Quarantales: The Complete Contemporary Romance Box Set, page 47
But I did meet him. And I decided to pursue music instead of a husband with a medical degree.
My parents never forgave me for running off with Eddie, and neither did my sister.
I’d gotten nostalgic after too many drinks one night, and I’d rung her up to try to explain why I’d done what I did. She hadn’t appreciated my two a.m. call and had cut me off halfway through my slurred apology.
“Are you coming back home to finish your degree and settle down like you said you would when I agreed to take this baby off your hands?”
When I told her no, she cut me off again. This time in the middle of my declaration about having dreams that couldn’t be fulfilled with a baby in tow.
“You’re a selfish drunk—that’s all you are. You broke our parents’ hearts after everything they did for you,” my formerly sweet sister informed me. “Don’t you ever come back here. If you want me to continue taking care of your daughter and raising her as mine, don’t you ever darken any of our doors again.”
She had called Cynda my daughter. Not me.
I’d never called Cynda that. Not even in the letter I sent her toward the beginning of April, where I finally told her that I was her birth mother, not Marilee.
But it’s been weeks, and she still hasn’t answered the letter.
“I never called her my daughter before,” I find myself confessing to Wyatt now. “I guess because it never felt like she was mine.”
As we walk toward the reservation, I tell Wyatt everything. About growing up in St. Louis. About my parents and sister. About Eddie.
Eddie hadn’t been like anybody I’d ever met in St. Louis. He had ambitions and dreams. He was based out of Memphis, and he knew a lot of people in the music business. Eddie would pick me up on the weekends and drive me down to Tennessee for parties with actual music execs.
I’d been singing all my life but had always followed my parents’ path.
Eddie showed me another one. And this one was covered in glitter and fame and endless bottles of Cristal.
To me, it had been a no-brainer. My parents were right. I wasn’t mature enough to take care of a baby. And I had dreams bigger than any they could fathom in their play-it-safe minds.
“So I left her,” I told Wyatt. “And for a while, it seemed I made the exact right decision. I didn’t even think about trying to reach out to Cynda after both my sister and mother didn’t return my amends letters. My plan was to let her live her life, believing what she always believed—that she had two great biological parents. I figured that was the least I could do.”
“But then Marilee’s husband died just a few years after my sister, and when this virus hit, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wondering if she was safe. I looked her up and found she won the Princess Missouri pageant a few years back.”
“What? No way!” Wyatt sounds as shocked as me when I found out. “Your daughter’s a state beauty queen?”
“She sure is!” I answer, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “She played the piano as her talent. A song she wrote—and it was good enough to win at a state pageant! You should have seen it. The crowd was on their feet after she was through.”
Wyatt looks over at me, his expression soft and thoughtful. “That must have made you feel good, knowing that you passed down some of your talents.”
“Yeah, a little at first,” I answer. “But then I found out that she decided to become a nurse, just like my parents always wanted for me. I can’t get over her finally fulfilling their dreams. I hope she likes her job. And that she’s still playing piano as a hobby, at least. But I can’t tell any of that from looking at her Instagram page. And after my brother-in-law died too, she stopped posting so much.”
“She might be on Snapchat or that TikTok,” Wyatt says with a grumble in his voice. “From what I can tell, these kids are always making places on the internet that we don’t know about.”
I chuckle at his observation, but then a somber feeling comes over me as I confess, “I wrote her a letter a few weeks ago. Gave her all my information. But she still hasn’t called. Or emailed. Or even direct messaged me on Instagram—which I only got so that she could.”
Wyatt presses his lips together like he’s thinking real hard about what I told him. “What exactly did you write in the letter?”
“Nothing disturbing, if that’s what you’re thinking. I introduced myself and told her I was her birth mother, that I was twelve years sober, and like I said, I gave her all my information.”
Wyatt nods. “And?”
“And?” I repeat. “That’s all. I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”
He looks sideways at me, regarding me for a few seconds. Then he seems to decide to say, “You know, I’ve got a kid, too.”
“What?” I say. “You never told me that!”
“Yeah, and you never told me about your daughter. So I guess there were a lot of things us best friends were keeping from each other.”
I nod, realizing out loud, “I guess we were both afraid of being judged even more than we judge ourselves.”
Still, l have to shake my head. “I cannot even begin to imagine a loner like you having a kid.”
“I couldn’t imagine that for myself either. I told her mother I’d send her checks if she wanted to keep the child, but I wasn’t up for father duty. I had my career and my dreams, and I wasn’t going to let anyone get in my way. So you’re not the only one who made that mistake. But then one day, a few years ago, this pretty woman shows up backsta—I mean at one of my casino sets. She was wearing a doctor’s coat, and the first thing she said to me was, ‘I’m your daughter Abigail. I just wanted you to know that I graduated from med school yesterday. And I did that without you.”
I inwardly gasp at his story. The thought of Cynda throwing my neglect in my face is even worse than her not answering my letter. But remembering I’m his sponsor, I keep the horror out of my voice as I ask, “What did you do? How did you respond?”
