coffee and read the paper and life feels back to seminormal again. After a while, I stand up to go to my room, deciding finally to start my Odyssey paper, when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Who’s that?”
“Will you get that, it’s probably Gary,” Mom says. “He said he might come by to borrow our waffle maker.”
Expecting Gary but then seeing another face is like taking a sip of milk and finding out it’s really lemonade; it’s the sheer surprise that scares you most. I catch my breath in a scream and jump back like a spooked cat when I see the strange man lurking in our doorway. It only takes me a second to recognize him, which answers a question I’d asked myself my whole life: Would I instantly know my father if I saw him?
Tall. That’s the second thing I think. Rick Finzimer is really tall and rangy, like me. The third thing I think is that he looks scared.
CHAPTER 8
“H I,” I SAY IN a voice that gets swallowed up in my throat. Rick Finzimer’s nervous gaze holds mine for a long second, and then his eyes find Mom. The stare and silence last a long time.
“I thought we’d made a deal,” he says to her. “You and I.” I move like a slow propeller, shifting to look over at Mom, who is sitting motionless. She’s holding her paper coffee cup in midair. Her face is a replica of Annie Sullivan’s expression at the end of the play, when she hears Helen say “wa-wa,” and in her eyes you see all the disbelief and shock and feverish excitement of something incredible coming true.
“Richard,” she says. She touches her fingers to her temples and her hair, and her eyes grow into two Os that take over her entire face.
Meanwhile, all I can do is soak in all this dumb information: how Rick Finzimer’s soft tassel shoes are the same kind as Mr. Paulson’s, how he has reddish blond hair that sprouts from a bed of freckles on his wrists and hands, that he’s wearing a sharp cologne I recognize as Bay Rum, because Louis wears too much of it, too.
“Richard, you could knock me down with a feather,” Mom finally says. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“It’s me,” he says quietly. He can’t tear his gaze away from her.
“Richard.” Mom lifts her chin and clears her throat. “Richard, this is your daughter.” She springs up from the sofa and in a second has whisked next to me, her hand on my shoulder, and I want to tear off her smile, because it’s so big and proud and I don’t see how I can live up to it right now. “Our daughter, Dandelion.”
“Danny,” I correct. I am breathless with the horror of this situation. I want to slam the front door right now and run into the bathroom and take a shower and brush my hair and even then maybe not come out for a little while. Not until I’m ready I can’t believe this is happening now. Meeting Rick Finzimer absolutely should not be happening now, when I haven’t practiced for it.
“Well, Danny,” he says. “I got your letter.”
“Both of them?” I ask. He looks baffled for a second, then he nods.
“But you know which one I’m talking about.”
“You’ve been writing to each other?” Mom’s voice is tiny, a doll voice.
“ I have.” I feel warmly uncomfortable; my hand reaches automatically to close up the top button of my shirt. “Just a couple letters. I got the address from the phone book, sort of. I called up my uh. Your, um …”
“My parents,” Rick Finzimer says. “That’s what I assumed.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark green corduroys. Ty Amblin-style pants, I can’t help thinking.
Something is wrong, though. His eyes are so hard and thoughtful on me, like I’m a criminal he’s trying to identify in a lineup. “I guess I have to believe, Susan, that you didn’t okay this.”
“No,” Mom says. “No, we’d made a deal, I never broke that deal. But I can’t monitor—”
“It was just a stupid letter.” I hear the squeakiness in my words but I can’t stop myself.
“Who’s that?”
“Will you get that, it’s probably Gary,” Mom says. “He said he might come by to borrow our waffle maker.”
Expecting Gary but then seeing another face is like taking a sip of milk and finding out it’s really lemonade; it’s the sheer surprise that scares you most. I catch my breath in a scream and jump back like a spooked cat when I see the strange man lurking in our doorway. It only takes me a second to recognize him, which answers a question I’d asked myself my whole life: Would I instantly know my father if I saw him?
Tall. That’s the second thing I think. Rick Finzimer is really tall and rangy, like me. The third thing I think is that he looks scared.
CHAPTER 8
“H I,” I SAY IN a voice that gets swallowed up in my throat. Rick Finzimer’s nervous gaze holds mine for a long second, and then his eyes find Mom. The stare and silence last a long time.
“I thought we’d made a deal,” he says to her. “You and I.” I move like a slow propeller, shifting to look over at Mom, who is sitting motionless. She’s holding her paper coffee cup in midair. Her face is a replica of Annie Sullivan’s expression at the end of the play, when she hears Helen say “wa-wa,” and in her eyes you see all the disbelief and shock and feverish excitement of something incredible coming true.
“Richard,” she says. She touches her fingers to her temples and her hair, and her eyes grow into two Os that take over her entire face.
Meanwhile, all I can do is soak in all this dumb information: how Rick Finzimer’s soft tassel shoes are the same kind as Mr. Paulson’s, how he has reddish blond hair that sprouts from a bed of freckles on his wrists and hands, that he’s wearing a sharp cologne I recognize as Bay Rum, because Louis wears too much of it, too.
“Richard, you could knock me down with a feather,” Mom finally says. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“It’s me,” he says quietly. He can’t tear his gaze away from her.
“Richard.” Mom lifts her chin and clears her throat. “Richard, this is your daughter.” She springs up from the sofa and in a second has whisked next to me, her hand on my shoulder, and I want to tear off her smile, because it’s so big and proud and I don’t see how I can live up to it right now. “Our daughter, Dandelion.”
“Danny,” I correct. I am breathless with the horror of this situation. I want to slam the front door right now and run into the bathroom and take a shower and brush my hair and even then maybe not come out for a little while. Not until I’m ready I can’t believe this is happening now. Meeting Rick Finzimer absolutely should not be happening now, when I haven’t practiced for it.
“Well, Danny,” he says. “I got your letter.”
“Both of them?” I ask. He looks baffled for a second, then he nods.
“But you know which one I’m talking about.”
“You’ve been writing to each other?” Mom’s voice is tiny, a doll voice.
“ I have.” I feel warmly uncomfortable; my hand reaches automatically to close up the top button of my shirt. “Just a couple letters. I got the address from the phone book, sort of. I called up my uh. Your, um …”
“My parents,” Rick Finzimer says. “That’s what I assumed.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his dark green corduroys. Ty Amblin-style pants, I can’t help thinking.
Something is wrong, though. His eyes are so hard and thoughtful on me, like I’m a criminal he’s trying to identify in a lineup. “I guess I have to believe, Susan, that you didn’t okay this.”
“No,” Mom says. “No, we’d made a deal, I never broke that deal. But I can’t monitor—”
“It was just a stupid letter.” I hear the squeakiness in my words but I can’t stop myself.
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