I've got to get out of here. It suddenly doesn't feel right being in his apartment.
I'm walking out through the living room when I notice the pad of paper on the coffee table.
I should leave him a note. I'll just sayâI don't knowâI came by or something. We can talk later. Maybe I'll know what to say by then. I pick up the paper.
There's something written on it.
Dear Paddy,
That's as far as he got.
It didn't matter what I was doingâ playing hockey, playing in the band, studying for examsâDad always had the same advice. “Keep your eye on the ball. Focus on what's important. Forget the rest.”
It didn't come naturally to me, but I learned. I eventually got pretty good at blanking stuff outâbut it's not working now. I keep hearing Martha say, “How could an old bulldog like you have a kid like this?”
Only difference now is she doesn't say it in that ha-ha, lol-type way. She says it like, “Seriously. Think about it, John. How could an old bulldog like you have a kid like this?”
In my head, she actually wants an answer.
I don't want an answer. I want to forget about it. I want to get out of here but I can't even open the car door. It's like the keyhole keeps moving.
I try to concentrate but all I can think is: I'm not his son.
I'm not John Armstrong's son.
That means I'm not even Paddy Armstrong.
I get pins and needles all over my body.
What was my mother doing while he was away at sea?
My stomach cramps at the thought. I use both hands and finally get the key in the slot. I open the door. I get in the car. I tell myself to smarten up.
A couple of girls go by. I do my best to smile at them. They start to giggle. They look back at me a few times before they walk away.
Everything's okay. I put on my seat belt, turn on the ignition.
I remember this guy at the gymâ some friend of Dad'sâmeeting me for the first time. He said, “Must have been some mix-up in the hospital, John. Looks like you took the wrong baby home.”
They both laughed.
I sit up straighter, and the street sounds disappear.
Maybe that's all this was. A mistake at the hospital. Nobody had to be cheating on anyone else.
I pull out and head down Quinpool Road. Something comes back to me. I saw an article in
People
magazine once about babies who were accidentally switched at birth. It happens.
Why couldn't it have happened to me?
Dad was on some ship in the Persian Gulf when I was born. (I have the postcard to prove it.) Maybe nobody was around to help Mom andâ¦Maybe Mom was too tired and didn't really get a good look at the baby. It's not that crazy. She was exhausted after Olivia and Marlon were born.
Or maybe I'm just adopted and nobody told me yet.
I stop at a light and I start to get anxious again. I can't tell if it's my heart pounding or if it's just the guy in the next car with his bass up full-blast. The light turns green and we both pull out.
Who am I kidding? I'm not adopted. I know that. Mom's mother is always telling me I have the Newton eyes, or the Newton hair or the Newton sense of humor.
That means there couldn't have been a mix-up at the hospital either.
I'm Mom's kid. That much I know.
The car behind me honks, and I realize I'm holding up traffic. I turn left on Bayers Road.
Maybe the Navy made a mistake. Maybe Dad actually has B blood and he just doesn't know it. Big organizations like that are always screwing up.
No.
Dad gives blood too.
The guy knows his blood type.
Maybe⦠My mind goes blank. I can't think of any more excuses.
Two parents with
A-type blood can't have a kid with B
blood.
There wasn't a mix-up. I wasn't adopted. Women can't get pregnant off toilet seats.
I see our house and realize that I don't know what
home
means.
I can't fool myself about this anymore. My father is fourteen years older than my mother. He was away at sea a lot. She was twenty and beautiful. She was probably lonely. Like, duh. What do I
think
happened?
I park in our driveway. I can't move. I feel like if I open the door and step out I'll be back in reality. I'll have to answer the question.
There's a moving van next door. A lady sees me and waves. She walks over. I can't think of any good reason not to talk to her.
“Hi!” she says. “I'm Sue MacLeod. I guess we're going to be neighbors.”
I stand up. “Hi,” I say. I try to look friendly.
“It's not hard to guess who you are! I just met your dad, and you're the spitting image. You've got the same nose. You must hear that all the time.”
I feel the blood rush out of my face. There's the answer to my question.
“Yeah, I do,” I say.
My voice must scare her. I leave her standing in the driveway with her hand over her mouth.
The little kids are sitting too close to the tv.
The only thing Anthony has to do all day is look after Olivia and Marlon, and he can't even do that right.
“Where's Daddy?” I say. That's what they call him so that's why I say itâbut this time it almost makes me puke.
Olivia doesn't turn away from the screen. “Downstairs. But you're not supposed to bother him, Paddy. He's doing his yoga.”
“Okay,” I say and take them both by the shoulders and drag them back a few feet.
I head down to the basement. Anthony is sitting cross-legged on his purple mat, in a special yoga outfit that he ordered from California. The pants only come to his calves. They've got little slits behind the knees. If they were pink, they'd look like something Olivia would wear.
It's stupid but that makes me even madder. I try not to let it show.
“Hey,” I say.
I know he hears me, but he doesn't respond.
I feel weirdly pumped. Not angry anymore. Just kind of alert. Like I'm standing in the wings, waiting to go onstage.
I lean against the washing machine and watch as Anthony pulls himself into another pose.
