Leaning against the front door jam of our house, Dad stretched the calf muscles in his legs—always a good idea before going for a run. On his doctor’s orders, he was required to get some regular exercise. Too many idle hours in front of his big-screen TV had affected his health, and all that greasy popcorn had clogged his arteries like the sludge in a pig sty drain pipe.
I came down the stairs with my hair in a ponytail, wearing a Shankstonville High School t-shirt and purple gym shorts. It was a perfect, Sunday morning for getting in a little aerobic exercise—and to have a serious talk with my dad. My mission was to find out why my adoption was kept secret from me. Getting him alone might compel him to open up about it.
“I think I’ll join you today,” I said to my dad.
He was caught off guard by my forwardness. We had hardly said a word to each other in months.
“You talking to me?” he said, checking to see if someone else was there. “I guess that’ll be alright. But it won’t be much of a workout. I don’t go very fast.”
“No matter.”
Mom crossed the hallway with her morning cup of coffee, and spotted Dad and I talking. She came over to us, then looked me up and down as if she didn’t know me. “What are you dressed up for?” she asked.
“Amy’s coming with me,” said Dad.
Then Mom straightened the collar on his Rolling Stones Tour t-shirt. “Alright, dear,” she said. “But don’t overdue it today. You’re not running the Boston Marathon, you know.”
She sipped her coffee, while giving me the evil eye over the rim of her cup. “You’ll make sure he doesn’t overdue it, won’t you?” she said.
“S-sure thing, Mom.” I said, hoping to avoid another confrontation with her.
“Well,” said Dad. “Better get moving before I change my mind and sit down to Good Morning America.”
I closed the front door behind us as Dad and I followed his usual routine: a pleasant jaunt downtown, then back home for a hearty breakfast.
Downtown Shankstonville wasn’t too far from our house. Keeping to the sidewalk, my dad chugged along at a pretty good clip—better than I thought he would. I breezed along beside him without breaking a sweat.
“What made you decide to come?” asked Dad. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“I’m thinking about joining the cross-country team at school. Got to get into shape to make the cut.”
“You sure that’s the only reason?”
We were only two blocks from our house, and he already suspected that I had ulterior motives. He knew me all too well. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.
“A single girl in shorts running alone on the streets of Shankstonville isn’t safe,” I said. “These farmers might get the wrong idea.”
Dad smiled.
We kept quiet for the next few blocks. Then it was time to get down to business.
“It just occurred to me,” I said. “The last time we did anything like this, you were jogging behind a baby stroller, and I was in it.”
“You were pretty easy to push back then,” said Dad. “Small babies don’t weigh very much.”
“I didn’t know I was that little. Was I premature or something?”
“No, just small. I can remember giving you your bottle and wondering which was bigger: you or the bottle.”
“That must have been a plus for Mom. I mean, having me must have been a breeze.”
Not surprisingly, Dad didn’t reply.
“Remember that pink blanket you used to bundle me up in,” I said, “the one with the embroidered rattles on it?”
“I remember,” said Dad.
“I seem to recall that the hospital where I was born gave it to you. You told me once that I was so attached to it that I wouldn’t let it go. Which hospital was that, anyway?”
Dad was spared from answering me by the approach of a rusty, old pickup truck. Straw spewed out behind it from the bails of hay in the cargo area. As it barreled up the street towards us, two young men riding in the cab waved their arms wildly out the windows.
“Hey, baby!” shouted one of the men, staring at me.
“Woo-hoo! Gimme some, darlin’!” whooped the other, waving his cowboy hat in the air.
In Shankstonville it was not uncommon for the locals to enjoy a beer or two before breakfast. These two acted like they had consumed an entire keg. Their truck swerved back and forth, crossing the center yellow line on the street repeatedly.
“How ‘bout a kiss, sugar?”
“What ya doin’ after school, sweetie?”
“Nice legs, girly!” they yelped.
I didn’t feel the least bit threatened by those obnoxious, country hicks. Besides, I did have nice legs.
As the truck zoomed past us, I was surprised to see my dad flip them off, with an angry snarl on his face.
“Assholes!” he shouted at the brash young men.
I had to laugh.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. “You handled that pretty well. I’m impressed.”
“Ignorant hillbillies! People like that ought to be strung up by their—”
“You don’t have to be so graphic, you know. Those kind don’t bother me in the slightest.”
“If you please, Amy, I’m trying to defend your honor.”
“I can defend myself. I’m not some helpless damsel in distress. If I need a knight to rescue me, I’ll call for one.”
Dad didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
“Look, Amy,” he said. “I know what you think of me. I haven’t been the best father. You’ve made that abundantly clear. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”
It had been a long time since I heard him express any kind of affection for me. I should have responded in kind, but I wasn’t yet ready to be that forgiving.
We arrived in town and slowed to a walk, then casually strolled past the shops along Hickory Street.
We stopped at the display window of Raintree Books, one of the last remaining independent bookstores in the county. Prominently displayed were stacks of my Dad’s last novel, Dawn of the Dworlocks: an apocalyptic tale about a race of mutated lemurs that rule the Earth. It was his best-selling book to date. One of the books was turned around, showing my dad’s smiling face on the back cover.
