“When are you done teaching for Christmas break?” she asked, pouring coffee into a mug that said Blessed is a Woman of Faith. She handed that one to me, and took another cup down from the cupboard.
“Tomorrow’s the last day of classes for two weeks.” At the counter I added a teaspoon of sugar and poured in some cream from the pitcher she’d set out.
“Good. You work too much. You need some time off. You know, to get out a little more.”
“Mmhmm.” Here it comes, I thought, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Three, two,—
“So tell me about Charlie Dwyer. That was interesting to see you two together.”
I gave her my decided-upon lines. “Not much to tell beyond what you already know. He was on patrol the night of my burglary. We got reacquainted.”
“So you’re not dating then? You looked pretty cozy at the wedding.”
“We’re sort of taking it slow.”
“I would too with a man that has a daughter.”
My heart stopped for a second. I must have heard that wrong. “A what?”
“A daughter. Have you met her yet?” she asked, as casually as if she was asking if I’d met his cat.
Clink clink clink went her sugar spoon in the cup. The dishwasher hummed. The tiny television in the corner chirped with morning talk show hosts. And a jackhammer pounded inside my head. I put two fingers to my pounding temple. “Where did you hear he has a daughter?”
She carried her cup to the table and sat across from me. “Well, I ran into Shirley Munson yesterday. You remember Shirley, she goes to St. Joan and had the two sons about your age, the ones who opened that car dealership on Gratiot? The one got caught cheating on his taxes and his wife, and Shirley was so embarrassed. She had just been bragging about what good husbands and fathers they were, too. About how their wives didn’t even have to work and that’s what makes a home work—when the wives are home with the kids. I think it was a dig at me because I’m divorced.”
“Mom. Go on.” My fingernails dug into my thighs. “How did you hear about a daughter?” My mouth could barely form the words. My brain could barely fathom them. A daughter?
“Well, anyway, she evidently kept in touch with Charlie’s mom, Jane. Either that or she made it her business to know the gossip clear down in Des Moines. But when she heard me mention his name, she said Charlie dropped out of college to marry some girl that he got pregnant and even though they got divorced, he moved up here to be closer to the daughter. So you haven’t met her yet?”
Bile rose in my throat. “Uh…no.”
Whatthefuck? Whatthefuck? Whatthefuck? Charlie had a daughter? An ex-wife? Why had he kept all this hidden from me? And what the hell was I supposed to say to my mother? If I told the truth, I’d look like the biggest dope on the planet. If I played like I knew everything, she’d ask me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer. Like what’s her name?
I felt sick. My stomach churned, a whirlpool of anger, bitterness, resentment, shame, fear. I looked down at my coffee, knowing I’d vomit if I even took one sip but uncertain how to get out of staying and drinking it. But I couldn’t sit still once second longer. “Mom, I’m sorry, I just remembered something I have to do before class.” I jumped up, carrying my cup to the sink and dumping it out.
“What? You just got here.”
“I know, but I have to mail a package right now or it won’t make it in time.” I scooped up my purse from the floor and raced for the door.
“In time for what, Christmas? A package for whom? Erin, what on earth?”
But I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.
Charlie had a child.
A daughter.
I got in my car and drove aimlessly. I didn’t even know where to go. What to do. Should I call him? Confront him? Accuse him? A thousand little moments went through my brain, crawling like ants. That’s why he didn’t want me to see where he lived—there was evidence there of a daughter. An ex-wife. That’s why he warned me I could get hurt—because he knew he was lying to me, keeping this from me. That’s why he didn’t want my mother to get in touch with his—he didn’t want me to hear about this behind his back. But when was he planning to tell me? We’d reconnected in early October, and it was Christmas now. He’d had more than two months to tell me.
But he didn’t. He waited for me to fall for him.
Maybe he’d never been planning to tell me at all because he never intended to let us be more than we were.
I felt sick, betrayed, hurt. This is why, I thought, stopping at a light. This is why you can’t trust anyone, especially people who warn you off. God, I’d been so stupid! He’d flat out told me he was no good for me, and he was right! Why hadn’t I believed him?
Anger boiled up in me, rising to the top of my emotional soup. How dare he? How dare he assume that he’d get away with this? How dare he assume dating someone with a kid was fine with me? How dare he assume he can just strut into my life and mess with it? I was right to begin with. He hasn’t changed at all. He’s a bully and a liar and an arrogant prick.
In front of my car, a father and small child crossed the street. The child, a girl bundled in a puffy purple snow suit, waddled slowly until her dad picked her up. More memories surfaced. The night at the ballet. The afternoon at the skating rink. The way he’d helped those tiny kids.
I have a soft spot for little girls.