The Accidentals(2)

“You’ve wasted entire months of your life thinking about him,” my mother often complained, her laser eyes on the stack of CDs in my room. “And he’s never spent five minutes thinking about us. I can guarantee it.”

I shove the iPod into my backpack and zip it shut.

Mom was right about everything. And it stings knowing that I’ll never have the chance to apologize. Everything stings, all the time. I’m Angry Rachel now. I hardly recognize myself. Even here, glancing around the shabby little office, I want to burn it all right to the ground.

When the door opens beside me, I actually jump like one of those skittish kitties in so many YouTube videos. Whirling around, I see only Hannah and her steady hazel eyes looking down at me. With a frown of concern, she steps forward, mostly closing the door behind her. “Rachel,” she whispers. “Do you want to meet Frederick Richards?”

Yes?

No.

Sometimes.

God.

My knees are spongy when I stand up. Hannah opens the door again, and it’s only three steps into her office.

And there he is, after all this time, sitting in an ugly chair with metal arms. I would know him anywhere, that face made famous on album covers and in the gossip pages of magazines. Thanks to video, I can picture him singing on stage in L.A. or Rome. I know what he looks like wandering the streets of New Orleans or catching a subway train in New York. That’s what Instagram and a couple thousand hours of YouTube can do for a girl.

And now I know what he looks like when he sees a ghost.

He sucks in his breath when I enter the room. For that one moment, I have the advantage. I’d been staring at him forever, but to him, my face is a surprise. Maybe he sees my mother. I’ve inherited her dark blond hair and brown eyes.

Or, maybe he has no memory at all of what my mother looked like.

Eventually he stands up. He’s tall. I’m taken aback by the way he fills Hannah’s little office. Who knew that music videos don’t capture proportion very well?

I’m still rooted in place near the door, my mouth dry. He doesn’t know what to do either. He steps forward, taking my clammy hand in his cooler one. “I’m so sorry about your mother. I’m sorry…” He clears his throat. “Well, I’m sorry about a lot of things. But I’m really sorry you lost your mom.”

I look down at his big hand holding mine, the long fingers. I couldn’t speak at all. People have been saying variations of this for a week, and I can usually stammer out a “thank you.” But not this time.

“Rachel,” Hannah says from behind her desk. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Hannah’s voice is like cool water. I let go of Mr. Frederick Richards’s hand and slide obediently into a chair, while he retreats into his.

“This is an unusual situation,” Hannah says, folding her hands.

We’re still staring at each other. There are creases around his eyes and mouth. His fortieth birthday has just passed, a fact I know from Wikipedia. He’s aged over the decade that I’d been following him, but it’s still a very handsome face. My mother swooned for him all those years ago. That was her word—swooned. But my mother pronounced it the way her doctor had said “malignant.”

“Rachel, Mr. Richards wants to help you. But he has no legal right to care for you. His signature is not on your birth certificate, which complicates things. So he submitted a DNA test and hired a lawyer to help him navigate family court. But the system doesn’t move very fast. It’s unlikely that he can become your legal guardian before you turn eighteen next month.”

Some answer is required of me. “Okay,” I whisper. What does that mean, then? Will he just leave?

“Look, can Rachel and I talk?” he asks Hannah.

“You mean alone,” Hannah clarifies.

“Yes, I do.” He says it curtly, like a man who’s used to people listening.

“Today? No,” Hannah says. “This is a supervised visit between a child in the state’s custody and a stranger. I’m sure this is very difficult for you, Mr. Richards, and an audience doesn’t help. But this office plays host to hundreds of difficult conversations a year. I can promise that you will survive it.”

Hannah always gives it to you straight. She’s delivered plenty of bad news to me in a short amount of time, and all with a complete lack of bullshit.

Hannah didn’t sugarcoat the fact that I had to move into the group home. “It’s not the Plaza Hotel,” Hannah had admitted. “But it’s run by good people, and if there’s anything really bad about it, you’re going to call me right away.”

Mr. Frederick Richards sighs in his chair. His hands were nervous, fiddly. In most of his photographs he holds a guitar.

“Since you’ve come to Florida to offer Rachel your assistance,” Hannah says, “why don’t you tell us what sort you have in mind? I understand that until now your support has been financial in nature.”

He nods. “Yes, it was. I always…” He presses his fingers to his lips. “Before, I assumed that financial support was the only kind necessary.” He looks right at me. “I didn’t know your mother was sick. Nobody told me.”

Again, I know I should say something, but the words just aren’t there. My father is going to think his daughter is mute.