the patient, neutral way he says it, “you
mind telling me what that was all about?”
I
stiffen again as I recall the moment.
“He
looked at me,” I
mutter, clenching my jaw.
“Who?
Rex? Well yeah. He looked at us. Is that what this is about?”
“He
looked at me,” I
say, the exact same way, “and
he didn’t recognize
me.”
Brando
pauses before speaking.
“Haley,
don’t get ahead of
yourself. Tonight was great, but it’s
just a first step. It’ll
take time before people recognize you. You’ve
got to be pa—”
“You
don’t understand,”
I say, turning toward Brando with
a fierce gaze. “Rex
Bentley is my father .”
Brando’s
chiseled jaw drops so heavily it looks like it’ll
smash through the floor.
“What?
Wait…I don’t
understand. Are you sure ?”
I
nod slowly, before turning back to lean on the railing and gaze into
the night.
“It
was right after his ‘blue’
period, when he made those albums
in Europe. He came to LA, bought a big mansion, mountains of cocaine,
and started making hits again. My mom was a musician too. She’d
tried to get an album together, but ended up as a back-up singer. He
liked her, used her on some of the records, and eventually, used her
for some other things as well. That’s
when she became his ‘assistant.’”
Brando
still looks confused. “But
he was married then…”
“Yeah,”
I shoot back with a bitter laugh.
“He was. Which is
why when she told him she was pregnant he fired her, gave her a
thousand dollars, and sent her on her way to ‘take
care of it.’”
“Fuck,”
Brando says, drawing out the word
until it becomes a long sigh of anger and disbelief.
“When
I was born,” I
continue, feeling the heat build up behind my eyes, sniffing back the
fogginess in my throat, “my
mom sent him a picture of me. A letter telling him where we were, how
he could get in touch. He never responded.”
Brando’s
arm wraps around me tightly, but even the feeling of protection, of
being cared for, can’t
remove the pain that’s
stabbing at me inside. He brushes tears from my cheeks softly.
“When
I was twelve, my mother decided to tell me. I was already—”
I pause to swallow down the hurt,
“I was already in
love with music. Already sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I
thought it was amazing—” I
can barely get the word out, stutters and sobs interrupting me,
“…amazing
that it was him. I had this big hole in my life where a father should
have been, and I would have settled for anyone. Any drunk, or loser.
But instead it was him. It made me so h… ha…
happy.”
It
takes a full minute of Brando rubbing my back before I can stop the
quivering in my lips and the sobbing in my throat enough to continue.
“My
mom still had his address – the
one he used for personal letters. I knew he checked them himself,
rather than through a secretary. I started sending him letters,
photos, cassette tapes of me talking mixed with the songs I was
making. I don’t know
what I thought would happen. Maybe that he would accept me back into
his life. Maybe he’d
see that I had his blood, musician’s
blood, and realize he’d
made a mistake.” I
shake my head at my own teenage stupidity. “Yeah.
I actually thought he’d
realize he’d made a
mistake. Maybe it was the drugs, the lifestyle, the career that got
in the way. I sent him letters for five years. Five
fucking years! Half a
decade, hundreds of letters with my whole life in them. My deepest
thoughts, my hopes and dreams. One hope and one dream most of all –
to have a fucking father.”
I
break down fully. The cracks too wide to close up. Pain and
heartbreak flowing through every vein in my body. Brando pulls me
toward him tightly, squeezing me as if he can push it all back out.
“Haley,”
he says, as I weep into his
chest, “I’m
sorry.”
I
gather the pieces of me that remain and stand back upright to breathe
in the cool night air.
“Maybe,”
Brando says, his hand
mind telling me what that was all about?”
I
stiffen again as I recall the moment.
“He
looked at me,” I
mutter, clenching my jaw.
“Who?
Rex? Well yeah. He looked at us. Is that what this is about?”
“He
looked at me,” I
say, the exact same way, “and
he didn’t recognize
me.”
Brando
pauses before speaking.
“Haley,
don’t get ahead of
yourself. Tonight was great, but it’s
just a first step. It’ll
take time before people recognize you. You’ve
got to be pa—”
“You
don’t understand,”
I say, turning toward Brando with
a fierce gaze. “Rex
Bentley is my father .”
Brando’s
chiseled jaw drops so heavily it looks like it’ll
smash through the floor.
“What?
Wait…I don’t
understand. Are you sure ?”
I
nod slowly, before turning back to lean on the railing and gaze into
the night.
“It
was right after his ‘blue’
period, when he made those albums
in Europe. He came to LA, bought a big mansion, mountains of cocaine,
and started making hits again. My mom was a musician too. She’d
tried to get an album together, but ended up as a back-up singer. He
liked her, used her on some of the records, and eventually, used her
for some other things as well. That’s
when she became his ‘assistant.’”
Brando
still looks confused. “But
he was married then…”
“Yeah,”
I shoot back with a bitter laugh.
“He was. Which is
why when she told him she was pregnant he fired her, gave her a
thousand dollars, and sent her on her way to ‘take
care of it.’”
“Fuck,”
Brando says, drawing out the word
until it becomes a long sigh of anger and disbelief.
“When
I was born,” I
continue, feeling the heat build up behind my eyes, sniffing back the
fogginess in my throat, “my
mom sent him a picture of me. A letter telling him where we were, how
he could get in touch. He never responded.”
Brando’s
arm wraps around me tightly, but even the feeling of protection, of
being cared for, can’t
remove the pain that’s
stabbing at me inside. He brushes tears from my cheeks softly.
“When
I was twelve, my mother decided to tell me. I was already—”
I pause to swallow down the hurt,
“I was already in
love with music. Already sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I
thought it was amazing—” I
can barely get the word out, stutters and sobs interrupting me,
“…amazing
that it was him. I had this big hole in my life where a father should
have been, and I would have settled for anyone. Any drunk, or loser.
But instead it was him. It made me so h… ha…
happy.”
It
takes a full minute of Brando rubbing my back before I can stop the
quivering in my lips and the sobbing in my throat enough to continue.
“My
mom still had his address – the
one he used for personal letters. I knew he checked them himself,
rather than through a secretary. I started sending him letters,
photos, cassette tapes of me talking mixed with the songs I was
making. I don’t know
what I thought would happen. Maybe that he would accept me back into
his life. Maybe he’d
see that I had his blood, musician’s
blood, and realize he’d
made a mistake.” I
shake my head at my own teenage stupidity. “Yeah.
I actually thought he’d
realize he’d made a
mistake. Maybe it was the drugs, the lifestyle, the career that got
in the way. I sent him letters for five years. Five
fucking years! Half a
decade, hundreds of letters with my whole life in them. My deepest
thoughts, my hopes and dreams. One hope and one dream most of all –
to have a fucking father.”
I
break down fully. The cracks too wide to close up. Pain and
heartbreak flowing through every vein in my body. Brando pulls me
toward him tightly, squeezing me as if he can push it all back out.
“Haley,”
he says, as I weep into his
chest, “I’m
sorry.”
I
gather the pieces of me that remain and stand back upright to breathe
in the cool night air.
“Maybe,”
Brando says, his hand
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