I volunteered to help. He said it wouldn’t do any good. The orphanage he was placed at had long been closed and he already had copies of all the court records he could find. There was nothing. No clues. The only thing he did have was the name “Joan Hughes,” which was listed on his birth certificate. I immediately recognized it from his online profile and at first thought it was sweet that he wanted to use his biological mother’s name, but later, I realized it was because he was always trying to be somebody else. His adopted mother had already passed. His dad was in failing health and, according to him, they only adopted him because his sister wanted a brother. They never wanted a son. And certainly not him.
I was careful not to bring it up too much. Mostly because I wasn’t sure how he really felt about finding them, and I didn’t know him well enough yet to really push it. So, we just kept plodding forward.
Everything was moving right on track. We were getting to know each other, and he was slowly getting to know my 13-year-old daughter, Olivia. He would see her for small moments, usually when he was picking me up for a date, and then suggested she come over with me one day and he would show her the bow. She was an athlete, after all, and it might be fun for the three of us to hang out.
I agreed and, of course, the only thing she really wanted to do when she got there was play with the dogs, who immediately fell in love with her. She chased them, they chased her. I caught him more than once smiling at that scene. I pulled my sweater tight when the cool breeze found us, as she continued to hop through the leaves with them, and he pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. I looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back and his eyes softened. “It’s like we’re a family.” I nodded. “It’s like the way it was supposed to be. I didn’t have kids, and she doesn’t have a dad.” He must have felt the change in my posture, or maybe it was the way my eyebrows instinctively pursed together. “I don’t mean I would ever try to be her dad. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that we fit together. Me, you, her, the dogs. All of it.” I nodded. “Besides, your yard is too small for the dogs anyway. We would need something bigger. Maybe you guys could move here.”
“Maybe you can show her that bow.”
He took a deep breath in, called her over, and picked it up. Of course it was too big for her, but she tried anyway, and I couldn’t resist taking pictures. He took her deep into the field looking for something for her to shoot at with the dogs in tow. I watched her bouncing at his side, surely scaring off any animal that might be close. They returned empty handed and, by that time, I had made a fateful decision that changed everything.
I posted the pictures on Facebook. And not only did I post them, but I tagged him.
He didn’t say anything at the time, but it bothered him. It really bothered him. And I didn’t know it then, but he was trying very hard not to explode over it. Now, let’s get something straight, I didn’t tag him saying, “Shooting arrows straight to my heart” or some bullshit like that. No, I just added the picture of Olivia and tagged his name. Plus, let’s not forget that five minutes before that, he was planning on moving in together and mentioned about how bad he wanted to see Black Sabbath in concert because Ozzy Osbourne was touring with them for the last time ever. And “how cool it would be to go” and he “would check ticket prices” and “maybe he could get his sister to book the time share for him” and things like “I know it’s not really your kind of music, but would you want to go out of state and see them?” “Roadtrip?” “I saw them in concert as a kid and this would be epic.” “It’s not really in my budget but, wow, a weekend away with you and a concert? Who could ask for more?” “I’m going to see if I can swing it.”
I told him I would think about it and the more I did, the more it sounded like fun. Why not, really? I hadn’t had a vacation in years and my daughter would be thrilled to stay with friends overnight, so why not? I hopped on the internet, bought the tickets, and decided to surprise him at dinner.
“Really? You bought me tickets?”
“Well, I bought us tickets.” I corrected him.
“Oh.” He took a bite of his steak, holding his fork continental style, which at first I thought seemed so refined until years later when I realized that listening to him drag the tines over his teeth drove me crazy. I remember once he told me his ex-wife told him she hated the way he chewed. I didn’t understand that for a long time because I never noticed it. But the more I thought about it, I don’t think she hated the way he chewed. I think she hated the lying and cheating and lack of genuine emotion. But hey, that’s just a guess.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh?’”
He brought his napkin to his mouth, wiped it, then folded it back and placed it to the side of his plate. “I’m just not sure I want to go anymore.”
“What? It was just the other day that you were talking about how this was going to be the most epic concert ever and were practically begging me to go.”
“Begging? That’s a strong word.” He stood from the booth. “I have to run to the bathroom. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Meet you at the car” was code for “I don’t have my wallet” or “I don’t have money for this.” The check came, I paid it, and stormed off to the car cussing him out in my head.
When he found me, arms crossed, he reached out and put his hands on the top of my arms. “Listen, babe.” I looked away. “Look at me.” He brought his finger under my chin and pulled my face up to his. “I’m sorry. It just took me off guard. I’ve never had anybody do anything nice for me before. I thought about it and, of course, I will go with you.”
I thought it in my head, but I didn’t say it out loud. He was going to go with me? I thought I was going with him. And, if suddenly this was my idea, then am I paying for everything?
I tried not to think too much of it as we drove four hours away. I just wanted to have fun. Relax. See the band. And, the night of the concert mirrored the night we met.
Outdoor venue.
Warm air.
Night sky.
And the funny thing, it wasn’t the headliner that impressed us so much. It was the opening band. This bluesy rockabilly sound with a lead singer who could belt it out with the best of them. One of their songs, “Electric Man,” stuck with us as our relationship became more serious and I can’t count how many times he sent me the link when he wanted to reminisce or apologize for something. Because, you know, I was his “hot lady,” his “sexy girl,” and he was going to take me to “the promised land” because he was the “Electric Man.” Oh, give me a break.
But, back then, when we first heard it, I was enchanted. I was so overcome by how charming he was when he wanted to be charming. I was so enamored by the sound of his laugh. I was so captured by the fact that we could stare at each other in silence without moving that I was convinced we could see into each other’s souls.
I know how lame that sounds, but you have to remember. He was the “Electric Man,” and until you have experienced one of them, you might not ever understand why I stayed with him. And more so why I stayed with him after Emme came back.