Cold Feet (10 page)

“That makes a lot of sense.”

Dr. Majdi stared at me and said, “Do you understand how this may relate to
you
?”

I bit my lip, stumped.

I wasn't trying to be difficult. I was genuinely there because I wanted to feel better. I wanted to stop obsessing about how I'd lost my friend, about what was wrong with me. I'd given Dr. Majdi the entire backstory when I arrived. I told her that I'd never met my dad, that my mom and I were practically strangers, and that despite my relationship with Sam, I was convinced I would end up alone. I explained with clinical detachment that whenever something good happened, I was basically waiting for it to be taken away.

Dr. Majdi looked concerned and even a little disappointed as I shared my background with her. I was pretty sure her reaction had something to do with my casual tone when I explained the situation, as if I were telling a story that had happened to someone else. As if I were reporting what had happened in the most recent season of
Game of Thrones
to someone who hadn't watched it. Not that I would hang out with an individual with such poor judgment.

In any case, I told her everything. I was honest. When she asked questions, or asked for examples of memories, I offered them up. In our second session, I told her about the time I was in a school play that was going to be performed on Father's Day. My teacher told our class that our dads would get to sit in the front row.

“Do you remember how you
felt
when you heard this, Emma?” she asked.

“Yes, I remember that moment exactly. I remember feeling sad and then saying to myself, Don't be sad about this, Emma. And then I wasn't,” I reported proudly to Dr. Majdi. “I told myself to stop caring, and I did. I was fine.”

Dr. Majdi sighed audibly, turned to a fresh page in her notebook, and probably mentally reorganized her closet to account for all the new pairs of shoes she was going to buy with my forthcoming insurance checks. Then she tried to explain that I wasn't really “fine.” I just
told myself
that I was fine.

According to Dr. Majdi, we had two issues to tackle. I quickly organized them in my mind, like the lawyer on a lunch break that I was. There was one, my history with abandonment (father, physically; mother, emotionally, I subcategorized); and two, the neutral standpoint I'd adopted for coping with this history (in other words, my nonemotive explanation of the dad I'd never met and the mom who didn't really like me). The fact that I'd told myself not to care, so, accordingly, I didn't. Conclusion: This was unhealthy.

“You have may have
told
yourself that you don't care, Emma, and that you were
fine
. But this was simply a coping mechanism. The pain and hurt from those experiences, they
went
somewhere. A good one, I have to admit. You were a
strong little girl
. But that didn't make the pain go away. You braced yourself from the
pain
. You held it at
bay
. This worked at the time. But this approach will not
serve you well
in the long run.”

What she was saying made sense, and it was probably good advice, but it made me realize that therapy wasn't what I needed, not at that moment, anyway. The ability to freeze my pain and tell
myself not to be sad about my mom and dad was one of the things I was most proud of. Why would I want to break that habit?

I was honest about this when I quit therapy, explaining to Dr. Majdi that I liked the coping mechanisms I had developed.

“Why would I stop doing the thing that got me through life up until this point?”

“Because you don't
need
them anymore. You are not the same little girl. You have good friends, a job, a relationship. You have
security
. You need to face the bad things when they happen to you and when you
recall
the painful memories of your past, not
push them away
. Emma, you must turn
into
the wave of pain and let it wash over you. Because if not, someday after you have dived under these waves
time
after
time
, one will come along that is
too big
to avoid. And when it hits, you're going to be
flattened
.”

CHAPTER 10

A
fter Liv and I decided we'd done enough fruitless Hunter research for one day, we headed back, exhausted, to Carrick's place. Liv wanted to take a long shower, so I decided to go out for a coffee. Fresh air and a minute of quiet time sounded nice.

