Red Blooded (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

There are a lot of things we can’t tell our kids.
For example
,
that you did inhale...multiple times.
That you slept with
,
well
,
let’s just say a significant number of women before committing to your wife.
That you sometimes wonder if we should lower the drinking age.

These are the types of things I won’t share with Peyton directly
,
but I have no problem writing them in a book that she will probably read.

However
,
there are other things
,
things I can’t tell Peyton
,
even indirectly.
I
stare at the hospital ceiling and succumb to the aching fact that when she does find out some really important things
,
I’ll be long gone.

* * *

I walk into our living room to have lunch with my mom, ready to awkwardly avoid the elephant in the room. She begged me to wait. As we sat in that lonely limo, she told me she’d tell me the truth soon. When I was deposited back on campus, I didn’t know what to think.

Two days later, she deviates from the campaign schedule to prep for a big interview at home. She invites me to lunch. So, this has to be when she’s going to tell me everything, right?

But if it’s not what she had planned, I don’t want to mess with her interview prep. She has to brush up on environmental issues, which, to be honest, she doesn’t know a whole lot about. But after a recent report on genetically modified organisms and the climate-change-induced drought in the Midwest, some of those questions will come up.

I’ve got to be a good girl so she can focus. I have to put my own shit aside, for a little longer.

I open the door, ready for an increasingly rare, secluded moment with my mom, but my aunt Victoria is with her. Aunt Victoria somehow looks even more formal and pristine than usual, with her hands in her lap and her back straight.

“Victoria.” I walk to her for a hug. Her strained smile itches in my brain. It takes her a great deal of effort to get out of the chair to hug me. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t lose the pressure in her smile. “Yes, of course.” She hugs me and holds me about 3.5 beats longer than usual.

I step back. Are they going to tell me Aunt Victoria is sick or something? But if she’s sick, why does she stay standing as my mom hangs up her phone?

“I’ll call you back.” My mom pauses. “I’m not sure. I’ll need some time here. I’ll call you soon.” She puts her cell down. She looks at me. She and Victoria have matching smiles, the kind of smiles that hurt your cheeks.

“Why don’t we sit down,” my mom says, gesturing to the couches in the suite as though Victoria and I are guests and not her beloved sister and daughter. I walk over. Victoria almost sits down next to me before opting to sit in an armchair instead.

“Okay,” I say. “What’s going on? Is everything all right?”

“Honey,” my mom says, but then she waits. She shifts her gaze to Victoria. Victoria gives a painfully slow nod. “Honey, we have something to tell you that will likely come as a bit...well, no, as a big shock.”

I try to make myself breathe even though it feels like a bunch of things are clamping my chest, like I’m in a straitjacket, frigid and still and shaking. “You’re making me nervous.”

Victoria shifts. She reaches for my hand, but then pulls it back, furrows her forehead and moves a rare errant bit of blonde hair behind her ear. “Peyton, I’m your biological mother.” She swallows hard before looking down.

“What?” It comes out staccato, so fast and short that Aunt Victoria flinches.

My mom takes Victoria’s hand and squeezes. Victoria presses her free hand to her lips and her shoulders ever so slightly bob up and down.

“Peyton,” my mom continues for her. “When Victoria was very young, only eighteen, your age, she got pregnant. Grandpa was a senator then, as you know, and we knew it wouldn’t just be a family issue. The media would run story after story. Our opponents would call out Grandma and Grandpa’s parenting style. You would be born under all this turbulence. None of us wanted that.”

Victoria is still looking at the ground. I make myself look at my mom. Or, who I thought was my mom. Shit. “You’re not my mom?”

My mom, or, you know, whoever she is, frowns. Victoria gets up from the armchair and sits beside me. My body curls away, and Victoria looks like she took a sucker punch to the belly. She breathes in and focuses on me, her gaze fixed and frozen. “She is your mom. Biologically, she’s your aunt, but she’s still your mom. Do you understand?”

Victoria waits for me, her chin squirming a little. I nod.

“And your dad, Richard Arthur, he was your dad,” my mom says as she too gets up and sits next to me. She squeezes my shoulder and her eyes glisten with just a bit of moisture. “He wasn’t related to you biologically. He knew that, of course, but he loved you more than anything. You were still his daughter. You understand?”

“Yes, of course.” I am Gumby in the sun. A claymation figurine sluggishly melting and dwindling away, lost among the heat waves.

Victoria’s usually perfectly squared shoulders slump, as though all that took more strength than she had. She stares at her lap.

“I don’t understand. How did you keep this from me...from everyone?” I ask, not doing enough to hide the tears in my voice.

“Well, your dad and I were in Switzerland. When Victoria started showing, she came to live with us. We told everyone it was a semester abroad, basically. We had a number of things worked out. She gave birth to you in Switzerland and went home. When Richard and I came back, we said you were ours. We always wanted a child.” She smiles, and an actual, verifiable tear escapes her eye.

“I couldn’t have a baby. I knew that at that point, so, to us, you were a blessing.”

“I was a mistake?”

