“After a few moments I cleared my dry throat and told him I had been out with my girlfriends and I’d had a little too much to drink. I’d called Dylan from the bar to see how he was doing. We had run into each other earlier that day and he looked terrible, so I wanted to check on him. He had asked me to come over and I couldn’t say no. When I got there he cried for me to take him back and when I refused he was so upset. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen so I thought it best that I leave. I told Damon that when I tried, Dylan begged me to stay, so I did.”
I feel sick—my head is pounding and I’m not sure I want to hear any more, but my mother seems intent on telling me the whole story.
Swallowing, she goes on, but the words stick in her throat. “He was a mess and he needed someone. Please don’t judge me, Xander.”
“I’m not, Mom, I’m not. I promise,” I assure her. Because I am certainly in no place to judge.
“I started to feel sick when I was telling Damon what had happened—I felt so incredibly hungover, so I slowly edged toward the bathroom, but I stopped at the dresser to look in the mirror. My hair was a mess, my eyes deeply shadowed, and my face pale, but what concerned me most was Damon’s reflection staring back at me—the crease in his brow and the anger in his eyes scared me.”
And once again my mind entertains thoughts of wanting to kill him.
She goes on. “The rest happened so fast. Damon told me Dylan was in the hospital, I’ll never forget the icy-cold edge to his voice. I looked at my hands and saw red stains and I screamed. Just then the phone rang and he answered it. The expression on his face darkened as he hung up the receiver. In that instant I felt like I had to get out of there. For the first time I was afraid of him. As I moved, the room started spinning, but I managed to make my way to the door. I swung the door open to the family room, the room I had been in the previous night. He caught me before I crossed the threshold and told me Dylan had died and I cried as I ran out of his bedroom and the nightmare of the previous night set in. The last thing I remember is the floor rushed up to meet me and unconsciousness consumed me.”
My mother pauses and seems to snap out of whatever trance she was in. “When I woke up I was home alone. He had brought me home. I remembered everything then. Dylan had gotten up and a few minutes later I heard a thud. I ran into the living room and there he was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He must have fallen and hit his head on the coffee table. A syringe was on the floor next to him. Damon came in as I hovered over him and found us. He called for an ambulance and they came and took Dylan to the hospital. Damon stayed with me. Dylan died of an overdose before Damon made it to the hospital. Nick flew back for the funeral and we went for coffee and started talking. We kept talking even after he left again and we ended up reconciling while he was still on the road. He even asked me to marry him over the phone. He was always so impatient. God, I loved that man.” She pauses again, taking another breath and squeezing my hand. “After Nick left again to get back on the road, Damon kept coming around, but his mood was darker, grimmer. I thought it was because his brother had died and I didn’t want to turn my back on him. One day he asked me about Nick and I told him we were back together. It was like a switch went off. He started blaming me for Dylan’s death. He’d call me and ask if I wanted to go to dinner one minute and when I’d say no he’d ask if I wanted to go to jail. I knew what he was doing—he was trying to scare me into marrying him. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong—but I still worried.”
“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,