“What’s the matter, Abbie?” my father
inquired, peeking his head out from his study as I stomped down the hall.
My steps ceased slightly past his door.
I turned, surprised he was here. Last I knew he had been in New York closing a
merger over deadly concoctions and Broadway Theatre. New York had always been
his favorite place for business.
“Hi…Dad,” I said somewhat dumbly. “When
did you get back?”
“This morning. Now, what’s wrong? Why
are you fighting with your mother?”
I crossed my arms, releasing a breath
I hadn’t realized I had been holding. “She won’t be honest with me,” I finally
answered after no lie would come to mind.
He nodded, causing his shaggy
cinnamon hair to jostle. “Come in.”
His study was cozy compared to most
of our house. I remembered jumping on the leather couches as a child and
settling beside him to listen to poetry or prose of another time that he so
expertly read. The numerous bookcases shelving volumes from around the globe
had always fascinated me. They held the keys to another realm, a new world, a
forgotten time. Now they stood stoic and floundering in a feeble existence,
half-forgotten. I looked away from them, reminded far too much of my own
predicament.
He patted the soft leather beside him,
but I sat across from him; I didn’t want his comforting nature to sway my
resolve.
A small, depressed smile invaded his
features as he sighed; “I always knew this day would come.”
I sat upright, hoping if I came off
more adult-like, he would treat me as such. I fought to keep my expression
apathetic. The familiar setting of comfort, laughter, and safety, however,
combated my determination.
“Am I adopted?” I questioned,
preparing for the worst, though I hadn’t figured out what that would be.
He massaged his temples with a pale
hand as he pondered an answer. “Yes, and no,” he finally replied.
My mind froze, unsure whether to be
relieved or shattered. I was somewhat confused, and yet completely understood
what the remark was supposed to mean; but meaning couldn’t seem to dawn when I
was directly involved.
His hazel eyes seemed to understand
my thoughts and elaborated: “You are mine, my child. Kenzy is not your mother,
however. She adopted you.”
Questions screamed in my mind,
blocking out all other noise, but the only word my lips found purchase on was
“how.”
“Well,” he said, hunkering down as if
he were about to tell me the school had been blown to smithereens, “Kenzy
couldn’t have children. We found out she was sterile a couple years into our
marriage. At that point, everything was falling apart, and we thought a child
would make things better, but a child was inconceivable.”
“What about adoption? Or having
another woman carry the child to term?”
“Kenzy didn’t want a child from
another woman, afraid she would change her mind after the child’s birth. And
she didn’t want a child that had nothing in common with either of us. She was
very stubborn on that.”
“So how did you have me?”
He nodded knowingly, as if
anticipating that question already and having just found the words in which to
explain it. “Some time after our arguments worsened, I met your mom. Tyrene. But
everyone called her Ty.” My father smiled fondly at the memory; there was a
light in his eyes that made him seem younger, more vivacious. “You look a lot
like her, you know. It’s because of you I can stand to miss her.”
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