I find myself yearning for the lie, wanting to rush to that default. But I adopted you. Daddy Alex was your natural father. Only, this time I don’t. “Sweetheart, you know, our family’s never come easy. For you, Daddy, and me. It was always kind of different.”
She nods. And that’s when I’m sure she knows. That perhaps she’s always known—seen through our carefully constructed illusions for a long time now with the God-driven intuition of a child.
“Aunt Laurel’s my mother, right?” she asks uncertainly.
“That’s right, sweet pea. Aunt Laurel’s your birthmother.”
“And you’re my father?”
I nod. “Yes, Andrea, I’m your daddy.”
“That’s what I thought,” she answers, sucking in her lower lip. I swear there’s relief on her face, as if something painful has been washed away at last.
“But you will always have a connection with Daddy,” I tell her fiercely. “You do realize that, right? He adopted you, and he will always be your other father.”
She nods, looking around the busy cafeteria. Like she’s still searching for him. “But you still have to be Michael,” she says softly. “’Cause they’ll call him my uncle or… Or they just won’t know he was my daddy at all.”
“Well, then you tell people,” I suggest. “Can’t you do that?”
She considers my question, tears still shining in her eyes. “Do you really think he stayed there in the car with me? That he talked to me?”
“I think he’s with you lots of times. With all of us.” I remember a lost Bible verse from childhood, something about the “great cloud of witnesses”. When I was a kid, I thought my mother was in that crowd, staring down at me from heaven on a riser of baseball bleachers. “I think he watches over us from heaven. That’s why he’s always talking to you in your dreams.”
Despite the tears, a small smile forms on her lips. “Maybe that day? In the car?” she asks, the smile growing. “Maybe he just hadn’t gotten to the beach yet!”
“He hadn’t had time,” I agree.
Then we’re laughing together, uncontrollably, joyous fits of it, just like at the cemetery months ago, and I hold her hand tight, not ever wanting to let go.
“But he’s always at the beach now,” she says.
This time, I finish for her. “And the waves are always good!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rebecca
A few days after Michael called me when Andrea was on the lot, an invitation arrives on my desk, a small white envelope printed with neat handwriting. Absentmindedly I open it while chatting with Trevor about Julian’s arrival next week. As the visit draws near, Trevor is already becoming somewhat useless in the assistant department, unable to focus and prone to long gab sessions in my office. Still, he’s a perfect best friend, having forgiven me easily for our poolside spat at the party.
“Oh my goodness.” I stare down at the invitation clutched in my hand.
In bright rainbow colors it announces: Andrea Richardson’s Turning Nine! Pressing it against my lips, a wave of loss washes over me. Apparently she’s having a party at the ice skating rink over in Studio City, right near her house. No note is on the inside—just this invitation.
“A rocking ice skating party,” I explain to Trevor, tracing the outline of the white-booted skate on the front, the blade sparkling with silver glitter. Closing my eyes, I imagine dear Andrea choosing this invitation herself. Of course she’d love the sparkles and the colors; she loves anything bright like this.
“Good, so you’re going.”
“You hardly seem surprised about this invite,” I reflect, noting that he seemed well aware of this upcoming party. My eyes meet his. “You didn’t read this, did you?”
He shrugs, polishing his eyeglass lenses. “It’s my job to open your mail.”
“I guess that’s how this one envelope landed,” I pause, shuffling through a huge pile of other mail on my desk to illustrate my point, “on the very top of the stack. Huh?”
With a slow, deliberate gesture he slips his wire frames back up the bridge of his nose. “It’s what you pay me for.”
“I’m not even sure I can go,” I say, but I’m already flipping open my calendar. It’s next Saturday afternoon, and I don’t have any plans. Trevor steps around the desk until he’s right beside me.
“Rebecca, don’t look back at this in ten years and regret anything.” My eyes lock with his. “Don’t waste time wishing or thinking you might have played this hand differently. You love him.”
“I spent long enough regretting things with Jake,” I whisper softly.
“You shouldn’t let something this precious go so easily.”
I draw in a strengthening breath. “I’ll think about it.”
“You know, Cat phoned me last night,” he says with a quizzical expression. “Told me that Evan Beckman’s been asking about you.”