Home Again

“Lina—”

“Don’t.” She stared at him, and he saw, in that instant that felt like an eternity, he saw that she hated him. It hurt. Sweet Jesus above, it hurt.

“I used to watch the ‘Brady Bunch’ reruns when I was a kid.” She bit her lip and looked past him. It was a long, long time before she spoke again. “It used to make me cry. That silly, stupid sitcom used to make me cry.”

Francis understood. Even as a child, she’d wanted that sense of family, of belonging. But he and Madelaine hadn’t given it to her. They’d wanted to protect her with their silence, but it had only hurt her more. “I’m sorry, Lina.”

She gave a bitter, trilling laugh. “Yeah, well, so am I.” She got to her feet and snagged her backpack. Slinging it over her shoulder, she pushed past him and headed for the door.

He lurched to his feet. “Lina, wait—” He knew it wasn’t the right thing to say, that there was no right thing left, and the words echoed in the room and fell into a frightening silence.

She gave him a hard, cold look. “What for?”

He moved toward her. She didn’t move, just stood there, staring at him through those hurt blue eyes. Gently he took her face in his hands, brushed the tears away with his thumbs. “I love you, Lina. Always remember that.”

“Yeah, sure you do.” Her voice broke. “You and Mom both love me. But neither of you will tell me the truth.”

Lina screeched to a stop in front of Savemore Drugs. The store stared silently back at her; its big, sprawling, well-lit face invited her in. She tossed her bike into the bushes.

Excitement pushed past the anger and heartbreak. She needed that excitement now, needed another emotion to sweep her up, embrace her. She swiped at her eyes, trying to erase the last of the useless tears. With the touch, she knew she had no mascara left on her eyelashes, knew it was all on her cheeks in a caked, blue-black smear. Probably all that was left of her “Oregon Cherry” blusher was two streaks of war paint on either side of the blurred mascara.

Yeah, she had to look hot.

Sniffing, Lina jerked her chin up and narrowed her eyes. Just let someone say something. In fact, the way she was feeling, she wished they would.

She didn’t even care enough to call him. A lousy seven numbers, fifteen minutes out of her day …

And Francis, the closest thing to a dad she’d ever known, betraying her. I can’t tell you his name.

Lina felt the horrifying sting of fresh tears and she spun away from the store. Stumbling sideways, she slipped behind a holly tree and sat down on a pile of wooden pallets. Curling forward, she pressed her damp face into her knees and cried.

Her mother knew how important this was to her. She had to know. And yet, she was too busy to make a phone call.

Lina had always bent over backward to accommodate her mother’s schedule. She was proud of her mother’s job—it was way cooler than anyone else’s mom. Lina had put up with all of the missed dates, the lonely nights, the rushed family meals. But enough was enough; she couldn’t put up with any more.

She reached into her book bag and pulled out a Cover Girl compact. Flipping it open, she stared at the small reflection of herself. Electric blue eyes, slashing black eyebrows, small, bow-shaped lips.

“Who are you?” she whispered to the girl in the glass. And who was he—this father who had left his mark on her face, her thoughts, her personality, and then moved on? He was the answer to it all. The loudness, the dissatisfaction, the anger—they were all personality traits that must have come from him, must be his living legacy.

She kept remembering her question. Am I like him?

And her mother’s sad, reminiscing smile, the one that excluded Lina from her birthright, from the memories that should have belonged to her. You’re exactly like him.

Her fantasies spun out again, capturing her in a silken web. They were alike, she and her daddy—her mom had said so. She was like her father. They would be more than just father/daughter. They would be best friends. Her father wouldn’t lie to her or discipline her. He wouldn’t work all hours and come home tired or care if her homework wasn’t done on time.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, dreaming about him. Long enough for her tears to dry, for her bleeding sadness to harden into anger. Her mother had no right to keep this information from her. Not this.

Tired, depressed, she got to her feet and emerged from the bushes.

There was the store. She thought about turning away, just going home to think, but the store was so close.

She needed the jolt of adrenaline that came from outsmarting everyone. With a quick look in both directions, she repositioned her backpack over one shoulder and headed toward the store, down the wide, azalea-lined cement walkway.

Twin glass doors whooshed open in an electronic greeting. She slipped into the bright lights of the super-drugstore, feeling glaringly noticeable. A punk kid in ratty clothes in yuppie Heaven.

She grinned, knowing they were watching her, cataloging her, making a note of her for their detectives. She followed her own routine. First thing she did was buy a newspaper—it looked good to spend money right off the bat. She put two quarters in the slot and eased the front plate open, grabbing the newest edition of the small community newspaper. Tucking it under one arm, she strolled down the main aisle, then she turned off, glided down the makeup aisle. She touched everything that interested her, weighing it, feeling how it fit in her palm. Looking.

She touched a dozen things, putting each one back in its proper place.