I walked to a nearby Italian coffee shop—the kind with a gorgeous awning and comfortable chairs that seem mandatory to San Francisco—and sat down at a wrought iron table by the window. Latte and scone in hand, I experienced an “I'm going to be okay” feeling, which I held on to desperately. The good news, I comforted myself, is that I'm on vacation and eating pastries at a lovely coffee shop, rather than in my office in Downtown L.A. with a Kind bar and a cup of lukewarm coffee, writing a motion for summary judgment, as I had spent so many weekends prior. I watched a mom at
the next table silently hand pieces of croissant to her daughter, who was quietly reading a picture book. I briefly wondered what Caro would say if she knew what I was up to. I hadn't told her about the search for the simple reason that it wasn't any of her business. It would be like telling a current-day secret to someone who was your best friend in elementary school but you haven't seen since. Sure, you once held hands and shared graham crackers during snack time, but it's pointless if she doesn't know you now, if she doesn't know how much you hate your job or who the last ex-boyfriend to drunk text you was. It's the little things.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone familiar entering the café. He was wearing a blue-and-black-plaid shirt and looked almost too tall to make it under the fancy entrance.

“Dusty?” I called over to him.

“Hey! How are you?” he answered, heading over. This must be his local coffee shop, I figured quickly. It's just a coincidence. Despite that, I felt a slight flush at his appearance. It's because he's an attractive guy you don't know very well, I reminded myself. Don't be weird.

“I'm good,” I said, when he reached my table. “How's your Sunday going?”

“Great. So, I have to admit, this isn't a random run-in,” he said. “I saw the note you left for Liv. I don't have your phone number or I would have called.”

“Oh, okay. What's up?”

“I wanted to tell you what I was thinking last night after we talked. About you—and your dad, the mythological Hunter Moon,” he quickly added. “I wanted to tell you, but I wasn't sure if I should.”
He paused then. I nodded encouragingly for him to go on. “The thing is, I've been there. I grew up with my mom and twin sister. I never knew my dad either. It's not exactly the same because I finally met him when I was sixteen—unfortunately, since he turned out to be kind of a bastard—but I get the allure of wanting to fill out your family tree.” As he spoke, Dusty endearingly, if nervously, ran both hands through his hair and over the back of his neck.

“I made this huge deal out of finding him, and then when I did, he took me out to dinner and gave me his business card, like we were at a stupid networking event or something. He said to let him know if I needed money, or a college recommendation,” Dusty recalled painfully. “He lives in Fairfield, Connecticut, with his new family. It's such a cliché. But I guess those are around for a reason, right?”

“Right,” I said quietly.

“I never even told my mom or sister that I met him. Actually, I've never told anyone. It was too embarrassing. His reaction I mean.” He looked at me. His face read unhappy but composed. He had accepted that this was the hand he'd been dealt, and he had it under control. It was a look I recognized. Also familiar was the way he lightened the conversation and changed its focus to me immediately after sharing his story. “So anyway, about Hunter Moon, great name by the way.”

“I know, it's so silly,” I said, with an odd flush of delight. It was definitely more fun to have an absent father with a catchy name than a boring one.

“Maybe it's fake,” Dusty suggested. “And he's some San Francisco celebrity operating under cover. George Lucas? Gavin Newsom?”

“Maybe Gavin! I don't want to brag but I
was
in student government.”

Dusty laughed, surely relieved we were back on a more comfortable topic. “I can tell. You have leadership skills.”

“What about your mom? Can she help?” It was the same question Liv had asked in the car. It was the obvious one. It also happened to be my least favorite. Explaining my relationship with my mom is an inevitably painful activity. For one, it's semidepressing, and for another, it usually disappoints the person who's asking. Usually when people find out I was raised by a single mother they assume we were best friends, that it was “us against the world.” It's hard to explain to someone that for me, the experience was like two pieces of bone rubbing together, with no cartilage to operate as buffer. Tense, sharp edged, and often painful. Gilmore Girls, we were not.

“We aren't close. Honestly, I don't even want her to know I'm doing this. Sorry, I know that's not what you want to hear.”

“I don't want to hear anything,” Dusty said. “That came out wrong.” He smiled. “What I mean is, I don't have any expectations for anything you're going to tell me. Whatever you say is okay.”

“Thanks. And Dusty, thanks for telling me about your dad.”

“Of course. And seriously, I don't know if you need this, but I'd like to help you find him, however I can.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate that.” It was nice to have another ally in the search for Hunter. That he was a computer whiz who'd been in my fatherless shoes was a nice bonus. I felt a sudden surge of optimism. Maybe I really would find Hunter. And if I could find Hunter
and get some answers, maybe I could find some peace. Figure out what to do about Sam.

