“Caleb…” she whines.
“Sara.”
“All right,” she says, standing up. “I’ll see you at the gym then. Call me if you want to get drinks. No sex attached.”
I nod and walk her to the door. She’s a nice girl. Even nicer to take that whole situation with such good humor.
When she’s gone, I pull out my computer. I order a kitchen table, a bed, and a living room set. Then I go through my emails. Almost everything in my inbox is work related. My mother emails me daily, but I’ve yet to respond to any of them. When I see my father’s name, I start. My mother must have told him I was back in London. I click on his name.
Caleb,
Heard you were back in town. Let’s get together for dinner. Call me.
That’s all he wrote to the son he hasn’t seen in five years. Eh. Why not? I pull out my phone and text the number in the email. Might as well get the reunion over with. Maybe he’d surprise me and be less of an asshole than the last time I had dinner with him and he spent the entire two hours texting on his Blackberry.
He texts back almost immediately and says he’ll meet me at a local pub tomorrow night. I wander over to my bed and fall into it, still dressed.
My father hasn’t changed much in the five years since I’ve seen him. He’s greyer … maybe. And what gray he’s chosen to keep is probably as planned out as his tan — which I know has to be spray because he turns bright red in God’s sun.
“You look like me!” he says, before embracing me in a man hug.
I pat his back and sit down, grinning. God, I hate this bastard, but it’s good to see him.
He acts like we’ve been together every day for the last five years. It’s all an act. My father is a salesman. He could make a terrorist feel at home in an electric chair. I let him do his thing and drink heavily.
Finally, he gets down to why I’m here.
“It’s right up your alley, actually,” I tell him. “A woman I wanted who didn’t want me, and a kid I wanted to be mine and wasn’t.”
He grimaces. “That’s not up my alley, son. I get the women I want.”
I laugh.
“She must have had quite an effect on you to chase you out of your beloved America.”
I don’t answer that.
Suddenly, he sobers up. “I wanted to see my granddaughter. When I thought she was my granddaughter, that is.”
I watch his face for lack of sincerity but find none. He’s not blowing smoke up my ass or saying something to be polite. He’s aging and getting a taste of his mortality. He genuinely wanted to meet Estella.
“I heard your ex-wife is worst than my first ex-wife.” He smirks. “How did you manage that deal?”
“I’m the same type of fool as you, I guess.”
He smirks.
“Come over to the house for dinner. Meet my new wife.”
“Sure,” I say.
“She has a younger sister…”
“Ugh. You’re so sick.” I shake my head and he laughs.
My phone rings. It’s an American number. I look at my father, and he motions for me to take the call. “I’ll be back,” I say, standing up. When I answer, I immediately recognize the voice.
“Moira,” I say.
“Hello, my dear. I have news.”
“Okay…” My mind is spinning. I glance at my watch. It’s around two o’clock stateside.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Out with it, Moira.”
“When your ex-wife took Estella into the clinic to get the blood work done, she used Leah Smith on her paperwork instead of Johanna. There was another Leah Smith in the database-”
I cut her off. “What are you saying?”
“You got someone else’s results, Caleb. Estella is yours. Ninety-nine point nine percent yours.”
“Oh my god.”
It turns out Leah was in the process of getting another test when the clinic found their mistake. She hadn’t wanted me to think Estella wasn’t mine. That would ruin her long-term plan of making me battle her in court for custody, all the while looking like I abandoned my daughter. And I had abandoned her. I hadn’t fought to know the truth. I had been so blinded by my hurt that I never looked at the situation hard enough. I hate myself for that. I’ve missed so many important milestones in her life, and why? Because I’m an idiot.
