I'm Glad My Mom Died(83)

And now here I am, minutes away from this concert, and months since I’d first decided to come, and I still don’t feel emotionally prepared.

Does Andrew know he’s my father? Does he know he’s Dustin and Scott’s father? Was he ever around when I was little? Where did he and Mom leave off? Did he keep in touch with her? Does he know she’s dead? Does he have a family now? Do they know about this situation?

I have so many questions, and the range of possibilities of answers is unsettling to me. I’ve considered the possibility that he has a family, that his kids might be at the show, and that they might not know. And I don’t want to be the one to introduce this news into their lives. So I’ve decided that I’ll approach him at the end of the concert, as soon as he’s leaving the stage, and only if he’s alone.

I’ve also considered that maybe he’ll deny it. Maybe he’ll say, “fuck off.” Maybe he won’t know. I have no idea what I’m in for.

Miranda pulls up to the valet and we all hop out of the car. Colton grabs my arm for comfort—Miranda doesn’t. So many female friendships seem so rooted in physical contact—the clutching of hands, constant hugging, hair touching, whatever. Miranda and I have a friendship that is not entirely void of physical contact, but almost. Hugs between us are rare, and it feels right.

We walk through the hotel corridors, and I stop at the bathroom to pee. Miranda comes with me, I think to make sure I’m not vomiting. She’s never told me this directly, but I can tell. She doesn’t come with me every time. She’s not the obvious type.

Typically I’d feel agitated, the way I would when Steven always tried to intercept a purge. But not this time, because this time I’m not planning on it. There’s nothing in my body to purge. I’ve felt nauseous all day and unable to eat. I’ve made a mental note to bring this up in therapy tomorrow, but for today, I just want to get through.

I wash my hands for a long time, hoping this will rid them of their clamminess. I add more mascara and a little more blush. Why am I so concerned with how I look around my bio-dad? I’ve noticed this all day long. I stuff my mascara back into my bag and we head through the hotel and out to the courtyard, where the gig is happening. I hate the word gig but I’m pretty sure that’s the proper term for this.

Colton, Miranda, and I sit at a table near the back a few minutes before the show starts. The crowd is mostly folks in their forties and fifties, wealthy-looking. Lotta Gucci.

“What brings you kids here?” the woman sitting next to me, wine-drunk and pearls-clad, asks.

I think about saying, “Well my biological father who I’ve never met plays the trombone in this band, so I was just gonna accost him after the show to try and find answers about my dysfunctional mess of a childhood,” but I don’t.

“We just like jazz,” Colton says finally, after he realizes there’s nothing more than a blank stare coming from my end.

“Oh, that’s good. We need more young people like you. Cultured. Which jazz bands do you like?”

“Just all of ’em. The whole… all of ’em.” Colton nods.

“Great, great,” Pearls responds with a smile, seemingly satisfied by that non-answer. “Ooh, here they are!”

Pearls claps ecstatically, and the three of us turn to see the band walking out onto the stage. I laser in on my dad, carrying his trombone. I can’t say I see a resemblance. Maybe I’m sitting too far back. Or maybe Mom’s genes were stronger.

The band starts playing. Colton grabs my hand a few times. Miranda watches me out of the corner of her eye. I feel like I’m in a trance the whole time the band’s playing.

An hour later, the saxophonist announces they’re on their last song. My mouth goes dry. My hands are drenched. My heart is pounding.

“Okay, let’s go,” Colton says, taking my hand. The three of us get up from the table and head toward the stage exit.

“Where’re you guys going?!”

Not now, Pearls.

The final song is coming to the final measures and we’re not yet to the stage exit. We pick up the pace.

“You can’t come here,” a security guard tells us.

“Sorry, she has a quick thing she has to do,” Colton says with the confidence of someone who’s giving legitimate information.

The security guard is confused enough to let us pass. I look up and see him crossing off the stage—my biological dad.

“Hurry!” Miranda says.

I run the last thirty yards or so until I get to him just as he’s walking down the stage steps. He feels me. We make eye contact. He looks puzzled, maybe a little alarmed.

“I think we have something in common” is what comes out of my mouth.

His eyes well with tears. Mine do too.

The next ten minutes are an informational exchange of a blur. I ask him if he knew about me, that I existed. He says yes. And my brothers. He says that he’s been waiting for us to contact him. He didn’t want to contact us because he wasn’t sure if we knew. He asks how I found out. I tell him. He says things ended poorly with Mom and that there was a big custody battle when we were little—that Mom said he was physically abusive (he assures me he wasn’t). She won. I ask him if he knew Mom died. He says yes, he saw it on E! News. I think about what a strange sentence that is.