“What made him finally leave you alone?” I ask.
“He didn’t right away. First, he tried to convince me to marry him, and when that didn’t work he threatened me. But my father overheard our conversation and when he asked me about it, I broke down and told him everything. My father intervened and after that I never heard from Damon again—I honestly don’t know what happened.”
My ribs ache from breathing so erratically as I listened to my mother. I take a good look at her for the first time since sitting down next to her. She’s wearing tan linen pants that look like they’ve been slept in. Her white blouse looks rumpled and is covered in coffee stains. Her naturally long brown hair is messy and her eyes are swollen. Seeing her like this . . . I can’t fight what’s in me. I want to be mad, upset, yell at her, curse the day she gave birth to me, but she’s my mother and I love her. I’ve always looked after her, protected her, and I can’t change that now.
The words just slip out. “It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t tell me,” I tell her.
She takes a deep breath and her tears start to wane, but her chest seems to be heaving at a greater rate. I draw her into my arms and kiss her hair.
“We’re going to be okay, Mom. Don’t cry.”
She wraps her arms around me in return and rocks me back and forth. In her comforting arms everything I’ve been feeling melts away. This woman loves me for who I am. After a beat, I pull away and wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“Xander, Nick will always be your father. Please tell me you know that.”
I don’t say anything.
“I wanted to tell you about Dylan, but once you knew, you couldn’t unknow it. And I just knew it would have mattered to you so much more than it should have. You were always my and Nick’s firstborn. You were his son and he loved you.”
My words come out as the question of a young boy. “Did you love my father, my real one?”
“Nick’s your real father, Xander. Dylan and I had a short and turbulent relationship and he died before he ever knew about you. So Nick—he is your real father.”
“Did he know? Nick, I mean?”
“Yes, of course he knew.”
“How could it not have mattered to him?” I ask, looking into her eyes—the eyes that none of us had inherited. Mine are more brown, like his, I’m sure, and River’s and Bell’s are greener, like Nick’s.
“Your father and I loved each other, and the time we were apart took its toll on both of us. Once we were finally back together, we vowed we’d never let anything tear us apart, and I tried to keep that promise.” She cries a little more and her words trail off. She doesn’t have to finish. Walking over to the mantel, she lifts a crystal-framed photo of River, Bell, and me. “When I told your father I was pregnant, he stared at me for the longest time. We both knew whose baby it had to be. I expected anger, or worse. But instead he put a protective hand on my belly and with a calm and certain voice he said, ‘We’re going to have a baby, Charlotte, so now you have to marry me.’ That’s what he said.”
“How do you not hate me?” I ask her.
“Why would I ever hate you? You’re my son. I love you. You healed me.”
At her words my gut wrenches. I swallow hard. “Healed?”
“Healed, mended, made me the person I wanted to be. You made me grow up and, Xander, I loved my life with your father. I loved him. I know he had his flaws and I know you saw him in a way that highlighted those flaws, but he was a good man. He loved us. He loved you, Xander. You were his son. It made no difference whose blood ran through your veins. And I think he was more afraid of you finding out and not loving him than anything else. He was so proud of you. He loved you so much.”
I wince at the raw emotion in her statement and stare at her, at a loss for words. I hated my father for so long I never looked at the good in him. I buried those memories the day he killed himself. But he was my father, not the man with the brown eyes, but the one with the green ones. And he loved me. He did.
Everything is a jumbled mess in my head. I can’t look at my mother anymore because she’s right. I feel a need to flee from any more emotional conversation. I stand up and cross the room to the sliding doors, go out onto the deck, then across the wet lawn. The sprinklers are on, but I sprint across the yard and fall to my knees. Holding my head in my hands, I think of Nick taking us to every concert, instilling in us everything he knew about music, teaching me to drive in the Corvette he never drove anymore because it wasn’t a practical family car. He was my father, but over the years I’d forgotten all the good things.
“Xander!” The slight wind carries her shaky voice, but I can hear it. I can hear the worry and concern.
At first I don’t move. She calls to me again. I raise my head and see her wiping her tears, the tears I’m causing to fall, and I lift myself up. And in this moment of clarity, I realize I don’t give a shit who my biological father is. And I know with everything I am that I loved Nick Wilde and that I have to tell him. But before I go I have to tell my mother about the falsified sales reports—the reports that not only changed Nick’s life, but all of ours.
• • •
The memories that hit me as I enter Forest Lawn Cemetery are oddly not memories of the many times I’ve been here, but ones of the people it holds. All of my grandparents, both my mother’s and my father’s, are buried here, and of course so is my father, Nick. It’s an older place with large tombstones . . . some toppled, some crumbling with age, others new. It’s eerily quiet and I can hear the birds singing as they land on top of the marble and stone that line the rows.
