Chapters (28)
I climb into my car and pull the letter from my father out of my purse. I run my hand lightly over the front. I can almost imagine my father writing it, touching his pen to the envelope, wondering if he’ll ever see me again.
“Yes,” I say out loud, hoping that somewhere out there, he knows I’m looking for him. “Yes, I’m going to find you.”
As I blink back the unexpected tears threatening at the corners of my eyes, I look up and notice two teenage guys hanging out outside the building, looking at me funny. For a moment, I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that they’ve recognized me. Then I realize they’re snickering—probably because I’m a weird girl sitting in a crazy pink car, talking to herself and crying.
“Stop being crazy,” I tell myself firmly. I take a deep breath and start the Beetle.
I don’t have a plan, exactly. I just know I can’t wait any longer.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up outside my dad’s house. It’s a little white-trimmed blue cottage, right across from a park with a playground. My heart does a funny flip-flop as I think of what my life would have been like if I had grown up here. Would my father have pushed me on the swings? Would he have played with me?
I get out of the car, noticing the marigolds lining the walkway, the way the grass is a little overgrown but still bright green. The shades of the house are drawn, but as I walk slowly toward the pale blue front door, I imagine what’s behind them. Does my dad live here alone? Or did he remarry after my mom? Is there a room for me, just in case I come home one day?
No, I tell myself quickly. That’s stupid. He doesn’t know you anymore.
And he thinks you don’t care because you’ve never written back.
The thought makes me sad.
I stare at the door for a moment before doing anything. Then I steel myself and push the doorbell. I listen carefully for footsteps—my dad’s footsteps—but I don’t hear any. After a moment, I try again. The bell echoes inside. But after that, there’s only silence. I knock a few times. Still nothing.
“They’re away, dear!”
A grandmotherly woman is standing out on the lawn next door. She’s wearing a robe and has curlers in her hair, and she’s watering her roses with a long green hose.
“They won’t be back for another two days!” the woman adds pleasantly.
“They?” I ask tentatively. She blinks and takes a step closer to me, still aiming the hose at a row of rosebushes with big red blooms.
“Yes, the Mechams,” she says. “Pete, Lynda and their little daughter, Alison.”