Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

I extricated my hand and moved toward my daughter. The table was silent, but for her fierce breathing. Her face was pale and strained as she continued to grip her chair; even her jaw was clamped shut.

I knelt down beside her, looked into her eyes. Deep behind their blackness, which was trying to say no , she was trying to say please . I placed a hand on her small brown cheek, so soft! another on her shoulder, fragile like a bird’s wing.

I hate you! she said. You can’t make me go!

You must be very sad that Ahmad’s not been here.

Andi looked at me, surprised, unsure what to say.

I’m sorry you’ve been sad. I’ve been sad, too. Sometimes adults mess up and kids get the worst of it. It’s not fair. I’m sorry.

It’s your fault! Andi said, as if pleading with me to do something. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be here all the time!

I can see how you might think that, but it’s not true. Things aren’t that simple. It’s partly my fault, though, you’re right about that. I made a lot of mistakes.

The table was deeply silent now, as if everyone had fallen away to leave me alone with my girl. How could I say the right thing? Behind her rigid face, behind her anger, I could see my own childish hurt: What consolation had I received? There had been none. What might anyone have said that could have made a difference?

I love you, Andi. I love you more than anything. We all love you. No matter what happens, that will never change. Do you understand?

She half nodded. I wasn’t sure she understood, but I’d said everything I could.

Almost.

Ahmad loves you, too. As if you were his very own. Even if he doesn’t live here, even if he isn’t your biological father, he will always be your real father.

Andi’s eyes darted over to Ahmad, for confirmation or relief from her too-intense mother. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. Satisfied, she looked back at me.

I’ll make you a deal, I said.

She nodded enthusiastically, her face relaxing: she was a born deal-maker, she knew that.

You can stay here with us as long as you keep your eyes closed. You can listen to everything we say, you can even talk, but you have to keep your eyes closed. That way, when you’re ready to sleep, you can. Deal?

Andi put her fingers on her chin and pursed her lips, the very picture of deliberation.

Maybe the best place for you to sit is on your father’s lap.

She didn’t bargain. She leapt from her chair and clambered onto Ahmad’s chair. Quickly, his arms surrounded her, her short arms encircled his waist, her face, smiling, pressed against his cashmere sweater. The look he gave me over her shoulder cannot be described: thank you, he seemed to be saying, I’ll care for this precious being, this child we love more than anything.

He gave me my daughter, allowing me to give her back again.

•

Soon, Andi was sleeping, her mouth slack against Ahmad’s sweater. We put her on the couch, covered her with the guilt quilt. Benny took that opportunity to take his leave.

I saw him to the door, into the hallway.

I’m proud of you, he whispered. I put my finger to his lips.

Thank you, I said.

For what? he asked. I shook my head, stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s good for you, Ahmad said, when I sat back down. I smiled. I may have blushed. I’m going to Pakistan, he continued. I thought you should know.

Wow, I said. May I ask?

I’m going to see my kids. They’re still minors, I still have rights, even in my benighted land. I’m going to tell them I love them. They’ll decide for themselves if I’m a monster.

What made you decide, after all these years? I asked, and suddenly his answer seemed the most important thing I could hear.

I never told Roger how I felt, and I lost him. Jonah, too. We can’t cut off pieces of ourselves hoping to protect ourselves from hurt. My boys may reject me, but I have to know I tried. I leave in December after my last class. I’m terrified!

I can imagine, I said, and I could.

It was Sunday, the last day of our Thanksgiving weekend, and Ahmad was alone with Andi — the first time since that night. I was at Joe’s with a novel, halfheartedly drinking a half-caff. Joe was sitting by the jukebox, the twins on his lap pulling his mustache and squealing. In the background, the warm shhh of the cappuccino machine, the lilting sounds of the Old Jewish Couple.

It seemed like years since those sweaty, heady days when I sat at this very window, pondering Romei’s penna , my place as a footnote at the apex of the postmodern ridge of the Western canon. Years since I’d sat in Slice of Park, surveying my Comfort Zone, elated about New Life. The distance between here and there: I was temping again. Benny wanted to marry. He was traveling next month to see my mother. Ahmad was going to Pakistan to try to reconcile with his sons. He and I had fought — again — and had reconciled — again. Life had changed, again and again, but had I?

Ahmad called. Andi was locked in her room, talking to an imaginary friend. She wouldn’t come out. He’d told her he was going to Pakistan, he explained when I arrived back at the Den. He hadn’t realized she’d take it so hard.

I could hear her from the front door, shouting at Ovidio, calling him stupid boy, bad boy! On Pammy’s insistence I’d installed a pretend lock inside Andi’s door — only a piece of string looped around a nail; I’d snip it in an emergency, but I wasn’t convinced this qualified.

Andi, I called out. It’s Mommy.

She became utterly still, like a bird startled, hoping to trust its camouflage markings.

Ahmad says you’re upset. You want to talk?

No answer.

She thinks I’m her father, Ahmad whispered.

Well, you are, I whispered back, wondering if we had to go over that again.

No, he whispered, she thinks I’m her real father.

She what? I said, pulling Ahmad away from Andi’s door. What are you talking about?

She was telling Ovidio, before she got mad at him. She doesn’t believe what you said about the guy in India. Her friend, the one who looks like Pippi Longstocking …

Martina.

Martina told her that you sent me away because mothers get rid of real fathers in order to marry new fathers.

Sheila’s ex is in jail, I murmured. Insider trading. She remarried.

Might explain why she hates Benny, Ahmad said softly.

How had this happened? I’d been unequivocal when I’d explained about Andi’s “real” father. The power of hope: it changes how we hear things, it creates possibility out of nothing. It enabled Romei to write pages I would never read, Ahmad to assume we’d move to Connecticut, Benny to propose. Up to me to disappoint them all?

What do you think I should do? I asked.

You’re the mother! Ahmad said. Don’t ask me!

You know Andi. I’m asking your advice.

Talk to her, he said. Don’t be afraid of her sadness. She’s hurt, not broken. Then make her some Ovaltine. I’ll be in the living room.

•

I noticed my daughter with a Scooter Pie. While you’re eating it, I said as she opened the door, we need to talk, and I placed a foot inside her room.

Andi sighed to show her disappointment. Foiled again, she seemed to say.

Come on, I said, sitting on the guilt quilt and patting the spot next to me.

She walked over to me with plodding steps, like a seventy-pound golem, plopped heavily onto the bed: she’d talk, but only under protest.