Starry Eyes(97)

Like I said, unlike Grandpa Sam, she speaks English just fine.

“Grandma Esther,” I say. “What’s happening?”

“You and Joy are staying with us for a few days,” she says brightly, scratching Andromeda’s head while the dog tries to lick her skirt. Grandma Esther is the Korean dog whisperer. She has two Frenchies and a Boston terrier, and they adoringly follow her around the house like her posse. She coos at Andromeda, “And you’re going to have so much fun with my girls, aren’t you, sweetie?”

My head is trying to process everything. “We’re going to Oakland?”

“No, to our vacation home in Bali,” she says sarcastically. “Of course, to Oakland. Are you all right?” She tears herself away from the dog and gives me a thorough once-over, smoothing my curls with delicate fingers.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully.

“You will be. I’ll make you chicken and rice soup.”

Admittedly, that’s a strong motivator. Grandma Esther is an amazing cook. She does that in heels too.

Grandpa Sam pleads with me about . . . something. I can’t tell. He talks too fast.

I look back and forth between them. “What?”

Grandma Esther sticks her tongue out my grandfather. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s trying to rush back to watch the football game. Take your time. We’ll be waiting in the car.” She clucks at Andromeda, and as she heads toward the sedan, adds sweetly over her shoulder, “If your pig-shit father tries to talk you into staying, tell him he can sue for custody.”

Oh, God.

Grandpa Sam chuckles to himself, pats me on the back, and follows her to the car. I’m left alone, and I really wish I weren’t. It feels like I’m walking into a haunted house filled with ghouls waiting to jump out at me.

Steeling myself, I step inside our living room. My dad is there, red-eyed and bleary. He looks like he’s just been told someone died. Shell-shocked. Blank. Unable to comprehend.

Confident, charming Diamond Dan has left the building.

“Hey,” I say warily.

“Oh,” he says, sitting down on our sofa. “Zorie.”

“What’s happening?”

He rubs his head. “That’s an excellent question. I’m not quite sure, myself. What did Esther tell you?”

“That I’m staying with them for a few days.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He nods while placing both hands on his knees as he gathers his thoughts. Then he gives me a reserved smile. “So, your mother and I may be separating. It’s not decided yet. I won’t go into the details, but you don’t want to hear them anyway. Well, you already heard a few things last night, so I’m assuming this isn’t a surprise—”

“Dad, the entire last two weeks have been nothing but surprises.”

“Ah. Well.”

That’s it? That’s all he’s going to say? How about, Hey, I’ve been sleeping around and this family is a sham. Oopsie! I mean, come on. Give me something.

A silence hangs between us.

“Why?” I finally ask.

He shakes his head slowly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think.”

After he looks away, I think about what Mom had told me—that my father was still having trouble getting over my birth mother’s death after all these years. Last night, that sounded like a convenient excuse, but now I’m thinking about the photo book, and how that woman looked a little like my birth mother.

“You can’t bring her back,” I tell him. “She’s dead, and there was only one of her, and you can’t bring her back.”

“I know,” he says in a broken voice.

“You could have talked to me instead of shutting me out. I was mourning her too, you know? She was my mother.”

“I know she was.”

“Then why didn’t you talk to me? Ever?”

One shoulder lifts slowly, and then falls. “I was unprepared to raise you on my own. I felt like a failure. And then I had to watch while Joy swept in and provided what I couldn’t. She was a natural. How could she do better than I could, when I was your own flesh and blood? Her parents spoiled you—”

“Spoiled?” I hardly think so. It’s not like Grandpa Sam showers me with gifts constantly. He just buys me practical stuff.

“Christ, even the Mackenzies do a better job raising you than I could,” he says. “Your mother would roll over in her grave.”

I don’t remember my birth mother being homophobic, but maybe I blocked that out.

“You don’t need me,” my father says in a low voice, despondent.

“Dad—”

“It’s true,” he says. “I know it. Everyone knows it. You’re better off without me.”

I’m not sure if this pity party is genuine, or if he’s trying to manipulate me into feeling sorry for him—or if he’s trying to push me further away. But I give him the benefit of the doubt.

“It’s going to take me a long time to forgive you for what you’ve done,” I say. “To Mom, and to me. However . . . you’re still my father. I’ll always need you. At some point, I think you’ll realize that you need me, too. And when that day comes, I’ll be here.”