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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I give his head a rub and tell him I ordered him another pack of jingle balls and that we can move back to our house at the end of the week.

This appears to cheer him up, and he begins nibbling away at the lasagna.

I order his balls off Amazon, then Google “Garfield.” I skim the Wikipedia and read a couple of the sample comic strips they have.

I tell Lassie, “Garfield, lasagna. I get it now.”

He laughs.

At 3:58 a.m., I carry Lassie to bed. I lay back on the pillow. There is a rustling sound.

I must have been too preoccupied to notice it when I woke up.

I reach my hand into the pillow and slip out a white envelope. “Henry” is scribbled on the front in Isabel’s handwriting. She must have slipped it in my pillow while I was sleeping.

I open it and remove the contents.

It is one page.

The letterhead at top reads “DNA Testing of America.”

When my father left to take Ingrid to the airport, I went into his room and pulled a couple of his hairs from a comb. Then I plucked out a couple of my own. That’s what was in the envelope I stashed in the bushes for Isabel.

I swallow hard as I read the words: Not a paternal match.

:14

My dad isn’t my dad. My dad isn’t my dad. My dad isn’t my dad.

Those are the only five words I can think. The only five words in my vocabulary.

My.

Dad.

Isn’t.

My.

Dad.

I gaze over at the clock on the dash.

3:05 a.m.

For five minutes, I’d stayed in bed, those five words running over my eyes.

I look down at Lassie asleep on my chest. I want to tell him. To tell him the guy in the other room isn’t my dad. That he is an imposter. A fraud.

“You gonna ever get out of bed, Sonny Boy?”

I gaze up.

There is a man standing in the doorway of my room.

Gray hair, glasses pushed down on his nose, flannel shirt, tan khakis.

“Yep, just thinking.”

“I’ve got some food ready for you.”

I nod and smile. “Sounds good. Be out in a minute.”

I push Lassie off me and spend the next five minutes in the shower. It is the longest shower I have ever taken.

When I finally get dressed it is 3:15 a.m.

A quarter of my day is gone.

My dad — sorry, Richard — has food waiting for me at the table. Spaghetti. Garlic bread. A tall glass of milk.

I stare at him.

Glare at him.

I’m furious.

Then I get furious for getting furious. How could I possibly be mad at this man? Whether or not he was my biological father, he was still my dad.

Right?

I contemplate telling him.

He asks, “Are you gonna sit—”