Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(20)

“You okay, DeeDee?” Mom asks, brow wrinkled.

“We got some fried chicken livers from Dixie Cafe for a segment with Buford and I ate a couple of the leftovers, and maybe it was a mistake.”

Mom feels my forehead. “You’re all clammy, but I don’t think you have a fever. Maybe go lie down?”

“Yeah. If I feel better, we’ll watch a movie.” I wonder for a hot minute how my mom would react if I told her I’d been trying to track Dad down. I’m guessing not great, or else she’d have tried herself. Of course, I can’t be totally sure she hasn’t. I somehow know the news would hurt her deeply.

I sense her watching, quiet behind me.

I go into my room and shut the door. It’s cramped with piles of clothes, comics, graphic novels, books, but most of all, VHS tapes. Hundreds. Titles scrawled on them in black marker in my dad’s slapdash writing. They take up every square inch under my creaky bed.

I slump onto the floor, still reeling. I had no emotional plan for if I actually found him. All I wanted was some closure that I didn’t have to dig up from within myself. I stare at the message from the PI for a while, my dad’s email address glowing in it like a blinking red light on a far-off radio tower.

As though my fingers have their own agenda, separate from my mind’s, I begin typing.

Dear Dad, Actually, I don’t know if I’m allowed to call you that anymore. Or if I want to. Or if you want me to. But I don’t know what else to call you. It looks like you don’t even have the same name anymore. I guess if you wanted me to call you anything at all, you wouldn’t have changed it. I’m a little bummed out with the name you picked, by the way. There’s nothing wrong with the name Derek Armstrong, but you definitely could have picked one with more flair. Of course, maybe that was the point. To avoid being noticed.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know what to tell you. I could say I miss you, but that’s not as true as that I used to miss you. I could say I’m not angry with you, but that’s not as true as that I’m not angry with you anymore.

Mom is better now. I don’t tell you that because I think it’ll make you come back. I just think you should know. She got on some medication that helps stabilize her moods, and it works pretty well for her as long as she takes it, which is most of the time. She got on it after you left. I don’t think she wanted to, but she knew she had to. I guess if you left to try to get her to do something about it, it worked.

It turns out that I inherited brain chemistry or something from you guys, and I had a lot of bad days too after you left. I’m better about taking my medication than Mom is.

I’m about to graduate, and then I’m going to Jackson State Community College. I work about twenty hours a week at Comic Universe. I’m not dating anyone, and I don’t have a ton of friends, especially since Jesmyn, one of my best friends, moved to Nashville, but it’s fine. I mostly hang out with Mom and my best friend, Josie.

Speaking of Josie, there’s something I’m excited to tell you. She and I are horror hosts on our own show called Midnite Matinee on TV Six here. Every Saturday night from 11:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. You can stream it on the TV Six website. We’re doing pretty great. We’re already syndicated in Topeka, Macon, Greenville, Des Moines, Spokane, Fargo, and Little Rock. Which I guess means you probably haven’t seen us by accident like I hoped you would, since you live in Florida. Or at least I think you do.

We use the movies you left behind. I wonder sometimes if you miss those too. I wonder if you miss them most of all. I’ve taken good care of them if you ever want them back. You know where to find us. We still live in the same place we did. Money’s always been tight. It probably was when you were here. I can’t remember ever being rich.

Like I said, I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know what I hope to gain. I don’t even know if this is you. If it’s not you, maybe delete this and give your daughter (if you have one) an extra hug and tell her how lucky she is.

No, actually, I lied. I do know why I’m writing this. It’s because I hope you’ll watch my show. I hope you’ll see that you left me with something I love and will always love. I hope you’ll be proud of me.

I type Love, Delia but scrap it. I try Sincerely, Delia but ax that too. I give “Your daughter, Delia” a shot.

I delete the whole email.

I cry as quietly as I can for a little while, and then walk out to join my mom, because I dislike feeling any more abandoned than absolutely necessary.





“Dude, shut up,” I say.

“What? I’m for real,” Lawson says.

“No, you are not. That is nonsense.” I get out of his truck and shut the door.

He follows suit. “Why?”

“Because pancakes”—I say pancakes with somewhat more contempt than even I think is due—“are not anybody’s favorite food. They’re never more than someone’s fifth favorite food. It’d be like if toast was your favorite food. It’s not allowed.”

“You’re messing with me, like you were about never having been to a restaurant.”

“Not this time.”

“They’re delicious.”

“They’re disks of cooked flour that you put butter and liquid sugar on.”