Even though I haven’t been able to change my fate, I’ll always wonder if it’s possible. If I’ve already done it without seeing evidence of it yet. But playing fast and loose with my destiny is one thing. Now you need to take your son into consideration. His future is bound up with yours, so tread lightly for his sake.
Good luck,
Me
P.S. If you want to get on a fast track to bonding with Kenzie, remember Kate Bush.
Oona set aside the letter, her head pounding. She checked the medicine cabinet for aspirin. It was empty except for a box of black hair dye.
I have to pretend to be someone else to see my own son? What the fuck?
Grabbing the box of Clairol, she considered tossing it into the waste bin. Instead, she slumped down on the lip of the bathtub.
She twisted the ring on her middle finger, its message a liar. Anger did not equal energy. It was an anchor pulling her down. Oona was tired of being angry. So very tired.
It was too much, taking on these different roles, stepping into Earlier Oona’s shoes. Girlfriend, Club Kid, investor, wife, world traveler … and now she was a mother. No role was more daunting than that. Even if she had to hide her true identity from Kenzie, she felt a massive responsibility to do right by him. But what was the right thing to do here?
It wasn’t enough for Madeleine to say Kenzie was doing well; Oona had to see it for herself. To see what his life was like without her. To see if there was any way she could be part of his life now, lay a foundation for when he went from having three mothers to one. Developing a rapport would take time. Considering he was a teenage boy and she was a grown woman, her options were limited; she had to be careful, make sure her bonding efforts weren’t perceived as creepy or weird. All things 1998 Oona had figured out and tried to safeguard against.
She held up the box of Clairol and sighed. Okay, Earlier Oona. We’ll try it your way.
* * *
Monday afternoon, as Oona stepped through the entrance to High Strung, she felt she was entering a strange high-stakes costume party. Between the black hair dye and closet full of black clothes left for her, she’d figured a goth ensemble was in order. The combat boots were already giving her blisters, but at least she had her trusty leather jacket to complete the look, providing some armor.
The smell of coffee greeted her, warm and invigorating.
High Strung was an open space with low ceilings papered in overlapping music posters. Along the right wall were racks of alphabetized used CDs, and the back wall held crates of used records, with higher-end collector’s items displayed above them. A long low counter ran the length of the left side, the coffee machines in the front, register at the back. Mismatched chairs and wooden tables covered in graffiti and stickers dotted the space in between.
At the register, a greasy-haired college-age guy in a Marilyn Manson T-shirt argued with a twenty-something woman with black lipstick and cherry-red hair twisted into two buns.
“You wanna maybe stop shouting at me and help that customer?”
“You wanna maybe stop getting high on your lunch break?” The woman spotted Oona and hurried to the front counter. “Sorry about that. What can I get you?”
A stiff smile as Oona approached. “Large soy latte, please.”
“Soy?”
“Sorry, that’s not a thing yet. Large chai?”
“You got it.”
After she paid for her drink, Oona chose a table facing the door and spread out her props—textbooks, highlighters, pens, and a spiral-bound notebook.
What am I doing? As she pretended to study, Oona tried to picture a teenage Kenzie doing homework at a neighboring table. As an adult, he hadn’t told her much about his early life. Did he get good grades? Play any sports? Have lots of friends? Was he close with his adopted mothers? And what did he look like now? Would she recognize him? Would she love him?
An hour later, while Oona was at the counter ordering a second chai, the barista called out to someone behind her, “Look who’s back! If it isn’t Mr. Mackenzie Ray. How’s it going, Mack? You have a good winter break?”
Mack?
Oona turned and snuck a peek at her son. He held traces of the man he’d become, the young man she met years ago—in the eyes and mouth—but there was also a roundness to his features. A leftover layer of baby fat masked the cheekbones that would emerge as he grew taller and slimmer. The hair that he’d go on to experiment with was currently a brown wavy mop grazing his chin. If she looked closely, she could see a bit of Dale around the eyes and nose, but none of herself.
“Yeah, my moms took me on a surprise trip to London, which was awesome.”
His voice, a few notes higher than its eventual timbre, was distinctly Kenzie, but the sight of him offered only vague hints of familiarity. If she saw this boy on the street, she might’ve walked right by, unaware she’d given birth to him. Oona felt a stab of dull pain at the thought.
“Ooh, London is wicked,” the barista gushed. “When we visit my father’s family in Manchester, we always try to squeeze in a few days there.”
Eyes wide, he held up both hands and stepped back. “Whoa, Daphne. You’re part British? I’m shocked ’cause it’s not like you’ve mentioned it a hundred times before.”
“Okay, okay, no need to be a smartass.” A loud hiss as Daphne turned on the milk steamer. “So what was the best part of your trip?”
As if sleepwalking, Oona shuffled sideways to let Kenzie step forward, trying not to gawk at her son.
“Oh, the Tower of London, easy. The tour guide was in, like, Shakespearean costume, and he showed us where Anne Boleyn was beheaded. I thought the history stuff might be boring, but those Tudors … man, they were messed up.”
Daphne chuckled. “Here’s your chai.” When Kenzie went to grab it, she swatted his hand out of the way. “That one’s not for you.” She slid the paper cup toward Oona with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, that’s all he drinks.”
“Yeah, sorry.” Kenzie gave Oona a bashful half-smile.
Does he recognize me? Does he see a resemblance?
But there was nothing behind his eyes beyond blank politeness. Pointing to her hand, he said, “I like your ring.”
Mouth dry, Oona was desperate to say something clever, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her mind blanked, and she could do no more than mumble, “Thanks.” As Daphne prepared Kenzie’s chai, the two continued to banter, and Oona retreated to her table. She blinked away tears that threatened to ruin her thick mascara, catching a few salty stragglers with the knuckle of her forefinger.
It’s just the initial shock of seeing him. I’m sure I’ll find a way to talk to him later.
But her determination evaporated as the afternoon wore on. It took all her energy and focus just to pretend-study, hold back tears, and remember to breathe. Building a rapport with her son—even talking to him—was a mountain she was too winded to climb.
Meanwhile, when she wasn’t bickering with the cashier, Daphne and Kenzie continued to lob quips, he from behind a nearby table strewn with books (just as Oona had pictured it), she from behind the counter. Their exchanges sounded progressively further away.
It wasn’t until Kenzie packed up his things, put on his coat, waved to Daphne, and left, that it pierced into her, the truth an arrow and her heart the bull’s-eye.