“How would you feel if you knew something didn’t want you?”

“Didn’t want me?”

“Someone, or something, was telling you no.”

He studied my face for a minute. He said carefully, “Are you talking about your illness, Maddy?”

“What do you think I’m talking about?”

He turned his head, suddenly interested in the candy bar wrappers dotted about on the grass. “I wish they took better care of this place.”

I swung my legs under the bench and waited. Barney had missed his midair catch again and was sniffing in tight circles at the edge of the shrubs.

“That’s a subjective feeling, Maddy,” Grandpa said at last. “I can understand you might feel like that. But it doesn’t accord with the facts. We have to think scientifically.”

“Facts!” I said with scorn. “The fact is there’s something in the universe, or multiverse, or whatever you want to call it, that doesn’t want me.”

“Sweetie . . .”

“No more Maddy, it’s saying. You can’t argue with that. It’s not saying no to you, is it? Or to Barney, even.”

“Well, actually I can argue with that,” my grandfather began, but I pushed on.

“You know what I think? I think it all started with my father.”

Grandpa cupped his ear with one hand. “Beg your pardon?”

“I think that’s where the idea came from. Originally.”

I knew he’d heard what I said because he didn’t ask again. He fixed his eyes on some picnickers sprawled on the ground amid the remains of their lunch.

“Know what I mean?” I prompted.

Grandpa’s lips were a thin line and he was tense about the eyes. That’s the way he looks when he feels out of his depth. I bet he was longing for Grandma to rise up out of the bushes and take over.

No one talked about my father much when I was growing up. There was nothing to say about someone who had bowed out so early. My mother always answered my questions because she believes in honesty and always tries to do the right thing. I know my father is Spanish, he’s a scientist, he’s named Antonio, and he has my height and eyes and hair. Or rather, I have his. They had never planned on having children together, and besides, he had to return home.

“What I want to know is why would a father not want to raise his own child?”

Grandpa spoke at last. “I wouldn’t call him a father,” he said reluctantly. “A father is someone who does raise his child.”

“What am I supposed to call him? A sperm donor?”

“I would call him a young man sowing his wild oats who made a mistake. He was too lacking in imagination, or too weak—”

“He had to go back!”