It seems wrong to come here and not visit my grandparents. A young boy is selling cut flowers and I stop to purchase a wrap from him. I ask him what kind of flowers they are, and he says, “Today I have lilies, but tomorrow I’ll have wreaths with a mixture of flowers.” I just grin at his enthusiasm—an entrepreneur in the making.
The grass between the carved headstones leads to people I don’t know, but I read their names etched on the stones as I pass and scan their markers. Some of those buried here lived long, full lives. Some of their gravestones read, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER or BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. Others aren’t so descriptive, with just their date of birth followed by their date of death. Wilted bouquets of flowers lie below some of the gravestones and others have rosary beads draped around them. A far greater amount show no sign of visitation.
I stop at Nick’s parents’ graves first. Pulling two lilies from the stemmed flowers I’m holding, I place one on my grandmother’s grave and then another on my grandfather’s. Finding words has never been easy for me, but today my thoughts pour out and I thank them for loving me.
Once I’ve told them all I can handle right now, I stand and make my way down the path toward Nick’s grave. I think about him, about our life as a family, and about the turn his life took because of a man that hated him. Stopping in front of his headstone, I stare at it and silently recite the last words scripted on it: “A beloved son, husband, and father rests here where no shadows fall.” It’s a simple inscription but full of so much meaning. More now that I know the truth. I’ve never actually come here to visit him. I came with my grandparents to help take care of the area, I came with my mother when she needed to visit, but I’ve never come for me—just to talk to him.
I shuffle on my feet, feeling uncomfortable, and stand in front of the industrial gray marker. I run my fingers through my hair, then skim them over the smoothness of the stone. Glancing around, I’m surprised at how well tended the site is. My mother or Bell, or possibly even River, must still come here. I don’t know—I have never asked. I’ve carried this anger toward him deep inside myself for so long that once in a while I can douse it, but it has never gone away. I didn’t think I would ever get rid of it, but right now I don’t feel it anymore. The trees lining the cemetery sway back and forth as a slight wind ripples through the air. I inhale and let it out. I clear my throat and try to find my voice. This is so much more difficult than I ever thought it would be. I take another deep breath and sit down.
Dad,
My old man killed himself and left me to take care of the family. That was my “tagline” whenever anyone asked me about you. That basically summed up everything anyone needed to know about you as far as I was concerned. I hated you—not only for taking your life and leaving us, but also for leaving me feeling guilty in the wake of your death. I was never the same—our family, your family, we were never the same without you.
River and I said once if our life before you died was a puzzle, you took a piece of that puzzle with you—a piece that can never be returned. It took me until now to see that you were a product of the tolls life took on you . . . that you were a good man who had more than his share of obstacles thrown his way. But you and me—we shared a bond and I felt like you destroyed it when you took your life. I was mad at you a lot, but I was a teenager, you were the adult. You should have had faith that I loved you, no matter what. I mean, come on, you knew me better than anyone else—and I always wondered why. Was it because you wanted to make sure I was more like you than him? If so, I hope you are proud of me because I am proud to be so much more like you.
My view of the world has changed since your death, but I remember when I was young and naive and you taught me everything you could about music and helped me believe in the magic of the world. We looked for four-leaf clovers for hours and when we found one, you laminated it for me to preserve that small wonder. When I had questions, you answered them. You were always there for me.
Then after the funeral, that all changed. I lost my parent, my hero, and my teacher. I thought a lot about death and dying and who was to blame. In the end I blamed you rather than myself, but now standing here talking to you—I blame no one. I just wanted you to know that—I blame no one. And, Dad, know this—I love you.
That’s how I feel about him—finally I can accept him for him. I get to my feet and brush off the grass. Then I pick up the flower pack and pull the lilies out one by one and lay them on the ground. As I turn and walk away, birds sing and a bell tolls in the distance, but all I can think about is this man who I called Dad, even with all of his flaws—he was my dad and I loved him.
CHAPTER 18
I’m Alive
My eyes blink against the silvery glow of moonlight as I open the door. Her earrings glimmer and her shy smile makes it hard to breathe. I’d fallen asleep on the couch and the sound of the doorbell jolted me awake. I’m surprised to see her—why, I’m not sure. Maybe because I acted like an ass**le, maybe because I feel like I should have taken her away from him. I haven’t had time to figure out where exactly my guilt is coming from, but as I stand before her I know it doesn’t matter.
