It’s just a panic episode, I hear my mom whisper in my mind. I take a deep, deep breath. Then I get up and stand next to Mercedes. She’s looking at a big sign on the brick wall that says DIRECTORY.

“Anthropology department is down this hall.” She points.

I push all thoughts of panic aside. No spiraling, especially not in front of Mercedes. I follow her down the hall, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not ready for whatever comes next.

CHAPTER 24 Mercedes

I try to ignore the irritating squeak of Mattie’s sneakers behind me. This is it. We’re going to meet him. My dad. Our dad. Frank Gómez.

Once, I asked Mom why he didn’t send Christmas cards like everyone else we knew. There was always a pile of cards in the basket by the front door. From great-uncles, second cousins, Mom’s high school classmates and old boyfriends. There were long holiday letters from her former assistant and my old babysitters. The people we knew best didn’t send cards. They called us or came over on Christmas Day for a big dinner, the one time a year we used our long dining room table. But Frank Gómez didn’t come over and he never sent a card.

“I suppose he doesn’t have our address,” Mom had told me.

“What?” I asked. “He doesn’t know where I live?”

“No,” Mom said. “Why would he need to?”

“Is that why he never visits? Because he doesn’t know where to find me?” What I was thinking but didn’t say was, Please tell me it isn’t that he doesn’t want to.

But Mom just sighed. “He wouldn’t visit even if he had your address, Mercedes. He’s far away and very busy.” She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You don’t need him.”

But I wasn’t sure. Tristan had his dad. Where was mine? Why didn’t my dad want to visit?

“But he knows about me, right?”

She nodded. “Of course. I told him about you, sent him your picture. You were such a cute baby.”

“What about the other baby? His other daughter?” I had asked Mom. I hated the words “other daughter.” It made me feel like a designer knockoff, like the fake Gucci bags they sell by the Boardwalk. A cheap imitation.

“Well, the other daughter is probably not a baby anymore,” Mom said. She laughed and I felt the anger boiling.

“Does she have my address?”

Mom shook her head. “I’ve told you: Frank Gómez’s other daughter lives far away. I doubt we’ll ever meet her or her mother. He probably hasn’t even met her. You don’t need random strangers, Mercedes. We have each other. And you have your brother.” Then Mom stood up like she did when she was done with a conversation.