He thinks about my question, looks up at the sky, then back down again. “Reina, I’d been sending this girl’s mother support checks for years. And I never thought twice about her. Never asked for a picture. Wouldn’t even have been able to tell you what schools she went to because after she turned eighteen, my obligation was done.”
Wyatt shakes his head with a quiet chuff. “But there she was, this bright and beautiful thing letting me know I’d missed out on helping to raise a wonderful woman. How could I respond? I felt ashamed of myself. Suddenly all the things I wanted, all the things I had—I could see they didn’t mean a damn thing. Because I’d missed out on the one thing that would have mattered most. So yeah, believe me when I tell you I relate to what you’re going through. Recovery taught me to forgive myself for a lot. But being a shit parent…I don’t know if that’s the kind of thing you can ever fully forgive yourself for.”
My stomach knots up with guilt at his words, and I find myself nodding in full agreement. “Maybe I should be glad Cynda didn’t get in contact with me.”
Wyatt crooks his head and looks over at me. “Or maybe you should try again.”
I shake my head, not remotely understanding the logic behind his suggestion. “What good would it do to badger her about something I can’t ever make right?”
“I don’t think you’re getting the point of my story,” he says with a wry smile. “Abby wasn’t mad at me for being a terrible parent. She was mad at me for being an absent one, for never even trying to contact her or be in her life. I told her the truth. Told her the truth exactly. That I wouldn’t have made for a good father. I was wasted for most of the first two decades of her life. And you know what she told me?”
“What?” I ask, on the edge of my proverbial seat.
“She said hearing that I was a screw up was a helluva lot better than thinking she just wasn’t worth my time. She said knowing my story made a big difference, and eventually, she let me back into her life. So yeah, Reina, I’m telling you to try again. Write her another letter. And this time, show her the real you. Tell her about yourself and your recovery. Explain to her why you did what you did.”
I shake my head. “But what I did was so awful. It would only make her hate me more.”
“Or maybe she’d understand something vital like Abby did. And that’s how she ends up forgiving you. Either way, you don’t know if you don’t try.”
I look down at the ground beneath my feet, so hard and ungiving. And it occurs to me that Wyatt might have a good point. My life hasn’t been the special snowflake thing I dreamed of when I dropped out of college. But it’s way more than the few lines I sent her, followed by an assurance that I was twelve years’ sober.
“You’re right. I have to try again. And if she doesn’t forgive me, she doesn’t forgive me. But she deserves to know the full story.”
“Exactly!” Wyatt agrees enthusiastically.
He’s smiling over at me. But in the next moment, he comes to a dead stop in front of the huge Lake Pinewood Reservation sign.
“What the hell is this?” he demands, looking up at it.
He sounds surprised, and I’m a little confused because where else did he think we could be going within walking distance?
Nonetheless, I answer, “Don’t be mad, Wyatt. It’s time…”
I look up at the sign myself, then back at Wyatt. “It’s time to talk to your father.”
Holy cow!
How is West going to handle this?
Find out in the next episode of
Reina and the Heavy Metal Prince
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Part Seven
Episode 7: FALLING
Chapter Eleven
Father
WEST
My father. Holy shit. Reina was taking me to meet my father.
The same man I’d promised Wyatt I wouldn’t seek out while I was here.
“Save that shit for another day when you’re not pretending to be me,” Wyatt had commanded.
It had been easy for me to agree to his terms. The truth is, I don’t know how to feel about the man who knew about my existence for fifty-seven years but never bothered to get in contact. As grateful as I am for Abby’s forgiveness, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do the same for my own father.
But now Reina’s walking ahead of me toward a collection of wooden buildings, mobile homes, and real life teepees. I can see the main part of the reservation where my father lives straight ahead, sitting on a wide-open plain to the interstate's right.
I can’t think of anything to do except follow after her. But what in the actual fuck?
We encounter a few guys wearing safety vests, jeans, and masks before we reach the town. A couple of them are carrying stop signs on sticks, so I’m guessing this is one of those checkpoints I read about online. According to the article, the governor was with some South Dakota reservations over their decision to stop, question, and sometimes turn away people seeking to pass through their lands during the pandemic.
But the checkpoint guys wave Reina and me on right through. One guy even raises his hand to say, “Good to see you again, Wy. Chairman’s going to be happy.”
So, I guess they don’t consider Wyatt an outsider. And Reina’s with the guy I’m pretending to be. We both pull up our masks now that we’ve reached a more heavily populated part of the reservation.
As it turns out, we don’t have that much further to walk after that. The first building we come to is squat and square with metal letters declaring it the Lake Pinewood Reservation Executive Building.
Just as we’re walking up, a man comes rushing out the front door. And I immediately know who he is. Tall and lean, he looks like a beardless version of Wyatt, except his grey hair is tied back in a low ponytail underneath a cowboy hat.
His whole face is lit up. Like he’s been waiting for this moment for years. Maybe he has. Wasn’t it three years ago Wyatt found the letter from the mom who’d deserted him in his father’s desk?
