“Andrea, is that hard for you?” Dr. Weinberger asks, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “Talking about your grandparents?”
She sucks in a quiet breath, dropping her hands so that she stares right at him. “Michael’s father isn’t really my grandfather. That’s all.”
“Families are defined in lots of ways, Andrea. You come from an unconventional one, but I’m reminded of something that Michael said during one of your very first sessions here. ‘Family,’ he told me, ‘is wherever we find it.’”
The words are a battle cry, summoning some lost spirit in me, the urge to fight for my family. That’s the only possible explanation for me blurting, “Why don’t you call me Daddy anymore?”
The minute the words are out, I know I’ve pushed too hard. I’d know it even if our doctor weren’t piercing me with his steely gaze; even if I didn’t see the way my daughter’s face flushes with angry blotches that always betray her emotions.
“Michael, Andrea may not be ready to answer that question yet.”
“Can we be done now?” She snaps to her feet so fast that the pink backpack clatters to the floor noisily.
“Your session isn’t over, Andrea,” Weinberger admonishes as she drops to her knees, scooping up the spilled Barbie detritus. “There are twenty more minutes left today.”
Over her shoulder, she tosses me an angry blue-eyed look, an accusatory gaze I’ve come to know well over the past year.
“I miss you, baby doll,” I murmur, searching her face. “I miss being Daddy, that’s all.”
“But you’re Michael,” she says firmly. “That’s who you have to be.”
“Have to?” I ask, confused, and her pale eyes widen. I think she’s said more than she intended. “I used to be Daddy.”
With an eerie calm, she announces, “I can’t call you that anymore, Michael.” Then, without even pausing, she turns to Dr. Weinberger and announces, “We’re going to the Dodgers game tonight.”
She begins raking Barbie clothing into her bag, focusing all her attention on the task as though nothing has transpired. Clearly our moment has passed, and there will be no further connection. My throat goes tight as she chatters with forced cheeriness about going to the game, about the Dodgers lineup, and whether we have any hope of making the playoffs this season. Like me, she’s a true-blue fan of the Boys of Summer. At least I’ve passed on one crucial trait. Still, that doesn’t make my heart ache any less. In fact, it aches all the more for having come so painfully close to getting some answers out of her, only to fail yet again.
“And I get to have ice cream with Michael’s new girlfriend,” she adds conclusively, zipping up her backpack.
I’m betting she tossed that one in just to screw with me. Yeah, one look from our doctor, and I know I’ll hear about that comment during my individual session at the end of the week.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I grumble, wishing like hell that this headache would subside. “Rebecca’s a friend.”
“But you said you like her.” She settles neatly on the sofa again, hands folded in her lap.
“Right now she’s still just a friend.”
My psychiatrist scribbles something on his notepad. Maybe his gay patient taking up with a woman might not be memorable enough otherwise, but somehow I doubt that. Judging by the expression on his face, I’m guessing he finds this turn of events pretty damn notable.
But I don’t even care, because there’s only one burning issue in my mind, something that’s been eating at me for a year now—ever since Andie left the hospital.
It was just two days after the accident, and we were heading to Santa Cruz to bury Alex. As I wheeled her out to Marti’s car, parked along the curb at patient checkout, she looked up at me and asked for a Coke. I remember noticing that her skin looked translucent, she was still so pale. A single blue vein on her temple stood out, and for a moment, standing there in the blinding late May sun, I thought it was a bruise, and lifted a finger to brush a coppery strand out of the way.
That’s the first time she ever called me Michael.
“Can I please have a Coke, Michael?” she asked dully.