We look at each other for the longest time until I notice her eyes tilt to my chest and I realize my shirt is unbuttoned. She’s staring at my skin, at my side, where the ROSES ARE SO CLICHÉ tattoo is inked—the tattoo I got for her because I knew I’d always love her. I know that not even what has happened the last few days can change that. She stands in the doorway before me, quiet and utterly gorgeous. She’s in a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. She’s not wearing any makeup, not even her trademark red lipstick, and her hair is pulled back by some kind of band. My heart races at the sight of her and I let out a long breath.
“Ivy,” I manage as the love I feel for her whirls around and cocoons us.
Her cheeks flush at the sound of her own name.
“Xander, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” she asks in an impassioned voice.
I nod. But I don’t want to discuss Nick or Dylan any more today. After a beat, I ask, “Is everything all right? What are you doing here so late?”
She crosses her arms tightly over her stomach and grips her elbows. “I needed to see you. Make sure you were all right. Can we talk?”
My breath catches on the smallness of her voice—the uncertainty in it tears a hole through me. She holds my gaze, and my gut twists in a funny way. She inhales deeply and blurts out, “It’s my turn to say I’m sorry. I left Damon. I never loved him. I only married him to protect you.”
“I know,” I whisper and close my eyes, standing silent for the longest time. It’s like my body turns to stone at the mere mention of his name. When I open my eyes and look at her, I let everything go and just pull her to me and hold her.
“I love you, Xander,” she cries.
“I know,” I whisper again, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s married to him. I swallow, trying to catch my breath and then pull away. I move aside and motion for her to come in. She reaches for me again, but I retreat and instead place my hand on the small of her back and guide her into the living room. This slight, seemingly intimate touch makes me come alive. I want to feel her skin all over mine, touch her, taste her, sink into her. I want to forget about the day and just get lost in her. But she’s married. We take the step down into the living room. My stuff is thrown on the coffee table and the pillows from the sofa are tossed on the floor. Normally I’d have an urge to pick up, but I really don’t give a shit right now. When my eyes shift from the floor to her, I see it—the innocence she possesses—and my guilt is back.
“I want to explain everything, Xander,” she says softly.
“I understand why you did what you did. You don’t have to explain.” I pause, then add, “Fuck, I just wish you hadn’t . . . After everything, I can’t believe you didn’t . . .” I stop as the words keep catching in my throat.
“He didn’t right away. First, he tried to convince me to marry him, and when that didn’t work he threatened me. But my father overheard our conversation and when he asked me about it, I broke down and told him everything. My father intervened and after that I never heard from Damon again—I honestly don’t know what happened.”
My ribs ache from breathing so erratically as I listened to my mother. I take a good look at her for the first time since sitting down next to her. She’s wearing tan linen pants that look like they’ve been slept in. Her white blouse looks rumpled and is covered in coffee stains. Her naturally long brown hair is messy and her eyes are swollen. Seeing her like this . . . I can’t fight what’s in me. I want to be mad, upset, yell at her, curse the day she gave birth to me, but she’s my mother and I love her. I’ve always looked after her, protected her, and I can’t change that now.
The words just slip out. “It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t tell me,” I tell her.
She takes a deep breath and her tears start to wane, but her chest seems to be heaving at a greater rate. I draw her into my arms and kiss her hair.
“We’re going to be okay, Mom. Don’t cry.”
She wraps her arms around me in return and rocks me back and forth. In her comforting arms everything I’ve been feeling melts away. This woman loves me for who I am. After a beat, I pull away and wipe the tears from her cheeks.
“Xander, Nick will always be your father. Please tell me you know that.”
I don’t say anything.
“I wanted to tell you about Dylan, but once you knew, you couldn’t unknow it. And I just knew it would have mattered to you so much more than it should have. You were always my and Nick’s firstborn. You were his son and he loved you.”
My words come out as the question of a young boy. “Did you love my father, my real one?”
“Nick’s your real father, Xander. Dylan and I had a short and turbulent relationship and he died before he ever knew about you. So Nick—he is your real father.”
“Did he know? Nick, I mean?”
“Yes, of course he knew.”
“How could it not have mattered to him?” I ask, looking into her eyes—the eyes that none of us had inherited. Mine are more brown, like his, I’m sure, and River’s and Bell’s are greener, like Nick’s.
“Your father and I loved each other, and the time we were apart took its toll on both of us. Once we were finally back together, we vowed we’d never let anything tear us apart, and I tried to keep that promise.” She cries a little more and her words trail off. She doesn’t have to finish. Walking over to the mantel, she lifts a crystal-framed photo of River, Bell, and me. “When I told your father I was pregnant, he stared at me for the longest time. We both knew whose baby it had to be. I expected anger, or worse. But instead he put a protective hand on my belly and with a calm and certain voice he said, ‘We’re going to have a baby, Charlotte, so now you have to marry me.’ That’s what he said.”