More silent S-bombs drop inside my head. This is Abby all over again. And it feels weird as hell to be on the other side of the equation.
But I’m not, I remind myself as he comes rushing forward.
I’m Wyatt. Not West, the son he never claimed.
I brace myself to put in a better performance than the one critics called “comically wooden” the first and last time I tried to act in a film. But then John suddenly stops short and squints at me. Hard.
He knows it’s not me. I give my head a silent little shake, hoping John understands that he can’t out me.
“Hi, Mr. Clark,” Reina says, stepping right into the awkward moment. “We’re sorry to bother you out the blue like this, but Wyatt’s finally working on an album, and we need your help.”
My father scrunches his brow.
But then he says, “You planning on coming out to the casino with this new album of yours? That would probably sell a lot of tickets.”
Yeah, it probably would. But the closest Death Buddha had ever come to playing a casino was a six-week residency in Vegas. I don’t answer him. Saying anything more would only complicate this situation further.
Reina presses forward despite the tense silence. “He’s having trouble coming up with the intro for this ballad we’ve been working on together. And I think it needs a heritage touch. I was hoping maybe you could record a few of your favorite songs for us and put them on this thumb drive.”
She reaches into her pocket and fishes out a Ziplock bag with a thumb drive inside.
She holds it out to the old indigenous man, but he doesn’t take it. Just continues to squint at me.
“Do you know how to use a thumb drive?” Reina asks.
He finally breaks off his stare off with me to take the bag from Reina.
“This is for you?” he asks.
My father and I both know who he’s really talking about when he says “you,” even if Reina doesn’t.
“Yeah,” I answer. One word. Short and terse.
“Okay, then, I’ll do it and leave it on your porch later tonight. You at the cabin? Shirley said you and Reina are a thing now.”
Reina looks mortified. “We’re not a thing. We’re just friends.”
“Okay,” my father says with an indulgent smile for Reina. He holds up the bag. “I’ll get this to you two friends tonight.”
With that, he gives me one last squint, then turns and walks back up the steps of the building.
The walk home is a lot more silent than the walk to the Sioux reservation. My father’s reservation.
My father….
He hadn’t been what I was expecting. Wyatt hadn’t said much about our father, other than to let me know he’d stopped talking to John after finding out about me.
I guess I was guilty of stereotyping because I’d expected someone like the scattered hippie my mother had been. Extroverted, charming, and unstable, with lots of drugs and drinking between manic episodes of ranting against various injustices. But my father had struck me as the opposite of that.
He’d been calm, quiet, and self-contained. And as far as I could see, he didn’t carry any of the tell-tale signs of alcohol abuse. No shaking hands. No permanently fermented smell of day-drinking. The eyes squinting at me beneath his cowboy hat were bright and clear.
The brief, unexpected meeting makes me want to go back. Ask him some questions. Give him the same chance to explain himself that Abby gave me backstage at that concert.
I mean, he doesn’t even know he has a granddaughter.
And a great grandkid on the way. I think about the Instagram post Abby put up right before I left. Her and her pediatrician husband smiling slyly behind a positive pregnancy test. Along with a typically Californian request to send them “good vibes.”
Again, I’m hit with the urge to return to the reservation….
But I promised Wyatt I wouldn’t go near him. So, I squash it down.
This is all Reina’s fault.
I would have stayed away from him if she hadn’t taken me to the reservation’s main part.. When she asked me to trust her, I never should have followed her blindly. But I can’t think straight, living in the same cabin with her.
That’s why she’s got to go…
We end up making ourselves lunch separately. And for the first time, I’m a little pissed Wyatt doesn’t have a TV.
I could use something to do other than trying to find the words to kick Reina out. Dinner. I tell myself. I’ll do it over dinner. After the way she’s been tossing and turning on that couch, she’ll probably be happy to finally get her own bed.
Yeah, that’s how I’ll pitch it. Not, “You’ve gotta go because not being able to hook up with you is driving me crazy.” But, “Guess what. Tonight you won’t have to sleep on that lumpy old couch.”
It’s a great plan until she starts making dinner. And it smells fucking delicious. No high-end food delivery services in the middle of nowhere South Dakota, my stomach reminds me. Sandwiches like the one I made for lunch will be what’s for dinner too once she leaves.
Maybe I should let her stay, I start to think, only to cut myself off.
No, do not go there, dude. She introduced me to my father today. If he hadn’t been so cool about it, that situation could have blown up in my face. Bad.
No more dicking around. She has to go. She has to go right—
Reina’s scream of joy breaks into my final decision.
I sit up on the couch to see that she’s bent over in the open doorway. I was so deep in thought, I must not have registered her opening the door.
Man, she has a nice ass. Aren’t asses supposed to droop and sag as women get older? Not Reina’s. Hers is perfect and round, like an apple, just begging me to take a bite.
Down, Rockstar.
“What you got there?” I ask, forcing my mind back to safer topics.