Pose
. Even the word is embarrassing. What type of grown man poses?
He stretches his arms out straight to the side and puts one foot flat against the other knee. I'm sort of disgusted by the whole display. Then something about his hands gets me. There's this flash in my head and I know what it is.
They look just like mine.
He slowly lowers his arms and puts his foot back on the floor. He takes a deep breath, wipes the sweat off his face with one of Mom's good towels, then says, “Yes?”
“Didn't mean to bother you,” I say.
“You didn't,” he says. Clearly someone as lowly as me couldn't distract him even if I wanted to.
There's a glass on the counter. Anthony has to have distilled water and he can't drink out of plastic. That pisses me off too. He picks it up and takes a drink.
I say, “I just need to know your blood type for some forms I have to fill out.”
Anyone else would realize what a lame question that is. Why would I need my stepfather's blood type for anything?
But Anthony is the center of the universeâor at least thinks he is. It sounds perfectly natural to him.
“Oddly enough,” he says. “I do know my blood type. I sang on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean once. All the lead performers had to have a complete medical done. Insurance purposes, I guess. Lot of money invested in us⦔
He yammers on and on. The guy never misses an opportunity to prove what an asshole he is. I let him dig himself in for a while, and then I say,
“Sorry, Anthony. What blood type did you say you were?”
He takes another sip of water. I never noticed before that we're the exact same height.
“B,” he says. “B negative.”
I knew he was going to say that, but it still takes the wind out of me.
I have this sudden urge to punch him in the face. One good punch and his nose would never look just like mine again.
I know I shouldn't hit him. It would upset the little kids if they heard noises and came running downstairs and found their father and me fighting.
I know I shouldn't do it, but I do.
Because Anthony's nose isn't the only thing I inherited. I have his temper too.
Anthony at least has the decency to say we were just pretending. That I was helping him prepare for a play. That I just slipped and we hit each other by mistake. That it's fake blood pouring out of my fist, fake glass all over the floor.
Marlon sort of falls for it but Olivia doesn't. She holds on to his leg, shaking, and looks at the blood running down my arm.
“I'm okay!” I say and muss up her hair. “It's make-believe.” Like everything else about my life.
“I've got to get going now,” I say. “Tell Mom I'll call her later.”
I slip out the basement door and climb into the car out front.
I'm halfway down the street when I realize how bad I'm bleeding. I should have waited until Anthony put the glass down, but waiting wasn't really an option at the time.
I'm less worried about the cut than getting blood on the upholstery. Dad gave me the car. He said he didn't need it anymore. It's just an old beater, but he took really good care of it. He'd be disappointed if I messed it up.
I pull over to the side of the road. There's an old T-shirt under the passenger seat that I use to clean the windshield. I wrap it tight around my hand to stop the bleeding.
First aid. That's another thing Dad taught me.
Dad, I think.
I start driving again. I don't know where.
Can I even call him Dad anymore?
Do I call him John?
Call him, I think.
I pound my fist on the dashboard. I get a little jolt of pain, but I deserve it. What's the matter with me? Dad, John, whoever. I was supposed to be looking for him! The guy's missing.
How could I forget about him? He'd never forget about me.
I wiggle my cell phone out of my pocket and try to dial and drive.
The cut. The cell phone. Rush-hour traffic. It's all too much. I'm going to kill someone like this.
I pull into the right-hand lane and park with my ass half out in the road. Some guy lays on the horn. I'm too crazed to even give him the finger.
I speed-dial Dad. No answer.
I call Earl at the commissionaire's office again. He hasn't heard from him either.
I call my grandmother and my aunt Bev, but I don't want to upset them so I just make it sound like I have something funny I want to tell him.
I call the Bluenose. Martha hasn't seen him. She says, “Try the gym. He's been complaining that my rice pudding is starting to show.”
I wait for a break in the traffic, pull a U-turn and head to Palooka's.
A girl named Sandi is on the desk. She's not supposed to give out information about clients, but I smile at her. I realize that's something Anthony would do. I don't care. It works. She checks the computer for me. “He hasn't been in for a couple of daysâbut people fall off their fitness regimes all the time.”
John Armstrong wouldn't, I think, but I say, “Oh, okay. Thanks.”
She notices the bruise on my cheek where Anthony actually managed to land a punch. “What happened to you?” she says. “Fighting over some girl or something?”
It's kind of funny, in a sick way, and I laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”
I ask her to call me if anyone knows where he is. She thinks I'm coming on to her but doesn't seem to mind. I put my hand up on the counter to write down my number.
“You should go to a doctor about that.” She almost whispers it.
I look at my hand. Blood is seeping right through the old T-shirt. I'm surprised it doesn't hurtâthen I realize that it does.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm on the way there right now,” I say.
She hands me a towel to wrap it in. She's very pale. “All that blood,” she says. “It can't be good.”
I have to agree with her there.
I get in the car and lean back against the headrest. I look out at the parking lot. What a frigging mess.
My mother has basically lied to me my whole life.
My “real” father is an asshole.
The guys in the band have replaced me.
Tara dumped me.