Since I’m living in another country, Moira tells me I won’t have to be there for all the court dates. I fly back anyway. Leah looks genuinely surprised to see me in court. I fly back three times in three months. I signed a one-year contract with the company in London, or I would have moved back already. When the judge sees me appear at all three hearings, he grants me three weeks a year, and since I am living in England, he will allow Estella to spend the time there as long as she is accompanied by a family member. It’s a small victory. Leah is pissed. Three weeks. Twenty-one days out of three hundred and sixty-five. I try not to focus on that. I get my daughter for three uninterrupted weeks. And the year is almost over. Next year Moira will go for joint. I just have to finish out my contract and I can move back. It’s settled that my mother will fly with Estella to London. When I ask if I can see Estella before I fly back, Leah says she has the stomach flu and it would be too traumatic for her. I’m forced to wait. I fly home and start getting things ready. I buy a twin bed and put it in the spare bedroom. I’ll only get her for a week the first time, but I want her to feel like my flat is her home. So, I buy little girl looking things — a duvet with ponies and flowers, a dollhouse, a fluffy pink chair with its own ottoman. Two days before my mother is scheduled to fly in with her, I fill my fridge with kid food. I can barely sleep. I am so excited.
I spend forty minutes in a toy store trying to decide what to get Estella. In the movies when parents are reunited with their children, they have a pastel-colored stuffed animal in their hands — usually a bunny. Since a cliché is the worst thing a person can be, I browse the aisles until I find a stuffed llama. I hold it in my hands for a few minutes, smiling like a fool. Then I carry it to the register.
My stomach is in knots when I climb onto the tube. I take the Piccadilly line to Heathrow and mistakenly get off at the wrong terminal. I have to double back and by the time I find the correct gate, my mother has texted that the plane has landed. What if she doesn’t remember me? Or if she decides not to like me and cries the entire trip. God. I am an absolute mess. I see my mother first, her blonde hair in a perfect chignon even after the nine-hour flight. When I look down, I see a chubby hand attached to my mother’s slender one. I follow the length of the arm and see messy, red curls bouncing excitedly around a face that looks exactly like Leah’s. I smile so hard my face hurts. I don’t think I’ve smiled since I moved to London. Estella is wearing a pink tutu and a cupcake shirt. When I see that she’s smeared lipstick all over her face, my heart does the most peculiar thing: it beats faster and aches at the same time. I watch my mother stop and point toward me. Estella’s eyes search me out. When she sees me, she pulls free of her grandmother’s hand and … runs. I drop to my knees to catch her. She hits me with force — too much force for such a little person. She’s strong. I squeeze her squishy little body and feel the ducts in my eyes burn as they try to summon tears. I just want to hold her like this for a few minutes, but she pulls back, smacks both hands on either side of my face, and starts talking a mile a minute. I wink at my mother in greeting and direct my gaze back to Estella, who is recounting a detail-by-detail version of her flight while clutching the llama underneath her arm. She has a forceful little voice, slightly raspy like her mother’s.
“And then I ate my butter and Doll said it was gonna make me sick …” Doll is what she calls my mother. My mother thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world. I think she’s just relieved to have escaped the normal “Granny” or “Grandma” monikers that would make her feel old.
“You’re a genius,” I say while she’s taking a breath. “What three-year-old speaks like this?”
My mother smiles ruefully. “One who never stops speaking. She gets unfathomable amounts of practice.”
Estella repeats the word “unfathomable” all the way to baggage claim. She gets the giggles when I start chanting it with her, and by the time I pull their luggage from the belt, my mother’s head looks ready to explode.
“You used to do that when you were little,” she says. “Say the same thing over and over until I wanted to scream.”
I kiss my daughter’s forehead. “Who needs a paternity test?” I joke. Which is the absolute wrong thing to say, because my small person starts chanting paternity test all the way through the airport … until we climb into the cab outside and I distract her with a pink bus that’s driving by.
During the cab ride home, Estella wants to know what her bedroom looks like, what color blankets I got for her bed, if I have any toys, if she can have sushi for dinner.
“Sushi?” I repeat. “What about spaghetti or chicken fingers?”
She pulls a face that only Leah could have taught her, and says, “I don’t eat kid food.”
My mother raises her eyebrows. “You’d never need a maternity test,” she says out of the corner of her mouth. I have to stifle my laughter.