Mom shakes her head. “She must have gotten a copy of your birth certificate somewhere. Can you find that stuff out on the Internet?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never tried.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe she hired someone?” I say. “To track him down? Maybe she used her parents’ money?”
“Maybe.”
There’s a long pause.
“Well,” Mom says, “what are you going to do?”
I let out an exhausted, painful sigh. “I have absolutely no idea.”
Chapter 33
I don’t go to school or work for a week.
I make Mom and me sandwiches for lunch and help her with her projects. Mostly I just glue stuff, since it’s pretty hard to screw that up.
Hope starts eating solidish foods—cheese and avocado seem to be her favorites—and she picks up the chunks with her fingers and feeds herself. I have no idea when or how or where she learned to do that. It’s like she woke up one day this week and just knew. She seems pretty damn proud of herself for it too. All smiles and squealing and bouncing around in her seat.
She’s got another tooth coming in, but Joni’s Washington Square Park soundtrack is helping.
I spend as much time at the lake as possible, since in a matter of days, it will be too cold. Hope comes with me, bundled up under lots of layers.
I call and text Joni several times a day, but she never answers or calls back. I’d thought…hoped…that once a little time went by, she wouldn’t be so mad. After all, she said not to drag her into my problems until I make peace with the way my life is now. Okay, so maybe I’m still working on that. But it wasn’t a “never.” It was just a “not now.” I think, anyway.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Michael too. I’d kind of given up on finding him—you can only be mocked by Google so much before you start to feel defeated. And yet, I know how to contact him. He lives in New Jersey. I could call him or email him or go meet him. I could do a much more refined Google search and find out if he’s an ex-convict on parole or what he does for a living or if he’s got other kids. I could show up on his doorstep and finally feel whatever you feel when you look in the eyes of the guy who helped give you life. I think I’m going to.
Declan comes over for dinner Friday night, a week after the Purple Notebook Day. He brings us stuff: a rattle in the shape of a tyrannosaurus rex head (“Your mom told me she likes freaky things,” he explains.) and a steering wheel cover with a black-and-white soccer ball pattern on it for me (“I own an auto supply store, so if you ever need anything…”).
He looks at me, waiting for my reaction.
I stare at the steering wheel thing in my hand. It’s kind of a weird gift to give someone, isn’t it? Like, here’s a random item for your car that no one could possibly ever need.
“I don’t play soccer anymore.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I feel bad. Apparently I can’t go a single day without being a douche to someone who’s trying to be nice to me.
Declan’s face falls. “Oh. I didn’t know that,” he says. “Well, you can come by any time and exchange it for something else if you want.”
I shake my head and force myself to put a little effort into the conversation. It’s not like I have a ton of people on my side right now. And if my mom’s biker boyfriend is offering to be my friend, well, I’m not in a position to turn it down. “Nah, this is cool. Thanks.” I hold out a hand, and he shakes it.
“No problem, man.”
My mom, who’s been standing a few feet away, watching the whole exchange, lets out an audible breath, and says, “Why don’t we go into the kitchen? Dinner will be ready in a few.”
Declan looks at her and smiles, his eyes taking on that so-in-love look that Mom’s been sporting lately, and it hits me like a soccer-ball-patterned steering wheel cover to the face—this guy is going to be around for a long time.
He hands her a bag, and she takes out a bottle of wine and a bakery box that looks like it contains some sort of pie or cake.
“Thanks, babe,” she says and rises up on her tippy toes to