Just then, a man walked up and noticed the book in the window. He stared at the image on the back cover, then looked at my dad’s face.
“Mornin’, Mr. Dawson,” said the man. Then he walked on.
“That’s why I love it here,” said Dad. “These country folk couldn’t care less about celebrity.”
Beside his novel was another stack of books —copies of my all-time favorite novel: To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Haven’t read that one since high school,” said Dad. “It was pretty good as I recall.”
“Pretty good?” I said, shocked. “It’s only the best book ever written!”
“The dad in that story had a funny name, I believe. Oh, yes, Atticus Finch, the devoted father.”
“Don’t forget Scout, the loving daughter.”
“I remember Scout. She was respectful of her father. An example every daughter should follow.”
Dad glanced over at me to see if I had picked up on his not-so-subtle hint.
“And Atticus always told Scout the truth,” I said. “A virtue all fathers should aspire to.”
He wasn’t expecting a comeback like that. As he considered my remark, I think he was starting to catch on to where I was going with all my needling.
We passed a sidewalk cafe. Customers sat at outdoor tables, leisurely enjoying their breakfasts in the fresh air.
“Speaking of good writing,” said my dad, “here’s a little trick I like to use when creating characters. I observe ordinary people, then imagine them in extraordinary situations. Take that couple, for example." He pointed out a young man and woman, gazing lovingly into each others eyes while sharing a chocolate eclair. "Young. Alive. Their life together filled with love and harmony. He’s a married man, but that woman is not his wife. In exactly thirty seconds, his real wife will round the corner and find them together. Busted!"
Next to them sat an elderly couple, quietly sipping coffee. "Those two should be savoring their golden years together,” said Dad. “But he suffers from dementia—at least that's what he’s been told. She drugs his coffee every morning with a concoction that ravages his brain cells, while keeping the old man's bank book close to her."
Then came a man and woman with a small child. The parents were white. The child was black. I waited for Dad's take on this family, but he conveniently skipped over them.
"You missed one," I said.
"Did I?"
“Totally! They’re a childless couple. The woman can't conceive, so they adopt. The baby is biracial, and light-skinned at birth. But the infant’s complexion darkens as she gets older. The couple had planned to keep their adoption a secret, but must now face the music.”
I studied my dad’s face. If that little speech didn’t get a confession out of him, nothing would. But he showed no emotion, as he stared off down the street.
“Time we started back,” he said.
We picked up the pace and headed for home.
The run back was a quiet one. Dad had obviously grown tired of me questioning him, and had said all that he was going to say. But I still hadn’t found the answers I was searching for.
"Ya know,” I said, “I kinda like my story about the couple with the adopted baby. Maybe I’ll write a short story about it.”
“Almost home,” said Dad, completely ignoring me. “I can smell our breakfast from here.”
Time was running out.
“Don’t change the subject,” I said. “We were talking about families with adopted children.”
“You keep bringing up that subject of . . . you know what.”
"Adoption? Why does it bother you to talk about it?
We looked over at each other for only an instant, but I could see the guilt in his eyes. I had broken through his defenses, and it was time for me to come clean.
"Why didn't you tell me?” I said.
“Tell you what?” Dad’s voice was shaky.
“I know all about it. I was adopted, wasn’t I?”
Dad’s face turned pale. “W-why do you say that?”
”Don’t try to deny it! I’ve been living in a house filled with lies, and you know it.”
Dad staggered as his pace slowed. “We thought it would be better for you if nobody knew.”
“You mean, better for you!”
Dad began sweating profusely, and his breathing became heavy. I grabbed his arm as his foot slipped off the edge of the curb.
“You okay, Dad?” I asked.
Just as we reached our house, he clutched his chest, then gasped for air as he fell to his knees. I watched in horror as his eyes rolled up into his head. Then he collapsed on his back onto the sidewalk.
Our front door swung open. Mom was standing in the doorway. “Oh my God!” she screamed.
The front doors of our neighbor’s homes flew open at my mom’s shriek.
Mom rushed over to my dad, now lying unconscious, and cradled his head in her arms as she kneeled down beside him.
“What did you do to him?” she screamed at me.
“I know that you and dad adopted me, and I told him so.”
My dad was now surrounded by our concerned neighbors. One man was on his knees giving him CPR.
Mom stood up to face me, her eyes glazed over with rage. “I wish we had left you behind at the orphanage!”
Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I bent down and grabbed Dad’s wrist to check his pulse, but Mom yanked me back up.
“Don’t you touch him,” she yelled. Then she slapped my face so hard that I almost fell over. “You ungrateful little tramp! I’ll be glad to be rid of you!”
I stood there shaking, as Mom returned to my dad’s side.
I should have taken Bob’s advice and stayed in that playground he so vividly described to me. I thought I could handle an adult situation, but I wasn’t ready for it. I should have listened to Hubert, too, who told me I was screwing up a sweet deal with my boneheadedness. But most of all, I should have listened to Scout, who had the clearest message of all: respect your father, no matter what. Now, there was my dad, barely clinging to life, and my mom, wishing I was dead.
What was I going to do now?
Mom looked up at me. “Don’t just stand there, damnit!” she said. “Call 9-1-1!”