My father’s always been a fast walker, and I’m trying not to be too obvious in my tracking of him. I do my best to keep a safe distance but also not to stay so far away that I’ll lose him. He heads up Clark Street and makes his way into Lincoln Park, where it’s harder to stay out of his sight. I slow my pace and almost lose him when he ducks under a bridge and back onto the street. I run after him and catch up enough to be able to follow at a steady pace for another ten minutes or so.
He turns a few corners and walks down some small tree-lined streets, and then finally he arrives at a large and beautiful brownstone on a fancy street named Geneva Terrace. It’s three stories high and newly renovated, with a bright red door and perfectly manicured bushes. This other family lives in a giant house on a side street in a much nicer neighborhood than where we live.
He pulls out his key, unlocks the door, and walks inside.
Oh, no.
I wasn’t thinking.
I had this vision of him opening the front door and his other wife and his other kids running to him, of him lifting them into his arms, embracing them on the front steps. As though this is something he’d want the world to see.
I sit on the edge of the curb and stare at the house: this house in this nice neighborhood, which might have very well cost him a million dollars or more, that belongs to my father but does not belong to us.
It’s my birthday. I’m seventeen today. There’s no cake, no candles, no streamers, or songs. Just me, alone, on a curb, following the lies of a man whose life I once thought I understood.
I make my birthday wish anyway.
I sit and I wait. And then I close my eyes.
And I make a wish.
I make a wish that one day I’ll understand.
I make a wish that one day I’ll be able to see the truth of it all.
*
An hour later, part of my wish comes true.
I have to scramble to hide behind a parked car when I see my father come out of the building. And behind him, a tall, stylish brunette with bangs and an elegant skirt. He holds the door open and then lifts a stroller down the steps. There’s a little boy in the stroller, and the woman, Paige, presumably, is holding the hand of a little girl who follows him down the steps. My father reaches his hand out to Paige and pulls her close.
The kids both have red hair, curly and wild, like my father’s.
Like mine.
This is it.
There they are.
They’re a beautiful family, model-perfect. It’s like they stepped out of a catalog. Paige is young and pretty, and the kids are well dressed, the boy in khakis and a Cubs hat, the girl in a purple paisley dress, her hair in pigtails. She’s clutching a stuffed lion. It’s just like the one he brought for Mila.
More than anything, I think.
You matter, I think.
And then I think, I could follow them to dinner or to the park or whatever place they’re going to.
But I’ve seen enough.
From this one sight alone, I have my answer.
I know what it’s like to have a beautiful mother, a beautiful sister, a father who brings home toys from his fancy business trips abroad and who holds his wife’s hand lovingly.
I know exactly what it’s like to be them.
This family I see before me is beautiful and perfect.
And it’s also a lie. A cruel and terrible lie.
I could run up to them, make myself known, ruin their lives just as much as he’s ruined ours. And then I could run home, tell my mother about everything.
I could take them all down, ruin them all.
But then I think about Mila, her birthday wish, how she wants us all to be together.
I let my father and his other family turn the corner, out of sight, and I head back toward Bennett Village.
Instead of walking back through the park, I take the long route home down Lincoln Avenue.
I look in windows.
I sit at bus stops.
I stare at people.
I try to understand.
It’s all too much.
I don’t know where to go, what to do next.
I could text my dad. Or not.
I could talk to my mom. Or not.
I could keep it all to myself and pretend I never saw anything.
Nothing makes sense. I can’t figure it out.
There are too many choices but no right answer.
Habits of an Effective Test Taker #7
More often than not, answers that are longer and contain more detail are the correct ones. Shorter answers are created quickly and are often throwaways that can be easily eliminated.
I stay at Sammie’s another three nights. I don’t bother going downstairs to get clean clothes. I don’t want to run into anyone accidentally, not my mother, certainly not my father, and not even Mila. I buy a new toothbrush and some underwear, and Sammie lets me borrow her clothes. I text my parents that I’ll be at Sammie’s for a few days.
My mother calls me and begs me to come home, but after a few uncomfortable conversations, she finally agrees to let me be. My father, on the other hand, texts back: This behavior is unacceptable. Come back when you are ready to have a conversation like an adult.
What a jerk.
I go to work, make my way through the day even though Sammie won’t be able to get her shifts changed back to mine until next week, and then I walk around the city, alone, while Sammie and her mom look at apartments in Morton Grove.