Victoria holds my shoulder. “Some mistakes are the most wonderful thing to ever happen, you understand?”

I nod. But I can’t shake this melting feeling.

“So,” I say. “Who’s my real, I mean, biological dad?”

Victoria’s eyes shoot to my mom. Victoria’s mouth opens, and if I thought she was tense before, I was wrong. Her body stiffens, like she could be hunted and gobbled up at any moment if she moved. My mom turns away and sighs. It’s almost as though they didn’t think I’d ask that.

“Well.” My mom puts her thumb and pointer finger to her temples. “The thing is—”

“We decided that it would be best if you didn’t know,” Victoria says.

“Well, yeah, it’s best I didn’t know about it. Not a good time. I get it. But you’re telling me now, so who is my dad?”

“Peyton, trust me, you don’t want to know. And he doesn’t want to know you, so it would just hurt,” my mom says.

“He knows about me, though?” I curl my fingers into my hands and have trouble breathing.

“Well, yes, now he does.”

“What do you mean, ‘now’?” I ask. This whole breathing thing is still difficult.

“When I left college, I didn’t tell him,” Victoria says. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought he would want a role, so I just...” She expands her fingers in the air. “I never told him.”

“Never?” I say, hurt on his behalf. This guy that I didn’t know. This guy who might have wanted a role in my upbringing. This man who is my father.

“Then he advanced in his career, in a position where it wouldn’t behoove him to have a, well, a...”

“Bastard daughter?” I offer.

She flinches. My mom frowns. The furious blood continues to pop in my veins.

My mom says, “It wouldn’t have been good for any of us.”

“But he knows now,” I say, because I can feel the answer lingering in the air.

“After your dad died, it crushed us all. And even though, like we said, he’s your dad—he always will be—I felt guilty that we were keeping you from your biological father. I talked to Victoria and she agreed, so, we told him everything.”

Victoria frowns. “He didn’t react well.”

“To say the least...” my mom says, crossing her legs.

“Well, I’d be upset too if you kept something like that from me. Oh wait, you did keep something like that from me.” I stand up, anger ricocheting within me. “You’re
still
keeping something like that from me. I don’t care if he doesn’t want to know I exist, I have the right to know who he is!”

Tears line the rims of Aunt Victoria’s eyes. But my mom is stronger. “If we told you, you’d go to him, and now would be the absolute worst time, for everyone, for you, to have this come out. You would distract an entire nation from the real issues, issues affecting millions.”

I cross my arms. Why was it always about the millions of Americans? It was never, ever about me. But even as I say it in my head, the petulance rings through my soul. It isn’t ever about me, or any one person. That’s not how the world works.

“Please, just tell me. You owe me that.”

Victoria looks to my mom, a questioning, almost pleading look. My mom rises, steps behind the couch. “No. He could retaliate. He could...” She shakes her head. “And more than that, Peyton, he had his chance and he didn’t want to be part of your life. Accept that. Move on. Knowing who he is would be too painful for you. Please trust me on this.”

I pull my hair back tight. I trust my mom. I do, more than anything. But she also still sees me as the girl who shook behind the curtains after her father died. Yes, I can still be that weak, I can still be that vulnerable. But I have the strength for this. I have to know.

And they aren’t going to tell me.

I storm to the bathroom.

Victoria’s footsteps follow, but my mom whispers, “Let her go.”

I stare at my frustrated red eyes as I rest my hands on the sink counter. I make myself breathe. What do I need to do? How can I find out who he is?

A plan burps in my brain. I just need to play along until after lunch. Then I’ll be able to take action.

I come back and apologize for blowing up. We have a quiet, painfully slow and weird lunch.

When I leave, my mom grabs my shoulder. “Peyton, are you upset with us?”

“Yes, of course,” I say. But, to ensure that they won’t keep tabs on me, to ensure as much freedom as I can possibly get, I need them to think I’m okay. “But, I understand it was a difficult situation.” I look to my aunt, who smiles under her ruddy-with-tears cheeks. “I love you both, a lot,” I say, earnestly, because it’s still true.

“I hope you find a way to forgive me,” Victoria says.

“I will,” I say.

“I’m sorry it had to happen this way,” my mom says.

I nod and succumb to marathon hugs before exiting. The fury in my belly builds.

I storm out of the building, not really giving a fuck that my face is flushed, and breeze by Dylan. He has to drop his phone to his side and jog along the bricks to catch up with me.

“Hey, hey, where are you going?” he asks.

I pause, mouth open. How am I going to explain this to him?

“You’re shaking,” Dylan says, his fingers brushing my shoulder.

I take a deep breath. “We’re going to the lake.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

There are a few key ways to please my father-in-law.
Bring him fine Scotch
,
pour him more than a finger
,
devour his political pontifications
,
and fervently disagree with him when he—with Scotch and reminiscent-filled bleary eyes—grants that you just might be good enough for his offspring.

* * *

My grandparents are confused when I call them from the road. But they don’t turn away visits from their only grandchild. After I hang up, I focus on the highway and the feeling of power that’s awarded when you control a vehicle.

