The Face You Never Forget
“Where are we? I ask. I’ll call my aunt’s boyfriend to give us a ride back home.”
Adrianna tells me we’re downtown, but I have no idea where that is, we might as well be in another state.
“Tell him we’ll meet him at the courthouse. Don’t say anything about Julio.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Your aunt will probably ask, if Delucca hasn't already called.”
“I’m in enough trouble already,” I say. And I hear the voice again.
And then I see him. He stands the same way I remember. His hands are on his hips and he’s looking around at the buses and the cars outside. He looks thinner and for a split second, it’s not him. My mom was right all those years ago; my dad is really dead.
But then he turns around and smiles. And he waves at me and I wave back.
“Do you see that guy over there?” I ask. “That’s my dad.” I point to the man standing next to a couple of boxes and old duffel bags across the street.
“Who?” What man? Your aunt’s boyfriend? He got here that fast?”
And it’s like he never left. My feet feel as if they do not touch the floor. I see the familiar Lakers colors, the faded number one. He starts to walk away. Maybe I’ve got this wrong? But that can’t be. This guy is my dad. He must not recognize me as a teenager with my hair bleached white blonde. And I run after him across the street.
I hear another voice but it’s softer – this voice sat across from me and laughed at made up stories at South Side, it said drink the milk when Aunt Ally wouldn’t shut up, and now it says,
This isn’t really your dad.
But I cling to everything I remember about my father and this man at the bus station. Every story I ever heard from dad’s ancestors and how you could know someone is in a room or in a place without anyone telling you anything, almost like you had a kind of psychic sense makes the idea even stronger.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “He isn’t dead.”
I fly across the street as if I am a fairy girl.
“Dad. It’s me. It’s Emily.”
Smiles turn into screams that turn into nothingness.
Adrianna tells me we’re downtown, but I have no idea where that is, we might as well be in another state.
“Tell him we’ll meet him at the courthouse. Don’t say anything about Julio.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Your aunt will probably ask, if Delucca hasn't already called.”
“I’m in enough trouble already,” I say. And I hear the voice again.
And then I see him. He stands the same way I remember. His hands are on his hips and he’s looking around at the buses and the cars outside. He looks thinner and for a split second, it’s not him. My mom was right all those years ago; my dad is really dead.
But then he turns around and smiles. And he waves at me and I wave back.
“Do you see that guy over there?” I ask. “That’s my dad.” I point to the man standing next to a couple of boxes and old duffel bags across the street.
“Who?” What man? Your aunt’s boyfriend? He got here that fast?”
And it’s like he never left. My feet feel as if they do not touch the floor. I see the familiar Lakers colors, the faded number one. He starts to walk away. Maybe I’ve got this wrong? But that can’t be. This guy is my dad. He must not recognize me as a teenager with my hair bleached white blonde. And I run after him across the street.
I hear another voice but it’s softer – this voice sat across from me and laughed at made up stories at South Side, it said drink the milk when Aunt Ally wouldn’t shut up, and now it says,
This isn’t really your dad.
But I cling to everything I remember about my father and this man at the bus station. Every story I ever heard from dad’s ancestors and how you could know someone is in a room or in a place without anyone telling you anything, almost like you had a kind of psychic sense makes the idea even stronger.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “He isn’t dead.”
I fly across the street as if I am a fairy girl.
“Dad. It’s me. It’s Emily.”
Smiles turn into screams that turn into nothingness.
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