilde and that I have to tell him. But before I go I have to tell my mother about the falsified sales reports—the reports that not only changed Nick’s life, but all of ours.
? ? ?
The memories that hit me as I enter Forest Lawn Cemetery are oddly not memories of the many times I’ve been here, but ones of the people it holds. All of my grandparents, both my mother’s and my father’s, are buried here, and of course so is my father, Nick. It’s an older place with large tombstones . . . some toppled, some crumbling with age, others new. It’s eerily quiet and I can hear the birds singing as they land on top of the marble and stone that line the rows.
It seems wrong to come here and not visit my grandparents. A young boy is selling cut flowers and I stop to purchase a wrap from him. I ask him what kind of flowers they are, and he says, “Today I have lilies, but tomorrow I’ll have wreaths with a mixture of flowers.” I just grin at his enthusiasm—an entrepreneur in the making.
The grass between the carved headstones leads to people I don’t know, but I read their names etched on the stones as I pass and scan their markers. Some of those buried here lived long, full lives. Some of their gravestones read, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER or BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. Others aren’t so descriptive, with just their date of birth followed by their date of death. Wilted bouquets of flowers lie below some of the gravestones and others have rosary beads draped around them. A far greater amount show no sign of visitation.