BACK AT MY house, the next morning, I sign up for Facebook. I glance at Meredith’s thumbnail picture. She’s smiling with her eyes, not her mouth, and it makes me ache with nostalgia. I consider “friending” her. Too backdoor. Too snoopy.
Using my landline, I call information in Santa Cruz. There’s a listing for Meredith Canter. I know it’s her because the street address where she lives is in the neighborhood she always dreamed about. I don’t think about it too much. I dial.
After two rings, the phone is picked up. “Hello.” I lose my breath at the sound of her beautiful voice. Before I can answer, she says: “Hold on a second, please.”
Then I hear scuffling in the background. I hear her say: “Hold on, Zekey, my love. Mamma’s got to take a call.”
I feel my heart break. If Zeke is my offspring, Meredith has a reason for keeping the secret. Maybe she suspects I’d be a rotten father, like my dad and the whole stinking bloodline. Or maybe it’s not mine and she doesn’t want to hurt me.
I hang up.
I notice the video camera perched on the computer. It came with the damn thing, supposed to be for Skype. I stare into its black eye.
I think about all the searches I’ve done, looking for a job, passing late nights, buzzed on cheap gin, grazing on the Internet, indulging whatever whim, following links. Believing my behavior to be between me and my browser. Under the gaze of this electronic eye, unblinking.
Big Brother isn’t looking over my shoulder, as the cliché goes. He’s staring me right in the face.
I look at Meredith’s thumbnail image on Facebook. I want to call her back, just to tell her: toss the gadgets, raise Zeke on paper and pencil.
I close the browser.
Some secrets were meant to remain buried.