I return to the hospital. It’s been two hours since I dropped the letter bomb on my parents. It feels too soon, and I’m not sure what I expect to find when I go back into that room, but Mom’s about to be discharged. We’re out of time. I should have waited until she was home, I chide myself as I shuffle down the hallway toward her wing. I should have waited like a week or two. Maybe more. But it felt . . . impossible not to tell them. It had to come out.
My parents are both sitting on the bed when I slip back into the room. The letters are scattered between them, and they’re talking earnestly, but when they see me they stop and both kind of open their arms, and I go over, and we all hold each other for a while. And then they let me go, and I stand back and look at them. Assessing for damage.
Mom’s eyes and nose are red.
Dad clears his throat. “Before we talk about this, before we go any further, we—I—need to tell you something.”
“This is about Dawson’s form, right?” I swallow, hard. That letter did make me stop and wonder what I might be getting myself into. Do I really want to know this stuff? “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s not bad.” Mom shakes her head like she’s baffled at the idea. “I don’t remember it being so bad. It was a long time ago when we received that form. Of course we had to wait until you were older before we could share it with you. Honestly, I’d forgotten about it.”
I put a hand on my hip and give her a “Yeah, right. Nice try” kind of look, which is an expression, by the way, that I picked up from her. “But it was bad enough that you didn’t give it to me when you gave me the one from my birth mother this year. Right? You kind of edited that part out.”
“That was my choice,” Dad sighs through his lips. He shakes his head sorrowfully. “It was the wrong call. I should have given them both to you. I see that now very clearly.”
“Yeah, well, what do they say about hindsight?”
He meets my eyes steadily. “I’m sorry.”
I’m not mad at him, even though I probably should be. The thing is, I trust my dad. He’s always done his best to look out for me, to keep me safe, to do what he thinks is best, so it must be bad if he thought that what was best was for me not to know about it. Dad’s always been an all-cards-on-the-table sort of father.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I hid some things from you, too.”
“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” Dad says. “That’s all.”
“I know.”
“But then your mother had to go and remind me of how totally capable you are at handling everything that’s thrown at you.”
“No,” I protest. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are,” Mom says. “You’re our little rock.”
“You see, we know. We were there, Boo,” Dad continues. “I was right there next to you for the worst moments of my life and your life, too. And I think we must have done a bang-up job raising you, and I’m trying not to get a big head about it,” he adds. “Because you’re the strongest person I know.”
And . . . I’m crying. Gah.
Dad stands up and hugs me that way he does where he puts his arms around me tight and rocks me from side to side. Then he pulls away. “Anyway. I’ll give you the form in question as soon as we get back to the house, if you want. It’s in the filing cabinet.”
“All right.” I glance at Mom. “But let’s get it all out in the open when we get back, okay? We’ll tell each other everything now. Everything we’ve been afraid to say. Everything we’ve left out.”
“After we get home,” Dad agrees. “Yes. Full disclosure.”
“Speaking of home,” Mom says, and gestures to the nurse who’s appeared in the doorway. “It’s check-out time.”
“Let’s get you out of here, Cat,” says the nurse. “I’m sick of you.”
“I’m ready,” Mom says in practically a cheer. “Let’s go, let’s go.”
We drive extra slowly all the way back to the house, with me riding shotgun and Mom in the back seat wrapped in a blanket, a strange reversal of roles. Then we walk her carefully up to the house, where Nyla has pinned up a sign across the front door that reads, “WELCOME HOME, MAMA CAT” and through the living room and down the hall and into my parents’ bedroom, where we arrange Mom on the bed and prop her up with pillows and ask her if she needs anything about a million times.
“No,” she keeps saying. “This is all I need, right here.”
Then she’s asleep.
“I have to go fill some prescriptions,” Dad announces when I come in from unpacking the car. “But first . . .”
He holds out a little bundle of folded paper. My breath catches.
“Maybe I don’t want to read this,” I say as I take it out of his hand anyway.
“Your mom’s right. It’s not so bad. Remember how I said your birth mother was a human being? The same goes for your birth father. Just read it. Or not. You can put it in a drawer, too. But it’s yours now.”
He leaves to get Mom’s pills from the pharmacy. I sit at the kitchen table and unfold the papers. I don’t want to be—how did S put it?—ruled by fear.
My phone pings. Nyla.
Nyla: How’d they take it?
Me: Like champions. As usual.
Nyla: Good. You mom’s home now?
Me: Yes. She’s sleeping. She loved the sign.
Nyla: Good.
Me: Dad gave me non-identifying information form.
Nyla: I thought you already had that.
Me: For my birth father.
Nyla: Oh. I was wondering about that. What does it say?
Me: I haven’t read it yet. Dad literally gave it to me two minutes ago.
Nyla: Oh, sorry. I’ll let you read.
(Like one minute later.)
Nyla: Do you need me to come over and read it with you? Remember I got you.
Me: Thanks. No. I got this myself.
I mute my phone and pick up the paper again. I feel like it should be labeled, “Caution. Proceed at your own risk.” But I won’t be ruled by fear. So I read on.