Page 44 of Yours

“Okay,” I say.

“Yeah,” my dad says, “Saturday night, my treat, we’ll go to Zolly’s.”

Zolly’s has the best ribs in town plus it’s small and cozy. A meal there is always a special treat.

The next day I get calls from two reporters, one from my college town in Vermont, and one from our local paper. Each asks me similar questions; the local paper reporter asks me to send him my bio and head shot. I don’t have either of those things, so get to work as soon as we hang up.

When the story comes out on Friday morning, my dad buys ten copies and shares it with everyone in our neighborhood. I do a lot of talking as we make our rounds. The hardest part is describing what I actually write when I create my poems. I usually don’t know what it’s about until it’s done. My neighbors nod politely, but I can tell my work is lost on them.

On Saturday, my dad and I go to the city for our annual shopping trip. I agonize over what to get Brian, but Dad helps me pick out a really nice flashlight that’s lightweight but powerful enough to see into small spaces for work, and several pairs of extra-thick, warm socks for ice fishing. I also splurge on a new, black leather belt because I’ve seen his old one is starting to crack. Holding it in my hands as I wait for my turn at the register, I get tingly imagining the sound the buckle makes when he undresses in a rush.

After we return home, I shower and get ready, putting on a dab of the perfume I bought. I also spent a little time in the lingerie department while my dad was shopping for me and giggle to myself because I can’t wait to see Brian’s reaction.

My dad comes out of his room looking fresh and handsome. I’m relieved that he seems to have recovered so well, and that his health is stable. I won’t have to worry so much when I go back to school. A twinge of discomfort seizes my gut. I haven’t let myself think about leaving, not yet.

I hug my dad, and he wraps his strong arms around me. “I’m so proud of you,” he says.

I inhale his spicy aftershave scent and close my eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

He scoops up his keys, and we head for the door. Outside, a white car is parked on the curb. A woman steps out and pauses.

“Darcy?” she calls, her voice unsteady.

But before I can reply, my dad is hurrying forward. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks.

“Dad?” I ask, confused.

The woman rushes forward, her eyes on me, then stops, and the moment feels frozen, like all three of us are immobile, like ants in a blob of prehistoric amber.

I watch my dad, who looks ready to hit something, then glance at the woman, who looks familiar though I can’t say why.

I see she’s holding the newspaper, the one with my story on the right-hand column, my picture a little outdated but showing a shy young woman with eager eyes.

“Darcy, it’s so good to see you,” she says, her voice softening.

I frown. “But I don’t know you,” I say.

The woman’s eyes tighten with pain. “I’m your mother.”

A hole opens up in the ground, and I fall through it, the air whooshing past my ears. I open my mouth to try to breathe but it’s like the wind crowds inside me, emptying everything I have.

“This isn’t right, Silvia,” my dad says. “She doesn’t need this,” he adds. “She doesn’t need you mucking up her life.”

“I just…can we go somewhere to talk?” she asks me.

“No,” my dad says, his voice strained. “We’re going out tonight. To celebrate Darcy.”

“Oh,” Silvia says, her eyes filling with a mix of anguish and joy. “That’s so great. You deserve that. You deserve so much.” She takes a step closer.

“Do you know the damage you caused?” my dad says. “What she’s had to live through? And you just think you can show up here…”

“Dad,” I say, finally finding my voice.

He shoots me a pained look. “You don’t have to talk to this woman, Darcy. It’s better if we leave.”

“Look, I know it’s too late for us,” Silvia says. “But I just want to see you. Is that so wrong? Did you know that I read everything you write?”

“You do?” I reply, shocked. To think that she even knows I’m a writer is a surprise, let alone that she reads my stuff. “How?” I ask, unable to stop my curiosity. I’ve never been formally published.

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