“How do you not hate me?” I ask her.
“Why would I ever hate you? You’re my son. I love you. You healed me.”
At her words my gut wrenches. I swallow hard. “Healed?”
“Healed, mended, made me the person I wanted to be. You made me grow up and, Xander, I loved my life with your father. I loved him. I know he had his flaws and I know you saw him in a way that highlighted those flaws, but he was a good man. He loved us. He loved you, Xander. You were his son. It made no difference whose blood ran through your veins. And I think he was more afraid of you finding out and not loving him than anything else. He was so proud of you. He loved you so much.”
I wince at the raw emotion in her statement and stare at her, at a loss for words. I hated my father for so long I never looked at the good in him. I buried those memories the day he killed himself. But he was my father, not the man with the brown eyes, but the one with the green ones. And he loved me. He did.
Everything is a jumbled mess in my head. I can’t look at my mother anymore because she’s right. I feel a need to flee from any more emotional conversation. I stand up and cross the room to the sliding doors, go out onto the deck, then across the wet lawn. The sprinklers are on, but I sprint across the yard and fall to my knees. Holding my head in my hands, I think of Nick taking us to every concert, instilling in us everything he knew about music, teaching me to drive in the Corvette he never drove anymore because it wasn’t a practical family car. He was my father, but over the years I’d forgotten all the good things.
“Xander!” The slight wind carries her shaky voice, but I can hear it. I can hear the worry and concern.
At first I don’t move. She calls to me again. I raise my head and see her wiping her tears, the tears I’m causing to fall, and I lift myself up. And in this moment of clarity, I realize I don’t give a shit who my biological father is. And I know with everything I am that I loved Nick Wilde and that I have to tell him. But before I go I have to tell my mother about the falsified sales reports—the reports that not only changed Nick’s life, but all of ours.
• • •
The memories that hit me as I enter Forest Lawn Cemetery are oddly not memories of the many times I’ve been here, but ones of the people it holds. All of my grandparents, both my mother’s and my father’s, are buried here, and of course so is my father, Nick. It’s an older place with large tombstones . . . some toppled, some crumbling with age, others new. It’s eerily quiet and I can hear the birds singing as they land on top of the marble and stone that line the rows.
It seems wrong to come here and not visit my grandparents. A young boy is selling cut flowers and I stop to purchase a wrap from him. I ask him what kind of flowers they are, and he says, “Today I have lilies, but tomorrow I’ll have wreaths with a mixture of flowers.” I just grin at his enthusiasm—an entrepreneur in the making.
The grass between the carved headstones leads to people I don’t know, but I read their names etched on the stones as I pass and scan their markers. Some of those buried here lived long, full lives. Some of their gravestones read, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER or BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. Others aren’t so descriptive, with just their date of birth followed by their date of death. Wilted bouquets of flowers lie below some of the gravestones and others have rosary beads draped around them. A far greater amount show no sign of visitation.
I stop at Nick’s parents’ graves first. Pulling two lilies from the stemmed flowers I’m holding, I place one on my grandmother’s grave and then another on my grandfather’s. Finding words has never been easy for me, but today my thoughts pour out and I thank them for loving me.
Once I’ve told them all I can handle right now, I stand and make my way down the path toward Nick’s grave. I think about him, about our life as a family, and about the turn his life took because of a man that hated him. Stopping in front of his headstone, I stare at it and silently recite the last words scripted on it: “A beloved son, husband, and father rests here where no shadows fall.” It’s a simple inscription but full of so much meaning. More now that I know the truth. I’ve never actually come here to visit him. I came with my grandparents to help take care of the area, I came with my mother when she needed to visit, but I’ve never come for me—just to talk to him.
I shuffle on my feet, feeling uncomfortable, and stand in front of the industrial gray marker. I run my fingers through my hair, then skim them over the smoothness of the stone. Glancing around, I’m surprised at how well tended the site is. My mother or Bell, or possibly even River, must still come here. I don’t know—I have never asked. I’ve carried this anger toward him deep inside myself for so long that once in a while I can douse it, but it has never gone away. I didn’t think I would ever get rid of it, but right now I don’t feel it anymore. The trees lining the cemetery sway back and forth as a slight wind ripples through the air. I inhale and let it out. I clear my throat and try to find my voice. This is so much more difficult than I ever thought it would be. I take another deep breath and sit down.
