I’m back in the attic, taking inventory once again. In the Goodwill section in the corner, the fake Christmas tree sits along with Grandma’s Christmas decor. With a sigh and a smile, I hear the ongoing discussion of Grandma and Granddad about fake Christmas trees versus real Christmas trees. Granddad was always a champion of real Christmas trees. We’d head over to Sandy Ale’s Christmas tree farm, called Fred’s Firs, and pick out the biggest Christmas tree on the lot while Grandma always asked good questions.
Will it fit?
Is it too big?
What about the needles all over the place?
But when my mom and I moved to Chicago, somehow Grandma got Granddad to cross over to non-fragrant plastic but with less the hassle. She had some great points, however. There’s no mess of pine needles. No lights needed, as it’s already pre-lit. No need for water. And it takes two minutes to assemble.
You should get a Christmas tree, Scarlet. The house looks so bare.
I didn’t enjoy Christmas after we moved to Chicago. It reminded of a time of loneliness. Sure, Marmie was there. But Christmas in Dillon Creek was always so magical. Dillon Creek had their annual window-decorating contest on Main Street. Christmas carols and hot chocolate throughout the month of December. The Christmas tree lighting of the World’s Largest Living Christmas Tree on the first weekend of December.
With a sigh and day of contemplation, I move the Christmas decorations out of the Goodwill pile and into the Keep pile.
But when I move several totes of Christmas decorations, I notice a box with my mother’s name on it, hidden deep within the shadows of the attic. With the attic light not hitting the box perfectly, I would have completely overlooked the box. Sure, when I had everything cleaned out, I probably would have noticed it.
Unease settles in my bones as I reach for the box.
The box isn’t heavy or large. It isn’t particularly a box of abnormal size, but it’s definitely odd in shape. Like a box you’d find in a different country.
I take the box and sit in the old rocking chair, and a soft patter of rain starts, as if the rain has come to send comfort to my insides, saying, Sit and stay a while.
I pull the lid off the box.
Inside are papers. Neatly laid papers. Some in envelopes, some loose.
But I find two important-looking papers with seals. Two birth certificates. Two of my birth certificates.
The rain begins to grow louder, and my face grows warm with uncertainty. I thought I had the only official birth certificate. My mother had given it to me when I moved from Chicago to Boston for college.
On one certificate, it just lists my mother with nothing written in for the father. The other lists, again, my mother’s information, and in the father’s information is nothing but a signature that I can’t read. Nothing else. Just a signature.
My body begins to vibrate internally.
This is the closest thing I’ve ever come across to finding my father. Sure, I didn’t look hard. Part of me didn’t want to find him. Part of me was angry with him for not coming to look for me. Part of me felt if he wanted a relationship, he’d do his part as a father. But I also proved to myself that I didn’t need a father.
When I was learning how to ride a bike, it was Granddad who taught me how.
At the father-daughter dance, Granddad flew to Chicago in time to give me a corsage and take me to dinner.
At my wedding, Granddad walked me down the aisle.
The rain pours louder and louder and louder against the roof, not bringing calmness, but questions. Questions that I set aside for years, for fear of rocking the boat, causing stress on my mother or thinking I’d hurt my granddad’s feelings for wanting to know who my father was. So, instead of searching, I pushed my curiosity to disappear.
But now, with Granddad gone, I have questions. Not because I need a father at this point, but because I want to know where half of me comes from. The pieces that don’t match my mother or my grandparents.
Maybe I’m more like my mother than I’d like to admit. Maybe this is where she stood when she found out that Granddad wasn’t her biological father. Maybe I can understand a piece of her grief. Grandad didn’t just have one daughter he helped raise, but two. And he was damn good at it.
With the birth certificate, I find handwritten notes from the same person who signed the birth certificate, barely legible.
Sorry I haven’t called.
Things are better this way, right?
I got busy at the office. This should make up for it.
Meet me at our room tonight in Eureka, and you can tell me what you need to tell me.
And the last one, which hits me straight in the gut.
I’ll tell my wife tonight. It’s you and me and our unborn child. Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of this mess.
My mind teeters somewhere between reality and a world where I don’t know who I am. But do I even know who I am? I worked so hard to build a life around who I am—Scarlet Brockmeyer. Built walls to protect my heart so it wouldn’t get broken again. The one thing my mother always told me was that I loved too much, too purely. That I was bound to get broken one day if I didn’t toughen up. I did. I toughened up and pushed everyone away, just like she did.
The lightning flashes through the window.
The thunder starts.
All my life, I’ve secretly questioned who half of me is. Is my biological father left-handed? Does he have unruly auburn hair? Is he tenacious? Is he outspoken?
All the things my mother didn’t do or didn’t have, I had a habit of quietly asking the universe or God if there was another person in the world with the same DNA that did those things.
