She Has Your Eyes (12 page)

chapter eighteen

October

I don’t know who was more jittery, David or myself. We were outside, waiting for a car with Connecticut license plates to pull into the driveway. I sat on the stoop with my Kindle, but couldn’t even get through one screen page without having to read it several times. David, meanwhile, paced in front of me, his arms crossed more out of nerves than the morning New England chill. You’d think we were both seeing Wylie for the first time, but I knew what this visit was really stirring up: It was the first time we were seeing her as
family
. As David’s teenage daughter.

So when Peter Baker’s black pickup truck pulled in and she emerged from the cab, her backpack in tow, for some reason I was momentarily taken aback. Instead of Daisy Dukes and flip-flops, she wore skinny jeans with black suede boots, and a candy-apple red jacket with faux fur–trimmed collar and cuffs. I suddenly felt very frumpy and unimpressive in my gray carpenter pants, long-sleeved black T-shirt with retro No Nukes logo, nubucks, and faded denim jacket. My hair had been uninspired lately, an indecisiveness to grow it out or cut it short, and the same chestnut color I’d been dyeing it for years. David, of course, looked suave and stylish as always in dark blue jeans, oxfords, a mocha-colored mock turtleneck, and a leather jacket so buttery smooth you wanted to lick it.

Peter emerged in tan chinos and a white button-down shirt, no jacket. He pulled Wylie’s overnight bag from the back of the cab and carried it by the strap rather than use the pull-handle and wheels.

David met them halfway, me a couple of steps behind him. He extended his hand to meet Peter’s, who took it with all the warmth of a brick wall. And who could blame him? He was dropping off his daughter—
his
daughter—into the hands of strangers. Worse still,
at her request
. The enormity of his gesture pummeled me like a boulder and nearly crushed me. I put a hand to my chest and forced out a couple of deep, slow breaths.

“I’d like to know what your plans are for this weekend,” said Peter to David.

David seemed taken aback for a second. “We were originally thinking of going to Boston, but we’ll probably go into town instead.” This was news to me; we had decided on Boston. Something in Peter’s handshake and tone must have rattled David. Perhaps he felt the same crushing boulder.

“I’d like to be informed if your plans change. And Janine and I would like Wylie to check in with us—once tonight and once tomorrow.”

Wylie rolled her eyes, but David promised, “We’ll make sure she does. And I’ll keep you informed.”

Peter turned to Wylie, and the color drained from his face, as if he were seeing her for the last time. “If you change your mind, just call and I’ll come get you. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

It sounded like something a father would say to his little girl at her first sleepover. Maybe that’s what it felt like to him.

“I’ll be fine,” said Wylie, almost impatient.

This was wrong.
Peter
was Wylie’s dad, not David. David and I were intruders, interlopers, thieves.

Wylie dropped her backpack and opened her arms. Peter hugged her close, and I studied him as he did. His hair, the color of sandpaper, was short and uneven. A five-o’clock shadow hugged his chin, the kind that existed no matter how closely one shaved. When he released her, Wylie lifted herself on her toes and kissed him on his cheek. “Thanks, Daddy.” I caught him swallowing his emotion.

Just as he was about to return to his truck, I piped up. “Peter, thank you so much for allowing Wylie to stay with us. For
trusting
us.” I took an extra step forward, as if David and Wylie disappeared, and it was just the two of us in the driveway. I wanted to reach out to him, assure him he was going to get his daughter back. I wanted to tell him,
I know how you feel
. But did I? I hadn’t raised a child and then turned her over to some woman who shared her DNA. But he and I were on the edge of this. We were outside, on the margins, looking in. I extended my hand and locked him in a gaze. His irises were watery blue. “
Thank you
,” I said again, hoping somehow the words would decode the jumbled message I was trying so hard to send.

He seemed to comprehend, and I felt solidarity in our handshake when he accepted it. For a second he gave me a look that said
I trust
you.
Not him. You.
From that moment, I felt a weighted responsibility to Peter Baker.

We watched him get into his truck, back out, and drive down the street. When he was out of sight, David and Wylie looked at each other. To hug, or not to hug? I had never seen David this befuddled. He wound up giving her a pat on the arm. “How was the ride?”

She shrugged. “OK, I guess.”

“It’s nice to see you.” I said, and took hold of the suitcase handle. “Here, let me get that for you.”

“Thanks.”

David wrung his hands for a moment as he frantically searched for something to say, and came up with, “You hungry?”

She shrugged again. “I guess so.”

“We can do Italian,” he suggested. “Or would you rather get a burger?”

“David, it’s only eleven o’clock,” I pointed out.

He scratched his head. “Sorry.” He paused to consider options. “There are some cute shops on Main Street in Amherst. Wanna walk around and check ’em out?”

“There’s also Emily Dickinson’s house,” I offered. “You know, the poet?”

David sought Wylie’s approval before giving his own. Wylie shrugged. “Whatever you guys want to do is OK with me. I mean, I guess we could check out those shops.” She paused for a beat before asking, “Can we go to Boston?”