“I still haven't gotten to the reason I came to find you. Last night, I was thinking how we came up with nothing when we did our searches. No hits at all. There's no record of this guy. Which isn't that weird when you think about it. He's old enough that everything he's ever done isn't online. Not like with us.”

“Right. I mean, he could find me on the Internet in two seconds flat.” I tried not to think about what this implied about how much my birth father might want to meet me.

“Exactly! That's what I was thinking. Then I thought, if he has one daughter who's easy to find, you know what else he might have . . .” He paused as it sank in.

“Another one,” I answered slowly, taking in the realization. I was instantly filled with the same excitement reflected in Dusty's eyes. “He might be off the grid . . .”

“But maybe he has a
kid
who isn't.” He sat back proudly.

“We shouldn't be looking for only Hunter, but for his potential offspring as well.” I looked at him expectantly, and Dusty nodded. “Wow. That's a great idea, Dusty. But won't looking for any Moon still get a lot of hits?”

“Right, we have to run really specific searches. I was thinking, what about alumni or student databases? This guy could have a kid in college or grad school. And if he lives in California, where do you think he would send his kids?”

I held up my finger to say I knew exactly what he was getting to.
Without a word, I opened up the University of California's web page on my phone, where they had data on the gazillions of students who had attended the nine campuses over the years. I clicked on the link to alumni relations and typed in my password. I looked for the all-student search box and typed in my last name. One millisecond later, I had two hits. I gripped Dusty's arm so hard I practically pulled it off the table.

“There's me. And there's . . . Tyler Moon,” I read aloud. “He's a freshman at Berkeley.” I was suddenly terrified to be so close. Scared that it could be this easy.

“What's his home address?” Dusty asked faintly, equally shocked that his idea may have worked.

“I don't know, it only has his e-mail address.” This could be it. This could be the moment I found my father. All I had to do was push play on the rest of the scene.

“Let's e-mail him,” I said, before I could change my mind.

“Are you sure, Emma? What are we gonna say?” Dusty said, now looking nearly as nervous as I was. “We can't exactly ask for parents' contact information.”

“Oh, yes, we can,” I said knowingly. “You want a college kid's address? All you have to do is ask where to send the bills.”

“Whoa. You're good,” he said, thoroughly impressed. I felt inordinately pleased by his compliment.

“Can I borrow this?” I asked, pointing to Dusty's phone. I figured Tyler wouldn't question an e-mail from Dusty, given the ridiculous amount of information sharing that goes on these days, whereas
[email protected] might alert him that something was up. I quickly typed an e-mail requesting his home address for some overdue tuition bills.

For the next few minutes after I sent it, Dusty and I tried unsuccessfully to make small talk, both of us distracted by the existence of Tyler Moon across the bay. Finally we heard a small
ping
of incoming mail on his phone and nearly jumped out of our seats. Dusty grabbed the phone.

“‘Hey. Sure,'” he read slowly. “‘You can send all bills to my home address below, so I don't get stuck with them. ROFL'.” Dusty paused. “What does that mean?”

“Rolling on the floor laughing. It's stupid. Keep going.”

“Then he lists a home address, which is less than a mile from here.” I felt my heart jump as Dusty scrolled. “Okay, Tyler, we don't need the full zip code. Holy shit, Emma. There is one more line at the end.”

“What?” I demanded. “Read it.” Dusty cleared his throat.

“‘By the way, the bill should be addressed to my dad. His name is Hunter Moon.'”

I burst back into the room to tell Liv about our breakthrough. “I think we may have found him, Liv! I really do. Dusty had this great idea. It's a long story, but I feel really good about this.”

“Dusty, as in our roommate? That is amazing, Em. You can tell me all about it over dinner because I am starving, but before that,
you need to do something else. No arguments, Emma, I'm putting my foot down. I'm not eating until you call Sam.”

“You're going on hunger strike?” I laughed, still giddy about our discovery.

“Yes. You have to deal with it, Emma. You have to ask him what happened with Val. You have to talk to him.”