Page 13 of Shy Girl
Location: Fort Worth, Texas.
Plan: Find a social event with Anthony Dunkin and approach him there.
Operation Find My Biological Father had been underway for the last two years. Online college expenses and low wages in the Diner meant saving the requisite $2000 to make this happen took a long time. Things had been better since I moved into the Frolicking Moose. Bethany and Maverick lowered my rent and took it out of my paycheck. The remnants were just enough to pay myself.
That left a small, but heartfelt, savings. I just ignored the inevitable debt of student loans I’d have to chip away at soon.
Money wasn't the hardest part. Tracking Anthony Dunkin downwas.His location was easy enough to pinpoint because his office wasn't hidden, but finding a place to pop up and say, “Hi, I'm the daughter that came as the result of what I think was a one-night stand, but my mom doesn’t talk about it, so I don’t know for sure. The daughter you have been purposefully avoiding. Just wanted to say hi!”
Then watch his reaction.
Aside from Jayson Hernandez, I'd daydreamed of nothing else more than the moment I met Anthony Dunkin and he realized exactly who I was.
My eyes flew open when a pair of knuckles rapped on my window. A wild halo of white-blonde hair peered into the driver’s side window through slitted eyes that were the exact same shade as mine.
“Why are you sitting out here?” she asked.
A little smudge of fog appeared on the window when she spoke, she stood so close to it. I let out a sigh and reached for the door handle. A bit creepy, with her pale skin, to find her looming outside.
She stepped back to let me out.
“Hey, M-mom.”
The door popped open under my hand and she tilted her head to the side. “Come on in. Gotta check my groats.”
I trailed behind her through the yard, where free-range chickens clucked and fought each other for scraps of squash littered on the ground. They scattered as Mom strode by, her thin legs taking her quickly through the tall, wild grass and up the stairs. Old flower boxes lined the old mobile home, empty and dry. She had seventeen empty flower boxes now and had snapped at me when I suggested donating some to the cemetery. From outside, the sound of a grinder filled the house, and increased in volume when she tossed open the door.
Mayhem greeted us.
Mom’s double-wide trailer had always been chaotic, but her latest idea made it almost unstable. Various food items littered every available space, whether it was bagged whole grain oats—which she called groats—or cans of cinnamon sticks waiting to be ground. Glass jars and linen sacks filled in all the nooks and crannies that food waiting to be processed didn’t. A television played somewhere in the background and the scent of incense lay heavy on the air.
Handmade baskets lined with linen filled the kitchen as she waved me past her couch and into the dining area. Bamboo sporks clustered together in fist sized bundles tied by twine. A tag, made of recycled paper, saidSave the Earth with Erika.
“Just about done,” she called over the loud groan of a grain grinder. “The groats got gummy. Kinda wet. Forgot to roast and dry them out, so they’re clogging my grinder. Blasted thing takes forever. You almost can’t charge enough for ground oat flour with how long it takes.”
A giant grinder took up half her old counter space. I paused near the sink, where grain dust decorated the top of the counter. The grinder was at least as old as me. Clear, empty bags lay on the counter next to it, along with moreSave the Earth with Erikatags waiting to be applied.
Although I'd struggled all the way through high school with my Mom and her strange ways, I’d long since accepted it now. The fact that she managed to single-mom her way through my childhood, put food on the table, and still love me in her strange way felt like a gift. Her eccentricity was sometimes a bit much to process, but she largely just wanted to live her life and be left alone. We would probably never be close, but now that I had adult friends, we didn't need to be.
“H-how’s b-b-business?” I asked.
She flipped the grinder off. “Fine. Still trying to get the lease on the old lot where they had that pizza place, remember? Some developer wanted to make it a spa.” She scoffed. “Spa. What a waste. Do you know what lotion bottles do to our environment? Anyway, it’s about time Pineville sees a store with holistic support and resources, if you ask me.”
I nodded and leaned against one wall, my arms folded across my chest. Despite herholisticapproach to the world, Mom’s house looked like a pack-rat’s nest. Clogged with miscellaneous old glass bottles and dust. When I had asked her about county and state laws around processing food, she’d rolled her eyes and said, “My bleach bottle and I take care of any problems anyone needs to worry about, thank you very much.” I eyed a tottering pile of old newspapers she hadn’t taken to recycling yet and thought I heard a squeak.
Mom pushed a lock of hair out of her pale eyes. At fifty-something, she still had a young face, with wrinkles that added character and an intensity in her eyes that felt familiar. Her eyes appeared owlish behind massive, wire-rimmed glasses without which she was almost blind. Beads jangled from where they hung around her neck, scalloping a bright turquoise tank top that dipped well below her collarbone. Today, she wore a pair of old coveralls and slippers made from leather. Normally, she had wispy skirts in various shades of tie-dye.
She studied me. “And you? Thought I heard there was some trouble at the coffee shop.”
“F-fine. I—”
“Of course, no information has been released.” She rolled her eyes. “Allegedly, the woman was under the influence of some drug. Mark my words, Dagny. They’re going to blame mushrooms again and it’s not the mushroom’s fault!”
“I—”
“The woman needs to see a better herbalist if she’s turning to mushrooms to relax. Marijuana can do a lot these days, you know.”
“Mom—”
