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HE NODDED, SWALLOWING loudly. I could see his Adam’s apple, standing out on his thick neck, working over time.
My father, I thought, my brain working overtime. My real father, here in front of me, in the flesh. Just like that, everything I had prepared flew out of my head.
“Bonjor, Elise,” he said, “Welcome to America.”
I panicked, I nodded. I couldn’t think of what to say. “I never knew,” I finally whispered.
“I know, but I wanted you to,” he said finally.
I didn’t know what else to say, and I was scared that my accent would be too thick for him to understand. In broken English I tried to say, “I’m glad you came to pick me up.” It was awkward, I could tell by the look of confusion on his face.
“Your mother tried to teach me some French, but I never did the hang of it,” he said with a shake of his head. “But your English is very good.”
“Merci,” I responded quickly, “Mother sent Renee and I to American school.” As soon as I said Renee, a shadow passed across his face and he frowned. I couldn’t tell if it was because I had mentioned my mother or my brother. “But I go to a French high school now, a private one,” I recovered, “with my sister, Jaquelynne. Do you remember Jaqui?”
“I do,” his sideways smile reappearing then. “How is she?”
“She wants to be a ballerina someday, a professional one,” I said, matching his smile.
“And Renee?”
“He loves to write and play piano. Monsieur Gerard, his music tutor, says he is a prodigy.”
“That figures,” my father responded. He smiled again and pointed behind me. “You’d better get that passport stamped before she calls security.”
My head was spinning with our change in conversation, and I thought about that guy at the terminal... Jon, was it?... maybe he had been a security guard. If all security in America looked like him, well, I really wouldn’t mind.
After I’d cleared customs and pulled my bag off the revolving stand, we made our way through the sparse crowd. My father offered me the crook of his arm, which I took, as we followed the signs towards parking.
When we stepped into the large parking area, I was a little shocked. Wide cars of all sizes were smashed together in a large concrete structure. “Does everyone park like this in America?” I said, without thinking.
He chuckled. “No, just in big places like an airport.”
I wasn’t surprised he had a little red sports car. The top was black, and I wondered if it came down, like in the tourist books I had seen. We had a few like that in Paris, but mostly it was only in the summer and tourists generally rented them. It was too wet to drive year round. “Does it convert?” I asked, not sure of the right English word.
He chuckled again, and I frowned. If he was laughing at me, we were getting off to wrong start. “Yes, it’s a convertible,” he said, opening the small door. I threw my suitcase in the narrow back seat and slid into the leather. Despite the heat, even this late at night, it felt cool and comforting.
The engine roared to life, and he zoomed out the spot, spinning around endless corners in a downward decent. Good God, we must have been up six levels, at least. Were there this many cars in America that there was a need for such a monster structure?
In a few minutes, we were gliding in and out of traffic on a big road, with at least 8 lanes in both directions. I gripped the handle on the door, and blew out the breath I’d been holding. “Is it... is it always this crowded with cars?” I said, my teeth clenched tightly.
He laughed again, only quieter this time. “Yes, Elise, there are a lot of cars here.”
“Excuse-moi, but I am funny?” I said, wincing when I realized I’d promised myself I’d use proper English. I sunk down in my seat when I realized my father in Paris would have responded with his hand if I had said something with such disrespect.
He glanced at me briefly, then back at the road. “No, you aren’t... I mean, you probably are, but,” he gripped the wheel tighter, “Your accent is just great, Elise. You sound like your mother.”
“Not sure, if that is compliment?” I was wholly confused.
“Oh, it is,” he assured, “I just mean... it’s been a long time since I’ve seen both of you.”
“It’s amazing how fast seven years goes by.”
“Seven years? Has it really... well, you’re a fine young lady, Elise.”
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“I promised your mother we’d call her as soon as you got in,” he said and punched into the screen at the center phone call. “Call Rochelle,” he told the car’s computer system and clicked okay to accept international charges.
“Bonjour?” my mother’s voice was groggy, tired.
“Ro, it’s me.”
I could hear her perk up considerably, but her voice was barely a whisper, and muffled suddenly, as if she held her voice over the phone. “Eli? Did you find her?”
“I’m here, Mother,” I said as my father nodded towards me.
She sighed, relieved and exhausted. “Oh, thank god.”
A male voice spoke up in the background, mumbling a query in French about who was on the phone.
“I, I have to go, Eli,” she muttered, her voice even lower. “Elise, you be good for him, okay?”
“I will, mother.”
“I love you.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond... she hadn’t said that for so long. “I love you too ... Maman.”
My father ended the call and glanced briefly at me, as we speeded down the eight-lane highway in the dark. “She does, you know. She’s been worried sick.”
