“The people I trusted most lied to me. My parents, my so called doctor…” I say quietly to myself. Hearing it out loud is almost cathartic. She’s quiet, but I notice her eyes surveying me again. I wonder what it’s like to look at someone you know, and have him not recognize you at all.
“You can’t blame yourself. It’s human nature to want to believe things are always good. When I talked to your parents, they thought they were doing what was best for you. Your interest was the only one they were looking out for.”
I look down at her. She’s wringing her hands together, and I can only imagine how hard this is for her. Still, after everything she’s gone through, she says something like that.
“I didn’t expect for you to defend them. Especially after… They lied to you, too.”
“I’m not defending them. What they did was wrong. It hurt a lot people. But I don’t think they did it to be malicious or cruel. They thought they were protecting you. As a parent, you’d do anything to protect your child from what you believe could hurt them. If I was in their situation, and I believed that I could keep you safe by lying to you, I would have.”
I remember the main reason I’m here, and reach into my pocket to pull out the picture of our daughter. Wow, that’s going to take some getting used to. I walk toward her, and her eyes widen. I hear her breathing and notice her hand is squeezing her wrist like some type of stress management technique. I need to get one of those ASAP.
She takes a step back from me, and I realize it’s probably best if I just show her the picture. After all, I’m some strange guy she doesn’t know, in her hotel room, sort of.
“My mom said…” I try to think of what would be the least awkward way to say this. I’m her father, she’s my daughter, our kid?
“Caylen,” she interjects softly, and touches the face on the picture.
“You named her after him, after Cal?” I’m hesitant to say his name to her, like it’ll set off some type of alarm and send her into some kind of frenzy like she was in the other day. Her vibe now is totally different. Calm, considering the circumstances. She’s not in a no-holds-barred screaming mode. She nods as I take a seat on the sofa.
“How old is she?” I ask, with a sigh that I didn’t intend.
“She just had her first birthday three days ago,” she says, sitting on the edge of the sofa. I never stopped to think that she’s been doing this alone. Other than the one I had two days ago, I haven’t had a blackout in almost two years, which means he hasn’t been around. He missed everything, too.
I turn toward her. “You’ve been raising her alone?” I ask, and she rubs her palm against her thighs.
“No. My aunt and friends have been there since the beginning, to help me with her. She doesn’t lack anything,” she explains.
“Except a father,” I say quietly. If we share the same genes, God, she could have to deal with something like DID. “She doesn’t do anything strange?” I ask, and she looks confused.
“Like what?” she asks, a hint of sharpness in her voice.
“In general?” I say hesitantly; she’s not getting what I’m hinting at.
“Caylen isn’t strange!” her voice is definitely sharp now.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.” I’m backtracking from insinuating her daughter, our daughter, is crazy like her good ol’ dad.
“She’s been okay an entire year of her life without you making sure she was okay. I’ve made sure she’s okay!” This is going badly. I didn’t mean to insult how she’s raised her. Well, I don’t know how she’s raising her, actually.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I-I don’t know what I meant,” I stand up, and offer her the picture. Her angry demeanor changes.
“I’m sorry. I overreacted. I’m just not used to this. All of this, it’s all—” she stutters nervously.
“No, it was my fault. I was out of line. I shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.” I stop her, and she gives me a small smile; her one dimple makes another appearance. I look back at the picture of Caylen. She looks like me, but she has her mom’s dimples and nose. It’s amazing how a little human being can look like a combination of two people. I don’t remember my biological mother or father, so I’m not sure who I look like. I sit back down on the sofa, and a moment later, she sits beside me, the obligatory few inches between us.
“She has your eyes. They turn like yours do,” her voice is soft, but steady. Her eyes find mine, and for a moment, she’s smiling, a barely-there smile, but still a smile.
Stay with me.
It’s like a whisper in my ear.
The image of her from my dream the other night invades my thoughts. I shake it from my mind. I haven’t thought about it since, but it’s decided to announce itself right here, while she’s on the verge of crying, and I’m whining like a little boy. Get a grip, Chris.
“I mean I …” she stutters, and her skin flushes a slight shade of pink. It causes me to smile. She really is beautiful. I turn my attention back to the picture in my hand. She’s still looking at me, and it’s scary. It makes me nervous, worried, and excited, all at the same time. I don’t know her, but something about her evokes these emotions that I can’t deal with right now. They probably aren’t mine to deal with. The only thing that makes it feel like I’m not going to implode is to talk, so I do.
“How are we supposed to deal with this?” I ask quietly. Thankfully, my voice doesn’t give away the energy whirling around inside me like a tornado. “I-I don’t know how to deal with this…” I say, wringing my hands together. I let out a sigh and stand. You don’t know anything about me. I don’t know anything about you. And this Cal guy…” I cover my face. I need to run or hit something. These words are coming up and spilling out of me involuntarily, but the more I speak, the more the energy is released, so I continue.
“I mean, I have a daughter I don’t even remember!” I laugh angrily, but I continue. “Years of my life! All of these things happened, and I don’t remember any of it. No one bothered to tell me. What am I supposed to do about this?” I’m pacing the room now, and I want to stop and sit down, and ask her how she’s dealing with this. I sound like a little brat, but talking is the only thing that makes me not want to explode. I’m just trying to express my frustration, but instead I come off sounding like a selfish jerk. “I’m trying. I really am. I thought if I could make the first step by talking to you, that I could do it, but…” She must think I’m a lunatic. But when my eyes find hers, her expression is soft and compassionate. I think she feels sorry for me. All that she’s been through, and she’s sorry for me?
“I know this is hard for you. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through right now,” she says, her tone soft and comforting, and for a minute, I want to hug her; hugging her will make everything okay. But I can’t, so I don’t. That would be selfish, and would send her the wrong message because when she looks at me...
“I don’t know anything about you!” After the words leave my mouth, I realize how harsh they sound, but I can’t stop myself from saying exactly what comes to my mind. Her eyes are on mine, and instead of looking away from them, I look into them. It’s not hard to do; they’re magnetic and alluring. But more than that, they’re like open windows, I can see straight through to her soul. Even though she has a small smile on her face, I can see her pain, her hurt, and her hope. That’s the scariest part, because her hope is my demise. She doesn’t know me, or love me, so her hope isn’t with me—it’s with Cal.