Grace’s bedroom was bright with morning light, and I took in my surroundings for the first time. There was an antique dresser, a floral quilt, and Impressionistic paintings of the French countryside hanging on the walls—surprisingly generic décor for someone like Grace.
When I heard Grace tinkering in the kitchen, I slid out of bed, feeling invigorated. I put on my jeans and shoes and searched for my shirt, but I couldn’t find it. The door was cracked open, and I peeked down the long hallway. At the other end of the hall was the kitchen. I could see Grace sitting at a small, round table, sipping coffee, wearing a robe and pink slippers, her hair in a topknot. She looked up as the door creaked. The smell of coffee was beckoning me, but as I stepped into the hallway, something caught my eye.
The walls were covered in pictures. On the right was a black-and-white photo of Grace and Tatiana on a balcony in Paris, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. It was the face I had known, plump with youth. I smiled and looked down the hall at Grace, who was watching me with a blank expression.
I saw another photo of Dan conducting, with Grace sitting in the orchestra, her bow poised over her cello.
Then I saw a photo of Dan and Grace sitting in a park, a baby on her lap. I stepped closer and stared at it, my mind racing. They had a child? Had I even asked her if they had a child?
There was another family photo of the three of them right next to it, but the little girl was older, maybe five, sitting on top of Dan’s shoulders in Washington Square Park. And then another when the little girl was even older, maybe eight. I looked at Grace, whose eyes looked more weary than I had ever seen.
The little girl progressed in age as I walked toward the kitchen until I found myself at the end of the hallway, staring at a school photo of a teenager, maybe fifteen years old, with Grace’s long blonde hair, Grace’s lips, Grace’s light skin. But it was her eyes that sent me reeling.
They weren’t the spectacular green of Grace’s eyes, or the dull blue of Dan’s.
They were deep-set, so dark they looked black. . . .
They were my eyes.
I covered my mouth as a moan escaped from my chest. I heard sniffling and looked over at Grace to see tears running down her face. Her expression was still blank, as if she had learned to control it, even when she cried.
I blinked as tears fell from my own eyes. “What’s her name?”
“Ash,” Grace whispered. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.
Oh my God.
I put my hand over my heart. The evidence of a life burning well. “I missed everything, Gracie,” I said, still in shock. “I missed everything.”
She looked up. “I’m so sorry. I tried to tell you.”
I stared at her for what felt like a wordless eternity. “Not hard enough.”
She sobbed loudly. “Matt, please!”
“No . . . you can’t. What the fuck? What is happening?”
“I wanted to tell you.”
“Am I losing my mind?”
“No, listen,” she pleaded.
I wasn’t looking at her anymore. I couldn’t look at her anymore. “No talking. Oh, Jesus, what is going on?” I had a daughter whose childhood I had totally missed.
I headed out the front door and walked home, shirtless and dazed. I kept repeating in my head, I have a daughter, I have a daughter, I have a daughter.
I spent the next six hours in my loft drinking vodka straight from the bottle. I watched people walking up and down the street, fathers holding their children’s hands, couples in love. The anger I felt toward Grace and Elizabeth was boiling over inside of me. I felt powerless, as if these two women had decided my entire adult life without me.
I called my brother but got his voice mail. “You’re an uncle,” I said, flatly. “Grace had a baby fifteen years ago, and I think Elizabeth kept this information from me. Now I have a teenage daughter who I don’t know AT ALL. I’m fucked. Talk to you later.”
He didn’t call back.
I hid in my apartment, mostly drunk, for the whole weekend.
On Monday morning, I kicked a pizza box across the floor and punched a hole in the wall. I decided that it felt really good, so I did it again, and then I spent a few hours trying to patch the holes. I thought about calling Kitty or one of those numbers on the back of the Village Voice, but instead I went to the liquor store and bought a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in over a decade, but it was like riding a bike. Really, it was.
I chain-smoked on the bench outside of my building until I got a call from Scott.
“Hello?”
“You’re gonna wanna kiss me again.”
“Probably not.”
“Why so sad? You miss your fwiend?” He attempted a baby voice.
“No. What do you want?”
“I have good news.”
“Talk.”
“I got you something in Singapore.”
I didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’ll take it. How long?”