Cold Feet (21 page)

“Can I ask you a question?” Hunter asked gently.

“Sure,” I said, glad for an excuse to continue the conversation. I still had no idea how I felt, and although this was where Hunter's story ended and mine kept going, I didn't want to let go of him quite yet.

“How did you find me?”

“Let's see.” I dug back in my mind to come up with an accurate answer. “The one thing my mom told me about you, besides your name, was that you were from California. I picked up that you'd moved to San Francisco, after hearing her mention it to other people. Then we came here to look for you.” I felt my cheeks flush at this. It was so cloak-and-dagger, so tacky. Especially since it turned out I'd been searching for someone to whom I wasn't remotely related. “We checked the library and all over the Internet for a couple days, but never ran across any of your information—”

“I told you that you need a website,” Leo scolded. “He's so old-fashioned. He doesn't believe in the Internet.”

“What can I say? I like to draw pictures, but I don't have any desire to tweet about them,” Hunter said charmingly. I had a deep stab of wishing this endearing man was my father while I reflected on Leo's words. That explained why he'd been so impossible to locate. Why he was nowhere to be found online. The pieces were all falling into place. Unfortunately, where they fell was of little help.

“How did you find me in the end?” Hunter pressed.

“This part is pretty unbelievable. Liv picked up a postcard advertising your show at a bar one night. It was completely by chance.”

“Destiny,” Leo said knowingly. “It was destiny that you chose
this week to look for him, the week of the show. Destiny that you saw the ad. This was meant to be.” Liv nodded solemnly.

“I guess.” I tried to smile.

“Why
did
you choose this week?” Hunter asked. “Why now?”

“Oh, because I'm supposed to get married on Saturday. I guess it was a last-minute effort to explore my roots. Or something.”

“On Saturday? You mean, three days from now?” Leo demanded.

“Yes. This trip was supposed to be my bachelorette party, kind of. What a hoot, right?” I said, laughing derisively. “I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time and energy. It was really nice to meet you both.” I started to stand, but Liv shot up her hand to stop me from leaving.

“You forgot the most important thing,” she said urgently. We all turned to look at her. “Who did Caroline have the affair with while you were married? Who's the guy? That must be Emma's dad, right?”

Hunter faltered. “I suppose it is. I'm sorry, I never knew. It didn't seem right, considering what our marriage had gone through and what a disappointing husband I turned out to be. She respected my privacy and I figured I owed her as much. I never asked, and, needless to say, Caro never said a word.”

CHAPTER 21

O
ne of the most important classes you take in law school is Evidence. It's probably the most practical course because, unlike the majority of what you learn, it actually teaches you how to practice law. The class is all about the—wait for it—
evidence
you're allowed to introduce in court. What documents you can show the jury and what your witnesses can say on the stand. You know how on
Law and Order
, the lawyer asks the witness a question, and the other side shouts, Objection! usually right as the witness is starting to get into the good stuff? Well,
Objection!
is pretty much a fancy way of saying: You can't introduce that evidence, so hush.

Lawyers object to evidence for all sorts of different reasons, but the most important objection has to be hearsay. Hearsay is a big no-no in court. The technical definition is “an out-of-court statement
used for the truth of the matter asserted,” which means you can't try to prove a fact by repeating something that someone else said. You can't tell a jury, “My neighbor Rhonda
told me
that she wanted to kidnap her friend's dog,” or “My grandmother
said
she wanted to leave me all her money,” with the implication “so it must be true.” Those aren't facts, they're hearsay. Objection! sustained.

The assumption is that people lie all the time, for all sorts of reasons. Maybe (hopefully) Rhonda was joking around about the dog thing, or your nana simply didn't want to decide who got the Velázquez, so she took the easy way out and let the grandkids fight it out. Hearsay rules dictate that only in court, when the witness has taken an oath, with the pressure of cross-examination present, can what someone says really be considered evidence. Accordingly, as lawyers, we are taught not to believe hearsay, not to trust gossip. “He said, she said” doesn't count.

I don't want to brag, but I got an
A
in Evidence. It was one of the few classes I intrinsically understood. From the first day, I got the point of the class, to sift between the nonsense and make rules for how a courtroom should operate. It was one of the few law school classes that revolved around good old commonsense. I turned in my exam with a bounce in my step and wasn't surprised to find my first ever
A
the day our grades went up online. That's why it was even more shocking that when it came to the ultimate question of my life—who I was and where I came from—I hadn't applied a thing I'd learned. I'd let the hearsay in.