“Um, could you slow down a bit?” Dylan asks.

“What?” I say, until I notice I’m going 80. “Sure.”

He settles back into the seat as I slow to a rather reasonable 65.

“Thanks,” he says. “I didn’t mean to sound unhip, it’s just that if we got into a high-speed wreck, your mom, Bain and Ruiz could blame me.”

“First,” I say. “If you don’t want to sound unhip, then don’t use the word
unhip
.”

He rests his elbow on the inside of the car door and lets out that deep laugh of his. “Fair enough. And second?” He smiles, teeth gleaming, ready for my next pontification.

“Second, I’m really disturbed by the fact that you’re more afraid of getting in trouble for being in a high-speed wreck than getting dismembered or mangled or any of the other physical fates that could befall you if I swerved off the road.”

I grip the steering wheel a little harder at my own reminder of my power.

“This election is more important than my life.”

“Don’t say that.” It comes out like a dagger.

“How can I not?” he says. “It affects millions, perhaps even billions of people. My death would only affect a few hundred people, and that’s including the kids I played soccer with in junior high who would be all like, ‘Oh yeah, I remember Dylan. He died. Shit, that’s sad,’ before they shotgunned a beer in my honor and forgot about me.” He laughs.

His mental health is seriously in doubt.

I shake my head and wrinkle my nose. “No, just...no. This election isn’t more important than your life, okay? I get what you’re saying, but it’s not comparable. It’s just...not.”

Out of the corner of my eye, because I’m focusing on the road, I see his smile slip away. He sits a little straighter. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well, you did.”

He leans back and scruffs both sides of his hair, then stares out the window for a long time. “The thing is, campaigns are what give my life meaning, you know?” He’s still looking out the window and I’m not sure how I should respond. “Maybe I can’t do that much in my life, but by helping Ruiz, and other candidates I’ve cared about, I’m doing something. I have a purpose.”

I keep my eyes on the road. “It’s good to have a purpose that’s larger than yourself. It’s just...”

“There’s nothing sadder than the last day of a campaign. Everyone else is excited or relieved it’s almost over. But not me. Without a campaign, I feel lost.”

He turns to me and I don’t look at him. I mean, I shouldn’t. I should focus on the road, but even out of the corner of my eye I can see how open Dylan’s expression is.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean, I still don’t think you should say the campaign’s more important than your life. But I shouldn’t have gotten on your case. I’m upset about a lot of things right now.”

“Okay, talk to me about them.” His voice is a nice, low hum.

“I can’t.” Sure, I told him what I’d overheard my mom say, but this secret, the truth behind it all, is too big, right? I shouldn’t tell anyone.

“So why are we going to your grandparents’?”

“I just want to get away for a little bit, you know. Visiting them at the lake calms me.”

This is not entirely a lie.

He scratches his chin. “Okay, but let’s keep a low profile. It’s not going to look good if this gets out.”

“What?” I ask. The wheel feels slippery under my hands. I grip harder.

“You’re stressed out, you need a break. I get that, but it might look like the campaign’s overworking you. It might look like you had a breakdown or something.”

“I’m not having a breakdown,” I shout into the windshield.

He puts his right hand on his chest and holds his left hand toward me like I’m an unruly exotic animal. “
I
know that. I’m talking about what the media might turn this into. A random trip to see your grandparents—who live over three hours away—in the middle of the week.”

“I’m not missing any classes, and I know we have to be back tomorrow for the rally, okay? I just want to stay the night.”

“Okay,” he says. “But like I said, low profile.”

We don’t talk for another fifteen minutes, but I get bored easily, and I’m in a fighting mood, so soon we’re debating random things, like whether pineapple or blueberries are better, if toilet paper should roll over or under, if West Coast rap is better than East Coast rap, and why Halloween is the best fake holiday. (I think it’s the best holiday because of the macabre decorations, while he thinks it’s the best holiday because of the candy.)

We’re pulling off the exit, trundling up the mountain road, before I know it.

“Thanks for fighting with me, it made the trip go quickly,” I say.

“We weren’t fighting, we were discussing,” he says.

“I think we were fighting.”

“No, we were discussing,” he says.

“Now we’re fighting about whether we were fighting or discussing,” I say hotly, but I can’t help smiling.

“We’re discussing,” he says. “And we’re good at it. We should take on the Israel-Palestine issue and make the world a better place.”

I shrug. “I could never be a politician. Some issues are too complicated to have an emphatic opinion about.”

He rubs his lip with his thumb. “Yeah.”

We pull into my grandparents’ gravel driveway. I’m careful to look out for Jefferson, their black cat who likes to slip and slink around at night. My grandpa bursts out the door and my grandma glides along, like a formal queen, behind him.

Wet kisses graze my cheeks and big hugs encompass my being.

“This must be Dylan,” my grandpa says as he grabs Dylan’s hand. Grandpa is known for his crushing handshakes, but Dylan’s good at hiding his wince. Thing is, my Grandpa is known for more than just his handshakes. He’s known for talking with anyone, which is a good thing in politics. Except, those conversations tend to be long and one-sided.