“Seek for thy noble father in the dust.”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 2
It’s a go-go-go kind of day. We have two quizzes—one in Cal, one in World History. I spend recess sitting cross-legged in front of my locker, reviewing my notes on World War I. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Katie says when she sees me.
The extra studying pays off. I can answer every question on the history quiz. “I guessed half of them,” Katie tells me when we leave the exam room.
After classes are over, we go straight to rehearsal. Mick is there, scribbling notes. He looks up when I come into the room, and when our eyes meet, he smiles, but so quickly I’m not really sure it happened.
After that, I make a point of not looking at him. It’s hard to do. It’s even harder to believe that in forty-eight hours we’ll be having dinner together. Me, Iris Wagner, with Mick Horton! I’ve already planned my outfit: the dress he bought me, black opaque tights, and my clunky black boots with the wedge heels. I’ll wear my hair away from my face. I’ve been wearing it that way ever since Mick said I should. Mick has a great eye for detail. Theater directors have to notice everything.
I get home that afternoon before Mom. She phones from the car to say she went for coffee with a friend but that she’s bringing home pizza from the Italian bakery and could I set the table.
The pizza is half pepperoni (for Mom), half tomato-and-mushroom (for me). “Come sit with me on the couch for a bit,” Mom says after we’ve eaten. “You haven’t told me how your tests went.”
Mom sighs as she stretches out on our corduroy couch. I sit at the other end. When she puts her feet on my lap, I can’t help feeling a little trapped.
I know Mom counts on my daily report. I also know I could never tell her about Mick. She wouldn’t understand. She’d be like Polonius and try to talk me out of seeing him. Keeping secrets from her is a new feeling for me— one I’m not used to yet.
Mom wiggles her toes the way she does when she’s happy. “Cal went fine,” I tell her. “And I’m pretty sure I aced World History. Most people think World War I was caused by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, but there were other factors, like territorial disputes and the growth of nationalism across Europe.” I don’t know why I’m telling Mom all this. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid I’ll let something slip about Mick.
Mom doesn’t seem to be suspicious. In fact, I think she’s enjoying the world history lesson. “I’ve noticed that when things go wrong,” she says. “There are usually lots of factors.”
“Are you still working on that walk-in closet in the condo downtown?” I ask her.
Mom nods. “I’ll be there for at least another week. That closet is bigger than your bedroom, Iris. The client wants a whole wall just for her shoes and boots. If you ask me, it’s ridiculous. On the other hand, her shoe-and-boot habit pays our bills.”
Mom wants to know if I have studying to do, and if I want to do it on the couch. “I could read my magazine,” she says.
I lift her feet off my lap. “I need to start my English essay.” Mom knows I prefer to write in my own room.
“You can read it to me when it’s done.”
Once I’m in my room, I let myself daydream about Mick. I see us walking along Mount Royal Avenue and sitting together in the café. I think about how much I want to kiss him.
I know I should start my essay before I get too tired. Even if I only do the first couple of paragraphs. I will not be the kind of girl who lets her schoolwork slide because of some guy.
I flip open my laptop and create a new document. I write my name and the course code at the top of the page.
Maybe I’ll just take a short Facebook break. I check the time at the top of the computer screen. I’m not going to spend more than five minutes on Facebook, I promise myself, then I’ll go straight back to the essay.
I scan the latest postings. Antoine has posted a link to a squirrel circus. A squirrel circus? No wonder Antoine’s failing chemistry. Katie’s posted photos from today’s rehearsal. She must have shot them with her cell phone. There’s a photo of Tommy, adjusting a microphone. He’s wearing a Star Wars T-shirt that makes him look like he did when we were in third grade—sweet and goofy. In the background, I can just make out the tip of Mick’s fedora.
I’m in the next photo. Mick is right—I do look better with my hair off my face. My posture’s better too. Even though I’ve only known Mick for a short time, I know it’s because of him that I’m standing straighter.
Someone is sending me a personal message. I figure it’s Katie, asking for help with the English essay. But it isn’t her. The message is from someone named Nate Berg.
Oh my god. How weird is this?
Nate Berg is my father.
I nearly call out for my mom. She’s still on the livingroom couch, lost in the latest Home Beautiful magazine. But no, Mom would freak out.
My fingers tremble as I move the mouse to click on the message. Then I think, what if I don’t open it? I’ve managed all these years without a father, thank you very much. Why do I need one now? I could delete the message without even looking at it. I could.
But I don’t. I can hear my heart thumping under my T-shirt. I suck in my breath and click on the message.
My name is Nate Berg. I’m looking for the Iris Wagner who was born in Montreal on May 11, 1995. I’m her dad. Can you let me know if you are her? If you’re not her, sorry to have bothered you.
It is him. My father. Nate Berg. I click on his name. There is no photo of him on his profile page. I check to see how many Facebook friends he has. None. That means Nate Berg opened a Facebook account to find me. But why now?
So much for my English essay.
I don’t move. I just sit frozen in front of my computer screen, looking at Nate Berg’s message, reading it over and over, as if it contains a secret meaning I might somehow have missed. Can you let me know if you are her?
I think about deleting the message. I could pretend I never got it. I could go on living my life the way I always have—without a father. But something stops me from deleting the message. Curiosity, I guess. What kind of a man is Nate Berg? Am I anything like him? And why has he waited so long to contact me?
I could answer the message right now and tell him that yes, it’s me, Iris Wagner, and that’s my birthdate. But I’m not sure I want to answer him, not sure I even want to be in touch. I’ve got to think about what to do. Besides, he’s made me wait all these years. Now it’s his turn to wait for me.
If only I could talk to Mom about what’s happened, but I can’t. She’d be upset. She’d get a headache or a stomachache; she might even cry. I can’t put her through that. Not when she has sacrificed so much for me.
Even after I shut down the computer, I can still hear my father’s words in my head, like a song you can’t forget. Maybe I should write back to him. Maybe not. Maybe not yet. Maybe not ever.
It’s late when I go to the kitchen to get a glass of water. My mom is still reading on the couch. “D’you want some water, Mom?”
“That would be nice, Iris.”
She lays the magazine on her lap when I come into the living room. “How’s the essay coming?”
“It’s not going too well.”
“You always say that when you’re getting started on an essay.”
“I do?”
Mom nods.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Iris.”
I know I shouldn’t mention my father, but I can’t stop myself. “How come my father never tried to get in touch with me after he left the country?”
Mom sighs and looks down at the magazine on her lap. “Why are you asking me that now?”
She isn’t going to answer my question, so I don’t answer hers.
I go back upstairs with my glass of water. I’m shutting the door to my bedroom when I hear her calling out for me.
“Iris,” she says, “sorry to be a nuisance. But could you get me an Advil from the bathroom cabinet?”