Don't Fail Me Now(17)

“No shit,” I say under my breath.

“Anyway,” he says, “Karen thinks maybe she should go visit him before, you know, before he passes.”

“Look,” I say, softening my tone slightly. “I’m sorry she’s having a hard time, but I still don’t get what this has to do with me.”

Tim shrugs. “I thought maybe you could talk to her, convince her that it’s in her best interest . . .”

“Why would she listen to me?” I ask. “She doesn’t need me. You said yourself she doesn’t even know you came.”

“Right,” Tim says—but not in throwaway agreement, more like he’s reminding himself to stick to his story. And sure enough, within seconds his eyes dart over to an SUV parked in the back corner of the lot, in the shadow between two streetlamps. Even in the dark I can see there’s someone in the car, hunched in the front passenger seat.

“So she’s here.” The words sound hollow coming out, the opposite of the nauseating maelstrom of excitement and fear flooding my veins. “What, is she waiting for a formal invitation?” I try to laugh, but no sound comes out.

“She got scared,” Tim says.

“Poor baby,” I snap.

“Hey.” For the first time I see anger flash across his face. “She’s been through a lot, too.”

“Well, get her out. We can compare notes.” I can see Yvonne peering through the kitchen door, making a what-the-hell? face at me. If this gets me in trouble, I swear I’ll go Schwarzenegger on Tim’s J. Crew ass.

“She’s not ready now,” he says. “But she will be. I know you can help her.”

“I doubt it.”

“Michelle—” Tim pleads, but I cut him off.

“You know what? Stop saying my name like you know me,” I say. “You don’t the first thing about me or my family. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You want me to say I’m sorry Buck ran out on your sister?” I turn toward the car and shout, “Yeah, I’m sorry!” Tim cringes. “I know what that feels like,” I continue, my anger rising steadily. “But she’s not my sister. And Buck’s not my father. Not anymore. And if you’re capable of coming all the way to my job just to tell me all this shit, I’m pretty damn sure you can escort Princess Leah of the Minivan down to Johns Hopkins to visit her beloved daddy before he croaks.” By the end of my rant, I’m out of breath, and Tim looks so taken aback that I almost feel bad for yelling at him. Almost.

“He’s not at Johns Hopkins,” Tim says quietly. “He’s at some hospice. In California.”

I laugh bitterly. It figures Buck ended up three thousand miles away, as far as he could possibly get from us without hopping a continent. “Well, then you should take her out there, make a little vacation for yourselves,” I say. I gesture to the car, which it’s just now dawning on me must be one of two or maybe even three they own, if the kids are allowed to take it out for joyrides. “I’m sure you can afford it.”

Tim nods down at the pavement. “Yeah, well. Maybe we will.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically by way of goodbye. I turn to walk back to the kitchen, but as my rage fades, a gnawing shame replaces it. I used to think all the time about meeting Buck’s other daughter. I pictured how it might go down, but it was never anything close to this. Leah might have hidden in the car, but I didn’t behave much better. And if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s being a good big sister. Someone who’s not like my parents. Someone who doesn’t walk away.

“Hey,” I say, looking back over my shoulder. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I’m not having the best day.”

Tim nods and pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket. “I get it,” he says, “but if you change your mind, I think you guys could help each other.” He approaches me tentatively, with his hands up in mock surrender, and holds out the paper. “It’s my number,” he explains. “And my receipt. I finally ordered a burrito.”

“Congratulations.” I take the slip and close my fist, crumpling it in my hand.

“It was the least I could do,” he says, offering me an apologetic half smile.

No, the least you could have done was leave me out of this, I think. But I don’t have to tell him that; I’m pretty sure my shouting got that point across. I make a show of putting the balled-up receipt into my pocket as some sort of peace offering—like I would even consider calling, like I need to add a dubious far-off inheritance and a mystery half sister with anxiety issues as bad as mine into the mix of what I’m dealing with right now. I step across the threshold into the steamy, grease-tinged air of the kitchen and try to regain my composure. I might not ever be able to close the door on Buck metaphorically, but at least right now I can let it slam literally, with a satisfying thwack, in Tim’s face.





FOUR


Tuesday Night, Part 2

Baltimore, MD




“What’s wrong with you?” Denny asks on the car ride back to Aunt Sam’s.

“Nothing,” I say. I turn up the radio, which is playing “Daddy’s Home,” by Usher. Of course it is.

“You look weird,” Denny insists.