Picture Me Gone by Meg Rosoff Page B

with another woman, Lynda says, also to me.
    How fascinating, Lynda, I think. Possibly not entirely pertinent, however. What is it with this woman? All of a sudden she and Gil are talking as if they’re an old married couple and I’m some jolly houseguest.
    Do you remember her, Gil?
    He nods. Of course.
    Lynda turns toward me so as not to make me feel left out, but it’s Gil she’s addressing.
    She was one of those old-fashioned, men-are-the-enemy, all-sex-is-rape type of lesbians. Well, what did I know. I was young.
    I stare at her, telegraphing that I am entirely uninterested in the details of her sex life, past or present. There is more than enough for me to absorb here without extraneous facts. And by the way, Lynda, do you think you might stop flirting with my dad?
    Anyway. Lynda smiles. It took me decades to get it right.
    Gil looks at her. But you have now?
    I hope so. One of my colleagues at school.
    That’s good to hear. Some people never get it right.
    You did though.
    I was lucky, Gil says.
    She laughs. You’ve always been lucky. I am just so glad to lay eyes on you, even for an hour or two. And Mila. I’ve missed you. Really I have.
    She beams at us both but I’m sincerely doubting that she’s missed me given that she didn’t even know I existed.
    The front door opens.
    What now? Matthew? Lynda’s lesbian lover? Marley’s ghost?
    Jake! Is it still snowing? Come say hello to Matthew’s old friend—my old friend—this is Gil and his daughter, Mila.
    Lynda points to me as a tall, dark-haired boy of about fifteen with brown eyes and a big blue puffa jacket shuffles through the door. This is my son, she says. Get something to eat and come sit, Jake.
    Hold on a minute. Why would Matthew send money to his ex-girlfriend and her son? Unless. Is it possible that Jake is also Matthew’s son? Is that why Matthew sends money? Or is he just helping out an old friend? Do people send money to needy ex-girlfriends? I look at Gil and wonder if he’s keeping up with what Lynda’s saying or has utterly failed to absorb the information coming our way.
    Quick-wittedness can be very lonely.
    Lynda keeps talking like there’s nothing at all weird about a sometimes lesbian, who may or may not be the mother of Gil’s best friend’s secret teenage son, flirting with my father. I feel dizzy.
    He sent me an announcement when Gabriel was born, she’s saying, sweeping her hair up off her neck and holding it in a bunch behind her head. I was happy for them. Matt said Suzanne wanted another child even before Owen.
    She means before Owen died, but won’t say it. And what about Matt? Did he want another child?
    We all fall silent, though I have less falling to do than the others, my contribution consisting mainly of gaping with incomprehension. Honey lies quietly beside me, head on paws, eyes open, watching. I wish she and I could compare notes.
    I’m sorry we can’t help you, Lynda says. We would if we could.
    Don’t worry, Gil answers. It was a long shot that we’d find him here.
    I look at him—as far as I’m concerned it was our shortest and only shot.
    Where will you look next?
    I’ve no idea, says Gil. We were pretty much gambling on this place.
    Lynda looks from Gil to me, her face anxious. Jake has made himself a sandwich and flopped down on the sofa to eat it. I turn round to look at him and he meets my eyes as if noticing for the first time that I’m here. Hi, he says.
    Hi.
    This is Mila, says Lynda. Gil’s daughter. Gil is an old friend of Matthew’s.
    You said that, Jake says.
    I’m looking at Jake and wondering what his line is on his maybe-father, whether he dislikes him for being married to someone else and hiding Jake’s existence from his new family. Assuming he has. And Jake is.
    But hold on a minute. Let’s say that Jake is actually Matthew’s son and
is
actually around fifteen, then isn’t he pretty much the same age Owen would be? I do the calculations.
    So Matthew couldn’t possibly be his