“Who was my father?”
She set the glass on her dresser and stripped off her shirt. “It’s not important,” she said, standing there in her bra and flipping through the clothes in her closet. She yanked a low-cut, magenta top from its hanger and pulled it on. “The only people that matter are you”—she reached out to touch my chin—“and me.”
I flopped onto her bed. “But I want to know.”
“There’s nothing to know.” An edge came into her voice then, a subtle warning. She grabbed her wine and swallowed half the liquid in one gulp. In a pile on the floor, she found a studded belt. She swapped her slippers for three-inch heels.
I got the message, that I should drop it. Persisting would be bullying, and Mom hated being pressured to do or talk about anything she didn’t want to. Not that she would hit me. When I was little, I used to wish she would hit me. With a fat lip or a bruised cheekbone, I expected I could go to the school nurse and gorge myself on sympathy, but my mom’s response to anything unpleasant was to distance herself from it. When we fought, when I couldn’t appease her, she would disappear. For days afterward, I wouldn’t see her. She would leave the apartment before I got home from school and return after I was asleep. In the mornings, I would hear the click of the bathroom door, notice her footsteps in the hallway, but she was like a ghost, and I was left aching for her to take solid form again.
I considered her nearly empty wineglass, tried to guess how many more questions she would tolerate. Because even as a second grader, I knew that babies came from having sex, and that sex, as mysterious as it was, happened between people who liked each other. She had cared about my father at some point. It seemed wildly unfair that she wouldn’t tell me anything about him. “All I want is a name.”
“Let it go, Tallulah. He left. That’s all there is to say about it.” Her rings clanked against the wineglass as she grabbed it and vanished into the bathroom. I stayed frozen there on the bed, waiting. Waiting to see if she would speak to me when she came out. Waiting to see if she would look past me as if I wasn’t there. Waiting to find out just how much my curiosity had set her off.
Half an hour later, she emerged. Her dreadlocks were pinned into a large bun on the top of her head, and gold earrings dangled past her chin. Her cheekbones were dusted pink, but the deep red of her lips made the rest of her face comparatively pale. She collected her things and kissed me. I felt the print of lipstick on my forehead and a sense of security washed over me. “What are you going to watch?” she asked.
“Family Guy.” That was a lie. I would watch Unsolved Mysteries, same as every night. It gave me nightmares, but I couldn’t resist.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, her voice light. “And don’t unlock the door for anyone.”
As soon as she left, I went to her bedroom to snoop through her drawers, hoping for a clue as to who my father was, but there was nothing. Not a snapshot or love letter or anything. If evidence of my father had ever existed, she’d long since thrown it out. For my mom, once someone was in the past, they simply didn’t exist anymore. She didn’t think twice about losing people because they were all, friends and lovers alike, entirely replaceable.
Every time we moved into a new apartment, which was pretty often, she would linger outside smoking until someone bummed a smoke or asked if she was new in the building. Within a day, she’d have a brand-new group of best friends. Other single moms were usually the first to come, but men flocked to her too. Parties raged into the night. Then one day, usually without warning, my mom would simply announce that it was time to go.
One time a friend of hers, a woman I could only recall as having a cascade of silky, dark hair and a necklace with a gold cross on it, asked what we did for childcare while my mom was bartending at night. The question caught my attention, though I was watching TV and pretended not to hear it. My mom told her I was fine staying home by myself. “But she’s only seven,” her friend said. That was the last I remembered of her. A week later, my mom found a new boyfriend, and we moved into his apartment on 14th Avenue in Oakland. It had rust-colored carpet and I slept on a futon in a small room off the kitchen.
Moving always signified a fresh break for my mom, and her genuine enthusiasm for the good things ahead made the changes feel like an adventure. Anyone from before was a hindrance to that, something to be put behind us and forgotten.
Standing there in the driveway of the ranch, I forced myself to turn from the emptiness of the night. My mom wasn’t coming. The motion light over the barn clicked on, and a blaze of white light illuminated a perfect half circle outside the door. Abigail was kind enough not to peck at me while I unlatched the stall to let her wander out into the night. I fed the goats and filled the dog’s water bowl. Back inside the house, Devon was finishing up the last of the dishes, drying a serving platter with an old dish towel.
“Stop it,” I said, closing the door behind me. “Seriously, no more cleaning.”
He dropped the towel onto the countertop and I pressed myself into his body, resting my face against the cool fabric of his formal shirt. My head fit neatly under his chin. I wanted to lose myself in the clean smell of his skin. I kissed his neck, then his jaw where the slightest bit of stubble was forming. I found his lips with mine. His mouth tasted of whiskey and lemon.
I undid the top button on his shirt, smiling because I’d never done that before. Devon always wore T-shirts. There was something endearing about the button-down, but it slowed my progress. I pulled away from him to undo the remaining buttons, and he kissed my neck.
He lifted off my dress in one swift motion and pinned me against the kitchen counter. He scooped me up onto the tile and I felt the cold through my underwear, a sharp contrast to the heat created where our skin pressed together. I closed my eyes, enjoyed his strong hands on my hips. It had been such a terribly depressing week. Not even a week. Four days. I didn’t want to think about any of it. I wrapped my legs around him to pull him closer, found the buckle of his belt, and undid it.
“You’re selling the ranch,” he said between kisses. The words came out hot against my neck. It wasn’t a question. “That’s why that big guy was here, why Scott was upset.”
I pushed his unbuttoned shirt over his arms and leaned against him, the fabric of my bra pressing into his skin. I traced my fingers up his back, tickling his spine in a way I knew he liked. “Just talking.” It was true. Nothing had been signed. I kissed him, hoping to distract him from that conversation.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He leaned away, pulling his hands free of his sleeves. “You never tell me anything.”
“I told you,” I said and tried to draw him in for another kiss, but he stiffened. I slumped and rested my head against the cabinet. “I’m supposed to be in Montana at the end of the month.”
“You said a contract job.” His limp hands slid down my body until they were resting on the counter on either side of me. “A few months at most, you said. Selling the ranch sounds like you’re heading out for good.”
I untangled my legs from around him and slid down from the counter. “Things have changed.” I grabbed my dress from the floor and went up the stairs.
Devon followed. I could hear his belt buckle jangling behind me. “When were you planning on telling me?”
“I’m telling you now,” I said over my shoulder.
“Because I asked.” We’d had different versions of this argument before. He always insisted I was holding out on him, when usually it was just that I didn’t see the point in sharing every damn thought that popped into my mind. When something was important, I would tell him,