Chevy Stevens - Never Knowing

“You said we can make pancakes for dinner. In different shapes like Evan makes them.” Her voice was anxious. Ally has a methodical streak and all decisions require much deliberation, which is adorable when she sticks her little tongue out of her mouth and contemplates what to buy Moose with her birthday money but an absolute nightmare if we have to do anything in a hurry.

“I don’t have time tonight, Ally Cat. We’re going to have chicken soup.”

Fists balled on her hips. “You promised.” The second part of Ally’s orderly nature is that she needs to know our plans for each day and what she can expect in every situation. If I deviate off course, or God forbid rush through any step of the process, she’ll come unglued.

“I know. I’m sorry, but we can’t today.”

“You promised .” Her high-pitched whine set my teeth on edge.

I whirled around. “Not today .”

She ran back to her room with her dark curls bouncing around her head and slammed the door. I heard something thump against it. Moose sat outside her door looking at me reproachfully. I didn’t hear her crying, but Ally rarely cries — she’d throw something before she ever shed a tear. I once saw her stub her toe, then turn around and kick the offending table leg.

I tried the handle. It turned, but something was against the door. Ah. Evan taught her to brace her chair under the knob if there’s an intruder.

“Ally, I’d like you to come out so we can talk about this, please.”

Silence.

I took a deep breath.

“When you come out we can pick another night this week to make pancakes — I’ll teach you how to make the batter from scratch. But you have to come out at the count of three.”

Silence.

“One … two…”

Nothing.

“Ally if you don’t come out here right now you’re not watching Hannah Montana for a week .”

She opened the door, walked past me with her arms crossed and her head bowed, then tossed a sad look over her shoulder.

“Evan never yells at me.”

Things didn’t get any better at my parents’. When I pulled in front of their log house on the outskirts of Nanaimo, Melanie’s car and Lauren’s SUV were in the driveway. Ally was already out of the Cherokee, Moose at her heels. I marched up to the front door, armor in place, knowing it wasn’t going to help one bit.

They were all in the living room. Melanie didn’t look at me, but Lauren gave a tentative smile. Dad’s face was an iron mask. He was in his armchair in the middle of the room, dressed in his usual steel-toed work boots, black T-shirt, and red strap jeans that every self-respecting logger on the island lives in. Barrel-chested and brawny, full head of hair a snow-white crown, with his wife and daughters flanking him, he looked like a king.

“Nana!” Ally ran toward Mom and hugged her legs, her pink goose-down coat squishing up around her ears.

For a moment I wished I could run to Mom and hug her too. Everything about her is soft — her dark hair now threaded with silver, the powdery perfume she always wears, her voice, her skin. I searched her face for anger but just saw fatigue. I looked at her, my eyes pleading. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to hurt you.

She said, “Let’s go in the kitchen, Ally. I have a cinnamon bun for you. The boys are already in the back.” She took Ally’s hand and led her away.

As they passed me I said, “Hi, Mom.” She touched my hand and tried for a reassuring smile. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, that this wasn’t about her, but before I could gather the words she was gone.

I threw myself into a chair facing my father, chin up. We held gazes. I looked away first.

Finally he said, “You should’ve talked to us before you found your birth parents.”

Years of working in the sun have emphasized the deep grooves around his mouth, which was set in a hard line. Even though he’s over sixty, it was the first time I’d seen my dad look old, and shame washed over me. He was right. I should have told them. I was trying to avoid hurting their feelings — and this conversation. But I’d made the whole thing worse.

“I know. I’m sorry, Dad. It made sense at the time.”

He raised his left eyebrow in the way that always made me feel like a colossal failure. This time was no exception.

“I want to know how that Web site got this information.”

“I’d like to know that myself.” I stared at Melanie.

She said, “What are you looking at me for? I didn’t even know about it until Dad told me.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

Melanie twirled her finger by her temple and mouthed, Crazy.

My blood surged with a hot rush of anger. “You know, Melanie, you can be a real—”

“ Enough .” Dad’s voice boomed.

We were all quiet. I met Lauren’s eyes. I could tell by her expression — part guilt, part fear — that she’d told Dad she already knew about my birth parents.

I turned to Dad. “The only other people who know are Evan and the private investigator I hired — but he was a retired cop.”

“Did you check his credentials?”

“He gave me his card and—”

“What do you know about him?”

“I told you, he’s a retired cop.”

“Did you call the police and verify that?”

“No, but—”

“You didn’t check him out.” Dad shook his head and my face burned. “Give me his number.”

I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t the only person capable of doing something, but as usual he had me doubting myself.

“I’ll e-mail it to you.”

From the corner of my eye I noticed Mom standing in the doorway with a plate.

“Does anybody want a cinnamon bun?”

She sat on the couch and set the plate on the coffee table with some napkins. No one reached for a bun. Dad looked hard at Melanie and Lauren, who both took one. I followed suit even though there was no way I could choke anything down. Mom smiled, but her eyes were red-rimmed — she’d been crying. Crap.

She said, “Sara, we understand that you wanted to find your birth family, we’re just disappointed you didn’t tell us. It must have been very upsetting when you found out who your real father was.” Her pale cheeks told me she was still pretty upset herself.

“I’m sorry, Mom. It was just something I needed to do for myself. I was trying to work through it first before I talked to anyone.”

Mom said, “Your mother — the article said she’s a professor?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” I looked away, blinking hard.

“It’s not personal, Sara.” Mom’s voice was gentle. “Any mother would be proud to have you as her daughter.”

Tears filled my eyes. “I’m really sorry, Mom. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful or something. You’re an amazing mother.” It wasn’t lip service. Mom loved every art project we dragged home, every costume she had to make at the last minute, every pair of torn favorite blue jeans only she could fix. Mom loved being a mother. I’d never asked, but I was sure she was the one who wanted to adopt. I’d bet money Dad just did it for her.

I said, “You’ll always be my real parents — you raised me. I was just curious about my history. But when I found out about my biological father, I thought maybe you guys wouldn’t want to know.” I looked at my dad, then back at her. “I didn’t want to upset you.” Mom said, “We’re worried and scared for you, but it would never change how we feel about you.” I looked at Dad again. He nodded, but his face was distant.

I said, “Evan’s out on the boat, but I’m going to tell him it’s on the Internet as soon as I get home.”