“Good for her,” I said softly. I was trying so hard not to be mad at her, but it all came bubbling back to the surface with every exit, every brilliant light we passed. America was huge, beautiful, exciting. How could she keep me away?
There was silence for a while; the radio played softly. Well, relatively softly. It seemed dear old dad had a penchant for metal music. I smiled as I heard the faint sounds of screaming into a microphone.
“You like metal?” I grinned.
He chuckled, and cranked the music a little. “I hear you like the industrial stuff. You into dubstep, too?”
“Some, mostly the stuff out of Germany.”
“Ah,” was all he said. “Well, at least you have good taste in music.”
I smiled widely. I was so glad we had something in common, at least.“I don’t know what to call you,” I said finally.
It took him a moment to answer, and then he raked his sleeve across his eyes. “I really liked hearing ‘Dad.’”
“Okay, Dad,” I smiled. Father, in Paris, he would have never let us call him that. This was nice. Then, I remembered one of the things on my list to ask him. “Do I have a maman d'étape?” There was an American phrase that I couldn’t remember. “Like, another mom? Your wife? I couldn’t find the info on the Internet.”
“Do you mean step-mother?”
“Not sure what stairs have to do with it but, yes, that sounds right.”
“No, I never re-married,” he sounded sad.
“To my mother?”
“To Rochelle?” he said, his voice held a bit of shock. “No, no. Never married your mother. It was another woman; it ended before you were born, as a matter of fact.”
“D’accord,” I said, letting the French slip yet again and cursing inwardly. “Okay.”
“Only ‘okay’? Your mother would have asked me questions until the cows came home.”
“Cows?”
“Never mind, it’s American slang.”
“Oh,” I said. “And I am not my mother.”
“No, you are not,” he admitted, throwing me a brief glance. “Hey, are you hungry? Do you want to grab a bite before we go home? I’m afraid I don’t have much in my fridge beside beer, cheese, and lunchmeat.”
Father drank wine, ate cheese, and I had no idea what ‘lunchmeat’ was. I really couldn’t remember looking in our fridge at home; I knew we had one, but Jeane had always smacked my hands away when I tried to peek. The kitchen was his domain, he’d always said, as he had shooed me out.
“I am hungry, and Mother has told me stories of the cheeseburgers in America. Of course they have them at home. But here they look like they are different.” I bit my lip. It was so late, after 10pm, and the jetlag was quickly haunting me. “Is there anything open so late this hour?”
He laughed again, and I found I liked his smile, it made his whole face happy.
“There are 24-hour diners here that serve food around the clock. There’s one a few miles away.”
“Open 24-hours? That’s very strange,” I murmured. He didn’t respond.
I could feel the car slow as we turned off the crowded roadway, past a big green sign that listed different symbols. There was a knife and fork in a white square, and another symbol of a bed in the same rounded square. I guessed it was universal for “eat” and “sleep.”
“Dad, do you not have personnel?” I tried again, “like, a cook?”
He looked truly shocked, then. “No, I don’t. Do you?”
“Yes, we have Jeane, he’s our cook, and Sean is our driver, and Jaques does security, like if we want to go on vacation or somewhere besides school.”
“Wow,” my dad replied. “I’ve met Sean, and I think I’ve seen Jaques but never been introduced. Pretty neat having all those people to help out your family, huh.”
“I suppose,” I said. I didn’t want to tell him it was hell. I couldn’t go anywhere; do anything, without one of them with me. I was old enough to know the risks – Father had mentioned them several times – but I always just wished I could shop alone, eat in peace, or hang out with my friends, without a creepy guy in a black suit and earpiece watching me constantly. But my brain wrapped around my father knowing Sean.
Before I could answer, we pulled into a parking lot then, in front of a building that resembled an old car from the 50’s, only much, much bigger. A Cadillac, I think? It was pastel pink, with silver trim. He shut off the engine and raced to open my door.
“This place has hot wings, and cheeseburgers and grasshopper shakes. It’s about American as I can imagine.”
I smiled and nodded to him. The only place I’d ever been to eat was Father’s restaurants, and they were very fancy. Tables with starched white tablecloths, and exotic entrees that didn’t look appetizing. Mother said it would be too dangerous for us to go anywhere else. As I stared up at the huge glowing sign that revolved and flashed World’s Biggest Bowl O’ Ribs. I knew this place would be different.
“So how did you meet Sean?” I asked after he had ordered two cheeseburgers with fries, something called BBQ wings, and whatever grasshopper shakes were. I hoped they didn’t have actual grasshoppers in them.
“Your mother and I,” he cleared his throat nervously, “we had a few book signings in Paris and she insisted on using her driver.”