And I have the answer now. I’m a product of an affair that went on far too long. Built on lies and deceit and bitterness.
My heart begins to pound, and my ears begin to ring.
Would life have been as lonely as it was?
Could I have had the childhood I longed for if the man who had helped make me wasn’t married or if he’d left his wife for my mother?
Would my life have somehow turned out differently?
Did my grandparents know who my biological father was?
Did we really live a life built on secrets?
I realize I’m in no shape to put on this dinner tonight, so I text Junie and cancel. Tell her I’ll do it a different night. I also text Cash and tell him that the dinner is off.
He responds with, Okay.
I just need to be alone. A voice in the back of my head says, That’s your comfort zone. That’s what your mom always did, and see where that got her? Money and no friends who want to spend time with her.
I try not to allow Cash’s simple response to push my mind into overdrive.
I text back.
Me: Rain check?
Cash: Okay.
Oh. I get it. We had sex, and now, I’m getting the cold shoulder. But instead of leaving it at that because maybe a bomb has just exploded in my life, leaving me with so many questions, I text back out of anger and hurt—not because of Cash, but because of my own expectations.
Me: Cool.
Just so he knows he can’t hurt me. Just so he knows that his okay doesn’t faze me—even though it does.
I rifle through the rest of the box, and there’s nothing of important significance, but I take the box downstairs anyway to see if there’s anything I’ve missed. I also take the Christmas decorations down—not because I’m feeling festive, but because I know I’ll need something to do when I can’t sleep tonight.
You’re isolating yourself, I tell myself. You do this when you’re in pain. Your mother does this all the time.
I turn on Christmas music, and the rain sounds, though not as loud as it was in the attic. I drum my fingernails on the counter.
“You know what? No,” I say out loud to Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.”
I text Cash back.
Me: Actually, I would really like to see you tonight.
Cash: Okay.
Me: And I’m going to wear that fucking little black dress!
Bubbles appear on Cash’s end.
My heart pounds.
The bubbles disappear.
They reappear.
He responds with a heart.
Bing Crosby hits the note in “White Christmas” that always gives me the chills. The baritone part at the very end.
I pour a glass of wine and begin to decorate, leaving both copies of the birth certificates out on the counter along with the notes written by my biological father.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in!” I yell from the kitchen.
I see Cash’s face, but it doesn’t look right when he walks into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, walking to him. “You’re pale.”
Cash tries to smile, but I can tell something isn’t right. “You look amazing, Scar. I hope it’s okay to do this.” And he takes me in his arms, sliding his hands down my lower back, kisses my forehead, and sighs deeply. His heart pounds against mine.
But he’s not all right, and we stand here in the dim light of the candles I lit on the table. I take in his woodsy scent, and my pulse begins to race.
“It looks like Santa threw up in here,” he kids and pulls away after leaving a soft kiss on my lips that makes me eager for more. He looks around.
Frank Sinatra plays lightly in the background.
Cash removes his jacket as I walk to the kitchen and grab our plates for dinner. I set them on the candlelit table.
We sit down at the table.
“This looks delicious, Scar.”
“The Whiskey Barrel does great to-go orders.” I wink, trying to push away my unsettled feelings with what happened today and the ashen look on Cash’s face. “How was your day?”
He quietly chews a piece of the prime rib and wipes his mouth, searching for the right words. “Just another day,” he responds and takes another bite of his meat.
I begin to rub my earlobe.
“How was your day?” he asks without looking up.
“Just another day,” I say with sarcastic confetti sprinkled throughout my words.
His eyes narrow when he sees me rubbing my earlobe.
I stop.
Cash reaches across the table for my hand. “It has nothing to do with you, all right? Stop worrying.”
My defenses go up. “Look, Cash, I’m invested as much as you, and if you’re having doubts or second thoughts, let’s just cut ties here. And if there’s another woman, please, let’s not play this song and dance.”
Cash jerks his head up. His stare is hard as his jaw tightens. He sets his fork down, wipes his mouth once more. “Listen to me good, Scarlet.” His tone could cut glass. “It’s always been you. It will always be you. But there are things that have happened between when we were kids up until now that I can’t unsee. That I can’t unfeel. Things that are too much for a lot of people. So, if I’m quiet, know that it has nothing to do with you.” He whispers under his breath, “Another woman, what a joke.”
This time, I throw down my napkin, and my eyes fill with tears. “You don’t have the best track record, Cash Atwood.”
“So, you did Google me.”
“Maybe.”
“Wow, I thought you knew me better than that, Scar. After all the fucking shit we’ve been through.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to go.”
Cash holds up his hands, stands, throws his coat back on, and walks out the door.
Instead of doing what I want to do, which is crawl up into the fetal position and cry, I stand, take our dishes to the sink, and wonder what the hell just happened.