“Why?” Marcus yells dramatically, his face red and voice deep with emotion. “So you can finish me off? Haven’t you tortured me enough?”
The bell on the door jingles as the three rush out. Marcus stands and watches them, and Clara remains on her knees beside him. When they finally look at one another, they smile widely and Marcus helps her to her feet.
“What in the hell was that?” I ask in disbelief. What were those kids talking about?
“That was phenomenal acting,” Marcus answers as he takes a bow.
“You missed your calling,” Clara compliments him.
“Yeah, well, the world of skydiving needed me more.”
“Holy shit!” Someone gasps and we all turn to see the woman waiting to jump holding a piece of paper, looking from it to me and back again. Marcus must have dropped the paper Ashley was trying to hand to me and this woman picked it up. “You’re her father.”
The room goes silent until I chuckle. “I don’t have a kid, lady.”
The woman ignores me and looks at Clara. “Aren’t you Neena’s mother?”
I dart my gaze to Clara who is standing as still as a statue, blinking profusely. When Clara doesn’t answer, the woman’s boyfriend stands and takes the paper from her. “Babe . . . I don’t think this is any of our business.”
As he hands the paper to Marcus, the woman apologizes. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . It’s just with it being all over the Internet and on the news . . .”
“With what being on the internet and news? Will someone please tell me what in the hell is going on?” I say, my voice rising and my frustration skyrocketing. It’s been like a goddamn zoo in here this morning and I’m tired of it. I just wanted to meet with Clara and piss her off to the point where she’d give me my money and never ask me for an annual meeting ever again. I didn’t sign up for these theatrics.
“Mom,” a small voice interrupts, and we all turn to the back hall where a tiny girl stands wearing black yoga pants and a sweater jacket. Her head is wrapped in a purple scarf. She’s thin and pale, but her eyes . . . something about them has me fixated, and I can’t stop looking.
“Neena,” Clara sighs and rushes toward her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“It sounded like Marcus was hurt. I was worried,” the girl responds as Clara tries to shoo her back down the hall.
“I’m okay, kiddo. Don’t worry,” Marcus assures her. “Go back to bed.”
Even as Clara gently pushes Neena back, Neena and I remain with our eyes locked. Her eyes. What is it about her eyes? After a minute, Clara wins and manages to get Neena down the hall. The room is silent for a moment until Bowman and some other guy I haven’t met before come out, suited up, ready to jump. Bowman gives me an awkward wave as he moves his gaze to Marcus. Marcus quickly shakes his head, indicating for Bowman not to say anything.
“We have to head to the airfield,” Marcus tells me. “You should stick around. There’s a lot you’ve missed since you’ve been gone.” Then he hands me the paper and leaves.
I can’t even read it yet. I’m still lost in thought. What is it about her eyes? I scratch my head, wondering why they look so familiar when suddenly it hits me.
They’re my eyes.
She has my eyes.
But that’s . . . impossible. I’m numb with shock. And fear. I look at the paper in my hand and begin to read it.
DESPERATELY SEEKING EPIC.
You’re my father.
The words seem to blur together forcing me to stop reading. And before I realize it, I’m sitting on the couch with the paper clenched tightly in my hand. I can’t will myself to read any more. It just can’t be true. How could it? How could it be true? Because if it is true, it means I have a kid that’s been fatherless for her entire life. It means Clara hid her from me. It simply can’t be true. Surely she doesn’t hate me that much that she’d omit the fact we have a child together. The longer I sit, the more horrendous my thoughts become.
“Paul,” Clara says my name, her voice faint. Jerking my gaze to hers, she swallows and her eyes go wide. She can see how angry I am.
“Is it true?”
She drops her head, frowning a little. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, and she hunches them ever so lightly. She doesn’t speak, just nods yes.
I stand and grab fistfuls of my hair as I pace back and forth. “So she’s what? Thirteen?”
“Twelve,” Clara answers, her voice raspy. She still hasn’t looked up.
I laugh with disdain. “Aw, fucking perfect, Clara. You hate me that much you’d hide our kid from me?”
Whipping her head up, she glares at me. “I tried contacting you for months after she was born. You didn’t respond to one email.”
“I don’t check that shit. You know that.”
“How else was I supposed to reach you? You didn’t even get a cell phone until two years ago, and the only way I found out about that is because Richard told me.”
“Well, cutting my money off worked. Why didn’t you do that sooner?”
“Because I didn’t think about it until now. And before she wasn’t . . .” She pauses as if choking on her next word.