“Oh,” was all I said. I remembered when mother was gone almost constantly, for six months, just before Darci was born. Had my mother been traveling with my father and I didn’t even know about it? I don’t think she ever knew what it was like for us to not have both a mother and a father around. But of course, Father had never been around, either. They were both too busy avoiding another fight.
The waitress, dressed in a wide skirt with a fluffy dog on it and weird black and white shoes, brought us our green shakes then. They deliciously reminded me of the mint chocolate Father used to bring home when I was little.
“I remember, right before Mother had my sister, Darci,” I said to my father, taking a long sip of the creamy, delicious drink. “She’s not yours too, is she?” I mentally kicked myself. Elise Margaruite Arnolt, what has gotten into you?
He paused mid-sip and looked at me over his glasses. “What would give you that idea?”
“Well, first of all, I’m not stupid,” I said and shrugged. “Mom was married to my father the same year I was born. She was never married to you. We saw you when I was 10, and my brother Renee was born exactly nine months later. Now, you say you saw my mother a few years ago, and my sister Darci isn’t even two yet. So either my mother is a gold digger, or...”
His eyes flashed then, a dark murky blue. There was lighting in his gaze. “Or what?”
I gulped, I had seen my father’s green eyes glow just before he struck me. “Or just a whore.”
“Your mother is many things,” he said, and I was a little dismayed his eyes returned to their normal blue, his anger diffusing quickly. “Smart, beautiful, intelligent, and a great writer. But she was never, and never will be, a whore.” The last two words he spit out as if they tasted bitter to him. “Everything she did, it was in love. For both me and you.”
“And Renee?”
“Well, I don’t know about Renee,” he said as our food came.
The blends of cheese, steaming fried meat, and vegetables were mouth watering. The crinkled fried potatoes were a bit of salty goodness as I bit into one. I savored my food for a few minutes before I noticed he hadn’t touched his.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed, putting down my French fry. “It’s just that I’ve been with a few guys, and even I know how to use protection. I just can’t believe Mother couldn’t have figured it out.”
He visibly cringed. “Oh, Elise. I forgot how forward they are in France. Would you have said that to Marceau... I mean, your other dad?”
It was my turn to cringe just thinking about it. I looked down at my plate. “No,” I admitted, “But he’d never cared to talk to me anyway.”
He reached over and patted my hand. “M’dear, there is more to fathers than meets the eye. But for future reference, there are just some things that you just don’t need to tell you dear ol’ dad.”
I frowned, disappointed that I had made such a mistake. “Triste,” I apologized.
“And obviously there are some questions your mom and I do need to answer, but I’d rather do them with her at least on the phone, if not around, okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“And look, Elise,” he said, and finally picked up his burger. “I have a lot planned for your visit. I spent all day cleaning out my spare room and bought special purple sheets and a new bedspread, at your mother’s request. I went online and bought tickets to a few theater shows, an amusement park, and I made some reservations at a house on the beach north of here. I want to go to the zoo and take you a dinner and maybe teach you to dance.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore,” I said, although they all sounded like a dream come true to visit.
“I know, but I want to show you my little piece of America. Give me just two weeks, Elise, and I promise, I will take you to the campus and show you around myself.”
My face must have changed, because his did, too. “The university?”
He nodded. I may have been wrong about being a little girl, because I sure felt giddy, then. I resisted the urge to clap my hands in joy. “It sounds like fun, Dad.”
“Good,” he smiled wildly when I used that name, “because you mother told me how much you wanted to visit the college here. Now eat up, because it’s past your bedtime.”
“Dad...”
“I know, I know, not a little girl.” He took out his phone and glanced at it, flipped through a few things on the screen. “I’m also wondering what Mikey has been up to; I haven’t heard from him in a while.” His fingers flew over the screen, and it clicked as he sent a message.
“Mikey?”
“Michael? Do you remember him?” He said, around a bite of the huge burger. He sat it down and reached for his napkin. “I thought your mother told me he lives with me. She may have forgotten.”
“Yeah, I remember him a little, we used to throw a weird brown ball around.”
He nearly choked on his bite and downed a large drink of water. “A football, ya. Good memory.”
“So does he live in a big house like you?”
“No, he lives in the big house with me, er, well, in the basement, anyway.”
I frowned. “That’s weird.”
“Yeah, he’s staying with me while he finishes college. He’ll be done by the end of the year.”
“Oh, well ... that’s nice.” Why would anyone ever do that?
“He’s your cousin.”
I nodded, the burger was simply too delightful to speak, not to mention it would be impolite.
His phone dinged then, and again, and after four times he picked it up. His brows furrowed together, and the brewing storm I had seen earlier reappeared. He threw down his napkin and huffed, and motioned the waitress over to get to-go boxes and the check. “And, apparently, he’s in jail.”