Chapter Three

Andy tried to talk to me, but I ignored him. Nothing personal as I ignored everyone. Though I traversed the school halls, I felt ghostly—out of body. I had no desire to be friends with anyone or to talk to another soul. They could not appreciate my pain. No one would understand. Deeper and deeper, I fell into a pit of desolation. Every day, I had my own personal pity party—a regular rager—and no one else was invited.

Dad tried to reach me. Occasionally, I would let him in a tiny crack. He tried to make me smile with a joke or kind gesture, but any sort of happiness made me feel guilty. So, I didn’t allow myself to experience any joy. I chopped off and dyed my hair platinum-blonde, got a tattoo on my wrist that read the date Mom died, and slept a lot.

This depression lingered months, okay to be honest, a few years, but eventually with the help of a therapist, I began to feel hope again. After graduation, I started to change for the better, until on the fateful day when Dad invited me to what he called a “special dinner.”

I arrived at the hostess stand of the Blue de Bunia, a swanky restaurant on the water in Malibu, and glanced over the sea of people. My father waited in the far corner with an ocean view. I smiled and walked toward him, then the room seemed to slow, and I stopped short.

A woman sat nestled against him, laughing, touching his arm, and whispering in his ear.

My lips pressed hard, and my eyes narrowed as I studied her. The intrusive, curly red-haired stranger appeared out of place in this high-class restaurant. She wore an embroidered peasant blouse, a stack of leather bracelets, and a thin, olive-green scarf wrapped like a headband around her head. A bohemian, hippie. Hardly high-class. Clearly, not someone who belonged here in this place.

She leaned into Dad’s ear and whispered something.

He laughed loud like she had said the funniest thing he had ever heard.

My eyes narrowed. He did not tell me we would have company at this “special dinner,” and I absolutely did not appreciate it. I could have run away, but curiosity held stronger than my fear, so I inched forward. The closer I got; I knew I recognized her. Not sure why or from where, but I had seen this woman before. Watching her hand touch his bicep again, my skin crawled. I stared at them, still a few tables away, wondering, Could I do this? I swayed on the balls of my feet forward, then backward. Yes. I have to.

Shaking off the fear and replacing it with anger, I prepared for war. I rolled my shoulders back, lifted my chin a little higher, took a deep breath, and weaved around the last few tables to join them. “Dad?”

His gaze shifted from the stranger’s to mine. As it registered that I stood there, he rose, smiled, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Hello, Sweetheart. I’m glad you made it.”

The woman placed a sesame breadstick on a small plate and also smiled.

I slid onto the velvet cushion and eyed her. “I thought we were eating alone.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” He smiled, then placed a hand on the bohemian’s shoulder. “This is Meredith. And Meredith, this is my lovely daughter, Cynthia.”

“It’s very nice to finally meet you.” She smiled a huge grin that cut through freckles and revealed a few crow’s feet.

My “claws” extended in my thoughts. Sure, natural beauty is great and all, but would it hurt to use a little makeup? I acted as if the introduction had not occurred. “Are we going to order?”

“Cynthia, don’t be rude.”

Meredith continued to grin. “I’ve heard so much about you, and—”

“Funny, I haven’t heard a thing about you,” I said.

“Cynthia, I’m warning you.” Dad leaned forward.

I knew not to push too much further. He had a threshold. I had towed the line for over a year now, but crossing it would be dangerous. Most likely, threatening to take away my allowance for starters. Something I could not part with, not with how I liked to live.

I shifted my stare back to him. He looked handsome in a designer navy blue suit and matching striped tie. As always, his gray speckled hair lay slicked to perfection, but his soothing smile had been replaced by an angry scowl. “I was only stating the truth, Dad. I promise, I wasn’t trying to be rude.” I closed the menu and folded my elbows over it on the table. “You look familiar, Meredith. Do I know you from somewhere?”

She grinned again. A black speck, probably a sesame seed, lay between her two middle teeth.

It gave me pleasure somehow.

“Yes, I am a waitress at Third Stop Café on Second and North. Your dad always sits in my section.”

The two of them shared a knowing glance, followed by a lovesick giggle that about made me gag. Dad could not possibly have slummed this low. I glanced around, wishing I could share my thoughts out loud. I opened my mouth, ready to respond.

A server stepped to the table. “May I take your order?”

“I’m not hungry.” I handed back the menu. I knew where this conversation would end—with me throwing a child’s tantrum and storming out in a dramatic fashion. I prepared myself for that, playing and replaying the moment in my mind. Nothing my father said right now would change the appointed outcome. Rage fueled me, as heat traveled up my spine and into my neck and face. The way I saw it, the woman on my father’s arm rested in my mother’s chair. One that had only been vacated a few years ago. How dare he.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” Dad eyed me, his eyes soft with concern.

I answered with a nod.

He looked at the server. “I’ll have the surf and turf. Medium rare, with loaded mashed potatoes, extra bacon, and a side of broccoli, and the woman next to me will have the vegetable platter.”

“With a side of ranch, please,” Meredith added.

“Did you want to add a salad or soup to your meals?” the server asked.

Dad glanced at Meredith, who shook her head. “No, I think we’re good. Thank you.”

“Very well.” The server took both menus and left us to our uncomfortable situation.

“So, why are you here, Meredith?” I asked.

She glanced at my father with raised eyebrows.

He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together.

For a moment, it seemed like he had choked on his words. “Meredith and I have been dating for six months,” he said finally.

Despite having no appetite, I reached for a breadstick and snapped it. So many feelings threatened to overtake me—confusion, denial, anger, sadness, rage, sorrow. I had no idea how to respond, so I didn’t. I waited, flicking sesame seeds off onto the white tablecloth.

“We didn’t want to say anything until we were sure…”

My stomach churned. Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it. An unseen force locked my stare onto the table, unable to look at Dad. As if seeing him would make it happen. Everything in me begged, please do not let my greatest fear become a reality. Please don’t say it. I beseech you. Please don’t say it. Stars whirled in my vision; my head spun. Dizzy, I blinked to keep from blacking out. Please don’t say it. Panic seized every nerve in my body. Please…don’t…say…it.

“Cindy…” he said.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze to meet his.

The two regarded me, then each other, and then in unison, they both looked back at me. My father visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “We have decided to get married.”

And with those six words, hell crash-landed in Southern California. Fire coursed through my bloodstream and threatened to seize my vision, as well. With nothing left to say, I dropped the mangled breadstick on the table, slid back in the chair, tossed the cloth napkin on the chair next to mine, raised on wobbly legs, and staggered like a drunk out of the restaurant as fast as I could. I faintly heard Dad behind me, but I ignored him. I chose to block out the rest. Or maybe I just could not remember.

Maybe, because that night marked my downward spiral into hades. The first night, I got wasted. The first night, I did not come home when I was supposed to. It had to be the last time I care about myself or anyone else and when I began a full withdrawal from the few friends I had and Dad. The inauguration of my being nasty to everyone I encountered. It birthed an “activation of a newfound attitude”—so Dad said.

In that moment, I did not care to be “the good daughter” any longer. I had been that, and what did it get me? A dead mother and stepmonster. Sure, Meredith appeared nice. But she didn’t belong in my life. In our life. Not sleeping in my parent’s bed. Not cooking in my mother’s kitchen. Not stealing my father’s heart. I despised her, not for who she was, but for what she took.