Dad,
My old man killed himself and left me to take care of the family. That was my “tagline” whenever anyone asked me about you. That basically summed up everything anyone needed to know about you as far as I was concerned. I hated you—not only for taking your life and leaving us, but also for leaving me feeling guilty in the wake of your death. I was never the same—our family, your family, we were never the same without you.
River and I said once if our life before you died was a puzzle, you took a piece of that puzzle with you—a piece that can never be returned. It took me until now to see that you were a product of the tolls life took on you . . . that you were a good man who had more than his share of obstacles thrown his way. But you and me—we shared a bond and I felt like you destroyed it when you took your life. I was mad at you a lot, but I was a teenager, you were the adult. You should have had faith that I loved you, no matter what. I mean, come on, you knew me better than anyone else—and I always wondered why. Was it because you wanted to make sure I was more like you than him? If so, I hope you are proud of me because I am proud to be so much more like you.
My view of the world has changed since your death, but I remember when I was young and naive and you taught me everything you could about music and helped me believe in the magic of the world. We looked for four-leaf clovers for hours and when we found one, you laminated it for me to preserve that small wonder. When I had questions, you answered them. You were always there for me.
Then after the funeral, that all changed. I lost my parent, my hero, and my teacher. I thought a lot about death and dying and who was to blame. In the end I blamed you rather than myself, but now standing here talking to you—I blame no one. I just wanted you to know that—I blame no one. And, Dad, know this—I love you.
That’s how I feel about him—finally I can accept him for him. I get to my feet and brush off the grass. Then I pick up the flower pack and pull the lilies out one by one and lay them on the ground. As I turn and walk away, birds sing and a bell tolls in the distance, but all I can think about is this man who I called Dad, even with all of his flaws—he was my dad and I loved him.
CHAPTER 18
I’m Alive
My eyes blink against the silvery glow of moonlight as I open the door. Her earrings glimmer and her shy smile makes it hard to breathe. I’d fallen asleep on the couch and the sound of the doorbell jolted me awake. I’m surprised to see her—why, I’m not sure. Maybe because I acted like an ass**le, maybe because I feel like I should have taken her away from him. I haven’t had time to figure out where exactly my guilt is coming from, but as I stand before her I know it doesn’t matter.
We look at each other for the longest time until I notice her eyes tilt to my chest and I realize my shirt is unbuttoned. She’s staring at my skin, at my side, where the ROSES ARE SO CLICHÉ tattoo is inked—the tattoo I got for her because I knew I’d always love her. I know that not even what has happened the last few days can change that. She stands in the doorway before me, quiet and utterly gorgeous. She’s in a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. She’s not wearing any makeup, not even her trademark red lipstick, and her hair is pulled back by some kind of band. My heart races at the sight of her and I let out a long breath.
“Ivy,” I manage as the love I feel for her whirls around and cocoons us.
Her cheeks flush at the sound of her own name.
“Xander, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” she asks in an impassioned voice.
I nod. But I don’t want to discuss Nick or Dylan any more today. After a beat, I ask, “Is everything all right? What are you doing here so late?”
She crosses her arms tightly over her stomach and grips her elbows. “I needed to see you. Make sure you were all right. Can we talk?”
My breath catches on the smallness of her voice—the uncertainty in it tears a hole through me. She holds my gaze, and my gut twists in a funny way. She inhales deeply and blurts out, “It’s my turn to say I’m sorry. I left Damon. I never loved him. I only married him to protect you.”
“I know,” I whisper and close my eyes, standing silent for the longest time. It’s like my body turns to stone at the mere mention of his name. When I open my eyes and look at her, I let everything go and just pull her to me and hold her.
“I love you, Xander,” she cries.
“I know,” I whisper again, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s married to him. I swallow, trying to catch my breath and then pull away. I move aside and motion for her to come in. She reaches for me again, but I retreat and instead place my hand on the small of her back and guide her into the living room. This slight, seemingly intimate touch makes me come alive. I want to feel her skin all over mine, touch her, taste her, sink into her. I want to forget about the day and just get lost in her. But she’s married. We take the step down into the living room. My stuff is thrown on the coffee table and the pillows from the sofa are tossed on the floor. Normally I’d have an urge to pick up, but I really don’t give a shit right now. When my eyes shift from the floor to her, I see it—the innocence she possesses—and my guilt is back.
“I want to explain everything, Xander,” she says softly.
“I understand why you did what you did. You don’t have to explain.” I pause, then add, “Fuck, I just wish you hadn’t . . . After everything, I can’t believe you didn’t . . .” I stop as the words keep catching in my throat.
