“Kind of. I don’t know.” I turn away from the road and look across the desert. “It’s a long story.”
“I bet. Hold on, let me check your location. I’m puttingyou on speaker.” There’s another pause, as Liz navigates to her Find My Friends app. “Youarevery close to Dad,” she confirms.
“Can you send me his address?”
“Sure, but you can always just call him to ask for it. Or maybe text. He’s better with texting.” While I’ve pretty much cut all contact with my dad, Liz keeps up with him semi-regularly. For her it’s just as easy to have a relationship with Dad as it would be with any other adult who’s vaguely in our orbit. Like Mom’s coworkers we see at holiday parties, or our great-aunt Lilla, who always brings lemon squares to family reunions. She doesn’t remember Dad asDad. When he left, she was too young to have formed any memories of him as an actual parent. She doesn’t remember the chili he used to make, or the way he’d let me sit on his lap to drive past the last few mailboxes leading up to our house, or his ridiculous attempts to braid hair. But I do. I have a bleeding space in the shape of a father, while Liz has an amorphous emptiness that expands and contracts. I don’t think that it’s necessarily easier for her, but I do think there are moments when she forgets that she even has a parent other than our mom. I never forget. I had a dad, who I loved more than anything, and he left. The idea of being cordial with him after how badly he hurt me seems impossible, so I just stay away. I’m not going to chase after my dad again. I’ve already, literally, been down that road before.
But now, I’m going to face him head-on. Finn says he thinks parents have no choice but to love their children, but he’s clearly wrong. My dad made a choice, and it wasn’t to love us unconditionally. And I deserve, at long last, to know why.
There’s a ping, and a text from Liz comes through with theaddress. When I pull it up in the map app, I’m shocked at how close we truly are. That feeling of fateful inevitability sweeps over me again.
Holding my phone out to the tow truck driver, I ask, “Can you take us here?”
He squints. “No problem, kids. Hop in the cab.”
Finn and I cram in together with all our belongings, and I try not to let any part of my body touch his. I call my dad twice on the way there to let him know we’re coming, but he doesn’t pick up. My pulse starts to hammer in my neck as we get closer, every muscle in my body coiling and tense. It’s a good thing I’m not the one driving now, because I’d probably be unable to stop myself from hitting the brakes and turning around. Anxiety crawls up my chest, into my throat.
The driver drops us off in front of a shabby house with a xeriscape front yard and a large collection of terra-cotta turtles arranged atop the crushed gray rock that covers most of the ground. There’s a longhorn made of scrap metal tucked beside the front porch, but it’s an old 3 Series BMW that convinces me we’re in the right place.
I knock twice on the front door before a flash of navy catches my eye, and I freeze. Parked beside the Bimmer is my dad’s old Wagoneer. The same car he drove away in nearly two decades ago.
23
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
(One day before the wedding)
THE DOOR SWINGS OPEN.
“Emma?” My dad manages a smile, but I’m still stuck in that moment. The moment twenty years ago when I watched the same truck pull out of our driveway and never come back. “Emmie Girl?”
I force myself back to the present, and to the man standing in front of me. It’s the same dark auburn hair I see every time I look in the mirror, but his is streaked with gray. My father looks like a redheaded Matthew McConaughey, and he has the same gravelly South Texas twang. He puts his hand out in front of him, and I stare at it. Is he really trying to give me a handshake after not seeing me for half a decade? I look at hishand, then back to his face, and back to his hand. But while I’m deciding what to do, Finn reaches over my shoulder and shakes it, sparing all of us the awkwardness of a father trying to shake his daughter’s hand instead of pulling her into a hug.
“Finn Hughes. Nice to meet you.”
“Mike Townsend,” my dad says, relieved. “Come on in.” He steps out of the doorway to make room for us, but I can’t pick up my feet to cross the threshold. The warmth from Finn’s hand seeps through the thin cotton of my shirt, and it’s enough of a steady presence that I’m able to take a deep breath and step inside.
“I almost didn’t recognize you with that new haircut.”
I’ve had this long bob since college.
“Wow.” Dad just stares at me, perhaps trying to match the eight-year-old child he used to live with to this grown woman now standing in his doorway. “Well, this is quite a surprise.”
For a moment, embarrassment washes over me. I haven’t seen him since that football game at UT. Eight years ago. And even that was fleeting—unclear whether he’d really come to see me or the game.
“I tried to call,” I say helplessly as I take in the house. It’s sparse. There are a few posters of desert vistas along the walls in the living room and a framed Vince Young jersey, but no photographs. The furniture, all a cracked chocolate-brown leather, is pointed at a large television playing ESPN. I try to find anything that looks familiar, anything to indicate that there’s at least some part of my dad’s life with us that he wanted to remember. But there’s nothing in the house that I recognize from my childhood. The homiest thing is the small woodburning oven in the corner that’s currently cold. That’show I’d describe the whole place.Cold.My mom’s house has art and photos on nearly every wall, and not a single piece of furniture matches. I feel a pang of nostalgia for the home I grew up in. Its cluttered chaos may have set my type A teeth on edge, but at least it was warm. Lived in. When I picture our cozy den, with its chunky throw blankets and stacks of magazines, I think,Home. Family. I survey Dad’s nondescript living room again, thinking,You left us for this?
“Oh, was that you calling?” He moves into the kitchen. “I don’t pick up numbers I don’t recognize.” His comment hits me in the gut. I swallow. “So what brings y’all to town? Can I get you something to drink?” But he’s out of sight before we can answer either question.
“Oh, um, just a water would be great,” I feebly toss out to him.
A cabinet slams shut, and there’s the sound of the tap. He returns with water in a plastic cup, DALLASCOWBOYSSUPERBOWLCHAMPIONS 1996emblazoned along the side. I try to place it in my memory. He must have had it when I was a kid before he left. Maybe I saw him drink out of it at some point, but the only plastic cups I remember are from Kuby’s in Snider Plaza. My mom probably still has two dozen stashed away in her kitchen cabinet right now. I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but I guess I’ve kind of divided my memories into “before” and “after.” Things I associate with Dad, and therefore try to block out as much as possible, and things from my childhood after he left. Being here in the same space as him again feels like some kind of twisty time vortex, past and present, before and after, melding together in a way that makes my head ache.
Maybe coming here was a mistake. Just another example of my boneheaded stubbornness trying to prove a point. I should have just let the tow truck driver drop us off at some coffee shop where we could have arranged for a Lyft to the nearest airport. Go back to Malibu. Tell everyone the truth. Tap in the Rains, let them try to track their daughter down. After all, isn’t that what parents are supposed to do? Take care of their children?
“So,” Dad says, clapping his hands together. “I was just about to make a grilled cheese for some late lunch. Would y’all want one too?”
I’m about to refuse, when Finn says, “Sure.”
