Ellie
The thing about life is it’s unpredictable.
I’d know. I’ve experienced my fair share of its whims. The unexpected ups and downs – whether defined as curveballs or twists of fate or just dumb luck – have brought me untold joy and pain over the years.
This past year, especially, has been one of the most difficult of my life; soaring highs and plunging lows have made for a topsy-turvy existence to which I’m still adapting. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though, because the tumult brought Scott McCarthy into my life. To say that he saved me from myself would probably be over-dramatic, but I acknowledge the moment he found me on that sidewalk as a pivotal one. That our paths crossed again ten months later when he came flying over the counter at my work while being chased by the cops is something I’ll be eternally grateful for. I got the chance to repay his kindness and it laid the foundation for a friendship that became so much more.
The more that followed took us by surprise . . . and we’ve stumbled along the way, but I’d say we’re now equally dedicated to each other. Which makes this email I’m reading all the more difficult to bear. Because, while living through my own highs and lows is one thing, it’s quite another to watch the man I love struggle with a particularly painful twist of fate of his own.
Dear Ms. Summers,
I understand your reluctance to champion my quest to engage with my new-found grandson; however, since you are my only link to him, I’m afraid I must resort to desperate measures. May I appeal to your sense of pity for an old man who would very much like to get to know the boy – now a man – of whose existence I was not aware of until just weeks ago?
Please, ask him to consider getting in touch with me.
Sincerely, Richard McCarthy.
I assume Richard McCarthy got my email address from my CV which was sent out to a number of people who attended his charity gala two weeks ago, the one at which Scott came face-to-face with not only his grandfather, but also his father and two half-brothers for the first time.
Since then, Scott has put a lot of effort into pretending that he’s put the whole episode behind him. After the initial shock, he’d stubbornly dug his heels in, saying he already had a family, one that’d always been there for him and his loyalty to them was unswerving.
When I showed him the first email from his grandfather, he’d wavered slightly . . . until it became apparent that it was only his grandfather – and not his father – who was trying to get in touch with him. At that point, something inside of him solidified and his stubbornness became an unyielding, unassailable wall. I guess feeling rejected by a father who never knew you existed is very different from being rejected by a father who shows no interest in you. On the surface, it’s very clear cut and simple for Scott. Underneath, I’m not so sure.
Since he won’t want to read this email when I tell him about it, I hit the delete button. Two seconds later my phone vibrates with an incoming message.
Scott: U home safe yet?
A warm, fuzzy feeling sparks in my chest.
Ellie: Yes, just got in the door.
Normally on Friday nights, we go out. Dinner and a movie, that kind of thing. Instead, I worked the late shift at the café tonight, so I could . . .
Scott: U still sure about tmrw?
Yeah, that. Tomorrow. Scott has finally invited me to meet his girls.
Ellie: Yes! I’m so excited.
Excited and outrageously nervous. Maybe it’s absurd to be put on edge by three little girls, but the thought of them not liking me is terrifying. I can imagine our relationship surviving anyone’s disapproval but theirs.
I go over everything I know. Rosa, age 6, is his biological daughter. She has a sweet and tranquil disposition. I’ve considered a mercenary approach that involves focusing most of my attention and energy on her since technically she should be the most important to Scott. But even if it didn’t offend my sensibilities so much, I doubt Scott works that way.
Then there’s his niece, Daniela, age 7. Actually they’re cousins since she’s the daughter of Scott’s uncle who was killed in a drive-by shooting when Daniela was a baby. Supposedly, of the three girls, she’s the ringleader, the one with the most dominant personality. Scott’s always chuckling about something she said or did; he calls her his little gangster-in-the-making.
Lastly, there’s his youngest sister, Carmen, age 8. She’s a bit of an enigma. Scott says she’s very quiet and responsible, the one who can be counted on to make good decisions.
My phone vibrates again.
Scott: We’ll be there to pick you up between ten and eleven.
Ellie: Ok, I’ll be ready.
After a moment of hesitation, I type out another message.
Ellie: I love you. Sleep well.
Scott: I love you too, Opal. Dream of me.
A smile blooms across my face and I can’t resist sending one more.
Ellie: Oh, I’m sure I will…hopefully something along the lines of what we did last night.
This sets off an hour or so of intermittent sexts and playfully dirty jokes while I tidy up my apartment and get ready for bed . . . and I couldn’t be happier. Hopefully fate isn’t planning any more surprises for either of us because, right now, our joint curve ball is hovering in a sweet spot that I could definitely get used to.
The knock on my apartment door the next morning sends the butterflies in my belly into a riot. While I managed to get a reasonable amount of sleep last night, I woke early and the morning’s wait has dragged by like molasses. Chucking all pretense of decorum, I rush to the door and get a glimpse of Scott and the tops of three dark heads through the peephole.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly as I pull the door open. My gaze starts with Scott and then lowers to take in the girls who are lined up in front of him. The awkward pause dissolves when I smile and stick out my hand to the first girl on the left. “Hi, I’m Ellie. You must be . . . Carmen?”
She just stares up at me until Scott nudges her gently from behind. “Uh, yes, I’m Carmen,” she says softly, cautiously reaching for my hand. We shake.
“Tío, está bien bonita,” says the girl in the middle. She’s beautiful.
I laugh. “Y tú . . . eres Daniela, ¿verdad?” All three of them gasp as I shake Daniela’s hand. You’re Daniela, right?
“Papá,” Rosa squeaks, turning wide eyes on Scott. “Habla raro.”
Again, I laugh, completely charmed. Loosely translated she thinks my Spanish sounds funny. I realize I should tone down my accent. “Perdón,” I apologize with a much more Latin American pronunciation. “Se me olvidó que mi acento suena chistoso. ¿Está mejor así?” Is it better like this?
They all nod, giggling up at me. I extend my hand to Rosa and introduce myself, sticking to Spanish.
Scott clears his throat, jerking my attention up. “Is it okay if we use your bathroom?” he asks in English, his lips pressing together with mild irritation. Oh shit, should I not be speaking Spanish with them?