Long Bright River(93)

The girl frowns slightly. She hesitates. Looks worried.

—It’s all right, I say.

The girl is maybe thirteen or fourteen years old.

—It’s nothing urgent, I say. I was just hoping to speak with him, briefly. If he lives here.

If he’s alive, I think. I don’t say it.

—Hang on one sec, says the girl. She retreats into the house, but leaves the front door open.

Is it possible, I wonder, that that was my father’s daughter? My half sister? There’s something about her mouth that reminds me, the slightest bit, of Kacey’s mouth.

I lean forward a little, peering into the house, looking around. Everything looks tidy. There’s a staircase in front of me and a living room to my right. The furniture is old but well cared for. A little dog, some kind of terrier, comes over and sniffs at my feet, ruffs once or twice. I give him a nudge with my foot, make sure he doesn’t attempt to escape. A radio is on in another room. On it, pop songs about Christmas play quietly.



* * *



—

The girl is gone a long time, long enough so I wonder if I was supposed to have followed her. Cold air is still rushing into the house. I begin blowing into my hands to keep warm when I see someone descending the stairs right in front of me. Bare feet, and then legs, hidden by gray sweatpants.

It’s a man, someplace around fifty, dark-haired.

It’s my father.

—Michaela? he says. Is that you?

I nod.

—I’m so glad you found me, he says. I’ve been looking for you.





He glances behind him, slides his feet into shoes, and then palms some keys on a table beside the front door. He steps onto the porch and closes the door behind him.

—Let’s go for a drive, he says.

I hesitate for a moment. He’s been redeemed in my mind, in a way, by what I discovered at Gee’s. And yet I still don’t know his motives. And I still don’t know where my sister is.

He registers my hesitation, perhaps.

He says, Or you can drive. Up to you. You have a car with you?

—I do, I say.



* * *



—

We get in.

—I thought you were dead, I say, before he has even fastened his seat belt.

At this, he laughs a little. I don’t think I am, he says. He puts one finger to the back of the other hand. Nope, he says. Not dead yet.

I feel self-conscious around him for reasons I can’t explain. Suddenly I wonder what I must look like to him after this many years of absence. I want him to think well of me, and just as quickly I’m angry with myself for caring.

I tell myself that I won’t talk until he does.

Finally, he begins.





My father tells me that he’s been looking for both of us, me and Kacey, for a long time.

He got sober, he says, in 2005.

At that point we were both adults, and he assumed, he said, that we hated him, because we never responded to any of his letters or cards.

For years, he let this be his excuse for not seeking us out.

—Then my daughter Jessie, he says, but he stops.

—That was my other daughter, he says. Jessie. She’s twelve. This year she starts asking me about you guys, why I don’t see you. Wanting to meet her half sisters, I guess. And I realize, maybe enough time has gone by so you all are ready to talk to me again. I know I messed up in a lot of ways, he says. I know that’s on me. But I’m sober now, so I figure, it’s worth a shot. I’ve always felt badly about the way things went down with you girls. But at this point I have no idea where I’d even find you, and I know your grandmother isn’t gonna help me out. So I hire a guy I know, ex-cop, now does private work. Mostly gets hired by people looking to catch their husband or wife in the act, but, you know. Gets the job done.

—He found you both, he says. Pretty quick, too. He found Kacey where she was living in Kensington, and he found you in Bensalem. He comes back and reports to me on what he saw. Gives me both addresses. Tells me that now it’s in my hands.



* * *



—

    My father puts an elbow on his armrest. He’s nervous, I can tell. He clears his throat several times in a row. Coughs, one hand politely over his mouth. Continues.

—I went to see Kacey first, he says, because my friend told me she was in a pretty bad way. That got me worried. This was three, four months ago. I went to find her at a place she was staying, some abando. She barely recognized me. I would never have known her.

—We had a long conversation, he says. Made plans for her to come stay with me. I just need one more day, she says. Listen, I say. I’m an addict too. I know what that means. I don’t like it. Sure enough, the next day, I went to pick her up and couldn’t find her.

—Meanwhile, he says, I go to visit you at the address my buddy gave me in Bensalem. This nice old lady answers the door, says you’re not home, no other information. Asks me if I want to leave a message.



* * *



—

I glance at my father now, in the passenger’s seat. I remember Mrs. Mahon’s description of the visitor who came to see her twice in Bensalem. Yes: my father does, I suppose, look like Simon, at least very generally. He fits the same description, anyway. He is tall, as Simon is; he has dark hair. There, just below his left ear, is indeed a tattoo, just as Mrs. Mahon said. In the dark, I can’t make it out.