When Caroline told me the pack of lies about my childhood, I should have taken the lessons I learned and applied them in real life.
I should have made her swear on a Bible, deposed her, or at least questioned her bullshit, especially given how random and unspecific she was about her past, and, in turn, mine. Had I learned nothing? I felt like I should call Berkeley and have them rescind my diploma, or at least lower my GPA by a few decimals.

“What are you thinking about?” Liv finally asked, after twenty minutes of sitting side by side and silently staring at the crashing waves of Ocean Beach.

“Hearsay.”

“Gotcha.” Liv leaned over and ripped off a piece of bread from the baguette we'd picked up on the way there. After we left Hunter and Leo's, she ran into a corner market and soon emerged with said baguette, two different kinds of cheese, a bag of double chocolate Milanos, and a large green bottle of San Pellegrino, declaring that we were having a picnic on the beach and we would talk when we got there. I was compliant as we drove to Ocean Beach, a dark but pretty shoreline on the western coast of the city. Despite the late afternoon sun peeking through the clouds, it was mostly deserted.

“Well, we found Hunter,” Liv said. I laughed despite myself.

“We certainly did. Can you believe what a liar Caro is?” I said, slicing the package open with a plastic knife and helping myself to a surprisingly good hunk of cheese, not even bothering with the bread.

“Emma, I really think you should call her.”

“Why? What would be the point? Do you think she's going to tell me the truth now?”

Liv stayed silent, perhaps agreeing with me. Or else deciding I was a lost cause.

We were sitting cross-legged on the red fleece blanket I always took on flights, as I was notoriously cold on airplanes. It was the relic of an outdoor concert Sam and I attended in East L.A. two years prior. Our friend Lilly, a drummer with streaks of blue hair that flashed when she tossed her head to the side, had invited us to see her band's outdoor show. Sam and I arrived with a six-pack of domestic beer and hipster sunglasses, ready to rock out, Coachella style, only to find that what she hadn't mentioned was that it was a
marching
band—which was so retro and odd, only someone as cool as Lilly could pull it off.

The “show” was hosted by the South Pasadena County Civic Center, and you were far more likely to find battle hymns and giant turkey legs than hippies and Molly. Nevertheless, we had a blast. We shared our beers with a family up from Orange County, who in turn shared their cozy blanket. The very same blanket we accidentally stuck in our bag at the end of the night, upon which Liv and I were now perched.

“Come on, let's put our feet in,” Liv said, getting up and walking jauntily toward the ocean, managing not to spill her fizzy water like only the well-coordinated can.

The sand was cold and wet, as if high tide had come and gone, and my shoulders, previously warm from the sun, were immediately covered in goose bumps. The last time Liv and I were on a proper beach was our bar trip to Greece, which we took the day after the bar exam. It was three weeks with nothing to do but island hop, lie in the sun, and try to stop our muscle memory from typing out the rule against perpetuities in our sleep. I'll never forget how I felt during
those twenty days of bliss: completely free, yet also centered in a way that was rare for me. Jared and I had broken up, which felt like a giant relief, I had a job at a law firm in L.A. waiting for me, and I was with my best friend in Greece. I truly felt as if I had my whole life ahead of me.

Every day on our trip Liv and I would wake up early and head to the water, the sea rimmed with white or black sand, depending on the island. On the way we'd stop for a cappuccino and down the frothy mixture without communicating, unless it was to ask the other to borrow a euro. Then we would make our way to the edge of the water and plop down with our books, each absorbed in our own little world until midafternoon, when the sun was high in the sky and one of us would suggest a mojito. That first drink was a signal that one of us was ready to talk. To start the day, discuss the hijinks from the night before, and begin the cycle of eating, drinking, and dancing that defined each night. Once we put our books down and agreed it was time for the white rum concoction, we were connected for the rest of the day, but it was in silent agreement that we had those quiet mornings.

That's how well Liv and I could communicate, how well we could read each other. Which is why right then I didn't need to tell her that I was feeling lost, embarrassed, and angry, because she already knew.

