“She says heaven don’t want her and hell’s afraid she’d take over,” the girl said, pulling a notebook and pen from her apron and walking over. “The physical therapy’s been a bear, though.”
“She can do it if anybody can,” Dad said. He slid his menu to her without looking at it. “Sweet tea and a Caesar salad with chicken, please.”
She nodded. “And who’s this with you?” she asked, turning to me. My eyes flicked from her to Dad.
“I’m Amanda,” I said. She looked like she expected more information, but I had no idea what Dad had told people about his family. What if he told them he had one child, a son? I shakily handed her my menu and said, “I would like a waffle and Diet Coke please, ma’am, thank you.”
“She’s my daughter,” Dad said after a moment, his voice halting and stiff.
“Well, she looks just like you!” We exchanged an uncomfortable look as Mary Anne trotted off to get our drinks.
“She seems nice,” I said.
“She’s a good waitress,” Dad said. He nodded stiffly. I drummed my fingers on the counter and wiggled my foot back and forth absentmindedly.
“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” I said softly. “It means a lot.”
“Least I could do.”
Mary Anne brought our food and excused herself to greet a pair of white-haired older men in plaid work shirts.
One of the men stopped to talk to Dad. His nose was round and spider-webbed with purple veins, his eyes hidden under storm-cloud brows. “Who’s this little beam of sunshine?” he asked, leaning past Dad to wave at me. I turned so he couldn’t see my black eye.
“Amanda,” Dad mumbled. “My daughter.”
The man whistled and slapped Dad’s shoulder. “Well, no wonder I ain’t seen her before! If I had a daughter as cute as this’n I’d keep her hid away too.” My cheeks burned. “You just tell me if any of the boys get too fresh, now, and I’ll loan you my rifle.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Dad said haltingly.
“Oh, trust me,” he said, winking, “I had three daughters, not a one of them half as pretty as this one in their time, and it was still all I could do to keep the boys away.”
“Okay,” Dad said. “Thanks for the advice. Looks like your coffee’s getting cold.”
The man said goodbye, winked again, and walked stiffly to his seat. I turned my attention straight ahead. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Dad doing the same.
“Ready to go?” he asked finally.
He got up without waiting for a response and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table next to our half-finished meals. We didn’t make eye contact as we got in the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
NOVEMBER, THREE YEARS AGO
The hospital bed creaked as Mom sat and rubbed my leg through the thin blanket. A forced smile tightened her apple cheeks but failed to reach her eyes. Her clothes looked baggy; she must not have eaten since I was admitted, to have lost so much weight.
“I talked with the counselor,” she said. Her accent was so different from mine, light and musical.
I said, “What about?” My voice sounded like nothing—flat, toneless, with the faintest deepening that made me never want to speak again. My stomach cramped and twisted.
“When it’s safe for you to come home. I told ’em I was worried ’bout what you might do when you’re alone, since I can’t take any more time off work. I couldn’t survive it if I came home and found you…” she trailed off, staring at the light-yellow wall.
“What did the counselor say?” I had met with him a few days before. When he asked me what was wrong with me, I wrote six words on a notepad, my throat still too sore from the stomach pump to speak.
“He said there’s ways to treat what’s wrong with you,” Mom said. “But he wouldn’t say what it is.” She peered at me.
“You won’t want me to come home if I tell you what’s wrong,” I said, shifting my eyes down. “You won’t ever want to see me again.” This was the most I’d said at once in weeks. My throat ached from the effort.
“That ain’t possible,” she said. “There ain’t a thing in God’s creation that could undo the love I have for my son.”
I brought my wrist up to my chest and looked down. The identification bracelet said my name was Andrew Hardy. If I died, I realized, Andrew was the name they would put on my tombstone.
“What if your son told you he was your daughter?”
My mother was quiet for a moment. I thought of the words I wrote down for the counselor: I should have been a girl.
Finally, she brought her eyes to meet mine. Her expression was fierce, despite her round, red cheeks.
“Listen to me.” Her hand squeezed my leg hard enough that the pain broke through the fog of my meds. When she spoke next, I listened. “Anything, anyone, is better than a dead son.”
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