I nod. She’s asked me their names a few times throughout the semester. Taking a deep breath, I think back to my conversations with my parents over the last couple of weeks. They’ve held onto cautious optimism, hoping something wouldn’t come up to prevent meeting Kennedy.
They didn’t know she existed while growing inside her mother. They didn’t know about her until sometime during her second year of life when I was on another bender. I wasn’t sure of Kennedy’s birthday at the time, but I was smart enough to do the math.
Of course they were heartbroken to learn of a child they’d never get to know. For a while they tried to get me to go to court to have my parental rights reinstated, but the longer I stayed married to the bottle, the more they left it alone. The more they let Kennedy slip from their hopes and recognize that Wendy and her family were the only choice to raise her. They didn’t try to get involved with her when they saw how much help I needed to manage my own life. They took care of me, and let God take care of the rest.
It took me ten years to show them the picture that was mailed to me from Kennedy’s fifth birthday. It was what had turned me around, after all, but back then I hadn’t wanted them to know that. I didn’t need them to keep bringing her up if and when I screwed up. Kennedy’s smile and blissful ignorance of her piss-eyed father slithering through the streets of Northern Kentucky was the only motivation I needed. Not the most gorgeous or polite imagery, I realize.
But the truth rarely is.
“Here we are,” I say with a deep breath, turning into the short driveway of my parents’ modest home.
“It’s pretty,” Kennedy half-whispers, assessing the wide front lawn and tidy shrubbery around the front stairs.
The two-story four-bedroom structure is plenty more than two aging people in need of various body-part replacements need, but its almost cramped around the holidays when their three children and six grandchildren come visit. Seven, now. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way.
She’s really coming, right? She’s in the car with you?
That text rolled in around noon today, shortly after Kennedy and I stopped for lunch. I can’t help but feel this cautionary excitement has less to do with Kennedy and more to do with their perception of my ability to develop a relationship with the daughter I abandoned.
You didn’t abandon her; you gave her a life by walking away. You know that.
“You good?”
Kennedy’s words bring me back, and I realize we’ve been idling in the driveway for roughly a minute. With a confident nod, I kill the engine and retrieve our bags from the trunk, though Kennedy insists on carrying hers.
“It’s just a bag. I can manage.” Her dry sarcasm has a hint of hesitation around me.
I’ve heard her in action a time or two with her friends before she knew I was standing nearby. She’s a natural around people, captivating them with each word she speaks. It’s not just the CU set, either—I saw it when she was in high school, too.
Well, she’s got your charisma.
Wendy admitted that in a defeatist tone shortly before Kennedy’s high school graduation. She’s always viewed her interpretation of my charisma as a defect, while I’ve spent the better part of a decade trying to turn it into a strength. I don’t know if there will ever be a final verdict from where I stand, but given the proper grooming, I’m sure Kennedy can make fine use of it.
Ascending the steps ahead of Kennedy, I place my hand on the doorknob and cast a soft glance her way. “I know it seemed like you didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, but I’m really happy you’re here right now.”
She nods, a tight smile appearing on her lips while her eyes widen. She’s nervous to meet this branch of her family she’s never known. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to back my way out of having her spend so much time around people who know every ugly detail about me.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Healing Begins
Kennedy.
“Mom? Dad?” Roland calls, opening the door slowly, as if to give one of us more time before it all becomes real.
I slept for most of the ride down here, then pretended to sleep for another half hour. I was thinking, and I didn’t want him watching me think. The last few text message exchanges with my mother left me grateful to be here, in Villa—freaking—Hills, Kentucky, more than a thousand miles away from her.
You can think better than that on your feet, Kennedy, why say you were going to Roland’s? Didn’t you think they’d eat that right up? Why you’re doing this, for the life of me, I don’t know. Maybe you really wanted to go there after all, so you created this situation to serve your interests.
Perhaps.
Of course, her final text reassured me she loved me, and didn’t really think any of those things she said. I told her it was all fine, and not to worry. We both lied, but history promises we’ll both be long over it before our tempers cross paths again. That’s the thing about quick-tempered people—they typically don’t hold a grudge. Can’t, rather, or they’d run out of allies quickly.