“You know there are sharks in there,” I warned Liv, as she walked out farther into the surf, recalling a frightening article I'd read about a surfer fighting off a shark attack at Ocean Beach.

“We're not swimming, Em.” Liv was notoriously unafraid of sea
creatures, or the water, for that matter. On our ferries between Greek islands, I'd been genuinely concerned an animal would manage to jump up on the boat and eat me, whereas Liv would spend hours in the water floating on her back, bobbing farther and farther into the blue-green surf without a care in the world, until I'd come out and shout lectures to her about the power of the rip tide.

As soon as I reached the water's edge I forgot my complaints, rolled up my jeans, and walked into the chilly spray, kicking up water with every step. The ocean wasn't as green and the sun wasn't as warm, but allowing the waves to rush under my feet while Liv hiked up her maxi dress and ventured out to where the water touched her thighs reminded me of our magical days in Santorini and Mykonos.

“What am I going to do now? Hunter, Sam, should I just give up on them all?” I said. I didn't really need a response, but I wanted to put it out there.

Even though I was standing behind her, I could see Liv looking upward, lost in thought, the way she did when she was about to say something really honest, which was often something I might not like. Right then, the waves hit my ankles hard, shooting spurts of water up my legs and dampening my jeans. I rolled my pants up another few inches and felt the whoosh of the water receding past me, back into the surf. I could have moved in a few more feet, past where the waves broke and where the calm water would gently lap at my calves, but I didn't. The hard, unexpected spray felt good. It matched how I felt inside.

“I don't think it's really fair to equate the two, Hunter and Sam
that is.” Liv turned around and walked back toward me, slowly trudging through the water, pausing every couple of steps as a wave rushed by and she waited for it to crash. “What Sam did is horrible, and you have to decide whether you can forgive him. But just because he fucked up, and because your mom had a big secret that she kept from you, that doesn't mean that you can't trust anyone. It doesn't make what Sam did any
more
wrong.”

I considered this. My first instinct was to vehemently disagree. I wanted to say that when you discover that your fiancé cheated on you and kept it a secret for years, and in the same week you find out your mom has been lying about who your father is for almost three decades, you can't help but equate the two. It does, in fact, make it more wrong, because it hurts more. But instead I took a moment and grasped for logic. Liv was being honest with me, which couldn't be easy right now. The least I could do was not take my frustrations out on her.

“I understand what you're saying,” I said slowly. “But it's easier said than done. You know what I really wish? I wish I hadn't started this search for Hunter now. I wish I had ignored his existence and gone about my business, like I did for the past twenty-nine years. If it didn't affect me for this long, why did I have to start obsessing about it now?” Liv gave me a dubious look. “Okay, I realize this isn't a coincidence. I know the decision to look for my father now has a lot to do with marrying Sam. But still, why did I have to choose this moment to start caring about the other half of my genetic material?” What I really wanted to add, but couldn't say aloud, was, Had I done this now in order to give myself some rationale for
questioning my marriage in the first place, like Sam had implied on the phone?

“Emma. Can I say something? Do you promise you won't get mad?”

“Okay,” I said warily.

“You keep saying how you just started caring about finding Hunter now, and how you had no interest in him before. And please don't get pissed off, but I don't think your interest in him is as new as you think. Don't you feel like part of you has
always
been looking for him?”

I stopped in my wet, sandy tracks, genuinely surprised.

“No. I really don't. I don't know what you're talking about. I've never looked for my dad or made any effort to find him. How many times have I even said his name in the last fifteen years?” I made a concerted effort to keep my voice from sounding defensive.

“Emma, I could be completely wrong when I say this, but isn't that why you moved to California in the first place?” Her voice rose a little. “Isn't that why you went to law school out here? Isn't that why you moved to L.A., because you still hadn't met him and you weren't ready to leave the state where you knew he lived?”

I was shocked. This was a theory I had honestly never considered. I'd chosen Berkeley to attend law school, same as Liv, but when it came time to pick our jobs and move to the city where we would permanently reside, the majority of my classmates, including her, headed back east. I, however, stayed firmed entrenched in California. I moved to a city where I didn't know a soul. Was it possible
that I'd put the entire state of California on a pedestal not because of the Joni Mitchell song, but because of my mythical father?