“Your dad didn’t seem too keen on it,” I said. From my peripheral vision I caught David furtively slip me an irked look for answering on his behalf. Or maybe it was because I referred to Peter as her dad. I clamped my mouth shut and felt self-conscious, as if I’d just been commanded to shut up.

“Ever been to Boston?” asked David.

“My parents took me along the Freedom Trail the summer before middle school,” she replied. “I was bored beyond measure.”

David laughed in a forced effort. I watched him in awe, wondering why he was so bumbling and fidgety, why schmooze-boy wasn’t taking over.

We took Wylie’s suitcase inside, freshened up, and left for Amherst less than thirty minutes later. We sauntered up and
down Main Street, in and out of the shops and boutiques and Starbucks, exchanging bits of shy small talk along the route, mostly in the form of questions:

“Do you want to go in there?”

“If you want to buy anything, let us know, OK?”

“Do you like kites?”

“I smell waffles.”

The weather was perfect—sunny and mild and cloudless, the azure sky complemented by golds and reds and oranges of the foliage. College students abounded at every turn, and I ran into three students, two of them from the previous semester. “Hey, Professor Vanzant!” they called and waved. I smiled and waved back and returned their greeting: “Hey!” One of them even crossed the street to tell me that he’d submitted a short story to an online magazine and it had been accepted. I beamed and congratulated him. Running into students, past or present, filled me with validation and well-being, a sense of being at home in my skin.

“Wow,” said Wylie. “You’re, like, popular here.”

“Andi is a
great
teacher,” said David. His pride made me feel even better. “Her students love her. In fact, she taught me everything I know about writing.”

All the walking worked up our hunger, and we decided on a café that made pita wraps. When we sat at a table, a shot of something worse than silence stunned each of us into submission, as if we’d become paralyzed not only in our tongues and throats, but also our brains. I could see the look of panic both in David’s and Wylie’s eyes, not doubting that it was in my own as well.

However, I was the first to break free of it.
This is stupid
, I thought. “Just breathe normally, folks,” I said as I picked up my wrap and bit heartily into it. I followed with a yummy sound
and licked my fingers that had caught some of the spilled contents. The earnest gesture broke David’s spell, and the muscles in his face softened. I read a note of gratitude, as if for the first time he was glad I was there. They each imitated me by picking up their own wraps.

“You know, I always loved the idea of baking your own bread,” said Wylie, “but I’m
horrible
at cooking. So’s my mom. She
hates
it.”

“I used to be the same way,” I confessed.

“What changed?”

“Being married to someone who enjoyed it. His enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and it became a thing we did together.”

It took her a moment to realize that I wasn’t talking about David. “Oh, you meant the other guy—I forgot his name,” she said.

I nodded. “Sam.”

“Right. That’s really nice,” she added. But whereas Wylie’s eyes expressed interest and attention, David’s turned dark.

I paused for a few beats, trying to think of something to say to comfort David. I pointed to him, but was struck dumb when it came to addressing him—what should I call him? After the interaction with Peter,
Dad
was completely out of the question. And yet, calling him
David
seemed just as inappropriate. But I was out of alternatives, and it was the better of the two. “David is a good cook.” I took a gulp of ginger ale in attempt to wash out my discomfort, although this was one of those rare times I wished for a stronger elixir. David took a swig from a bottle of iced tea. He seemed equally bothered by the lack of a proper moniker, and in the end I concluded that I’d made things worse.

Wylie leaned in to her straw and took a sip of Coke. And then she noticed the ring on my finger. “Wait—are you two engaged?”

David took my hand. “Sure are.”

“Since when?”

“ ’Bout two weeks ago,” I replied.

She frowned. “Did you not want me to know?”

David dropped his head. “You’ll have to forgive me, Wylie. I’m just not sure of my footing here. None of us are. That’s why I invited you to visit with us. I want us to get to know each other, so we can feel comfortable sharing such things. Andi and I really want you to be a part of our lives, and vice versa.”

Wait—
he
invited
her
?

Her eyes darted to me, as if seeking my confirmation. I blinked rapidly and nodded, but I knew my expression was betraying me, and I knew she knew as well.

“Well, congratulations, I guess,” she said. “I hope you’ll at least invite me to the wedding.”

“Are you kidding?” said David. “We want you
in
the wedding.”

Where had
that
come from? Not that I wouldn’t want to invite Wylie—but for her to be a part of it? I hadn’t even begun to consider such details for my own family and best friends.

Things were happening way too fast. I couldn’t get the look on Peter’s face as he turned his daughter over to us out of my head, couldn’t stop feeling as if we were doing exactly what Janine threatened us not to do—swooping in and taking over. I couldn’t stop feeling as if this was all
wrong
.

I could barely look at the pita wrap, much less swallow another bite.

The conversation quickly turned casual, peppered with bits of entertainment gossip and stories about Wylie’s high school and David explaining his work to her. They became engrossed in a conversation about painting, especially when David started in on the Impressionists. It was like sitting with
two Red Sox fans talking about the game and not being able to get a word in edgewise. She seemed to be genuinely interested in his explanation of Manet’s color contrast. Or maybe she was already trying to please her father. Either way, I couldn’t hold it against her. David’s passion always lured me into his aura, like a mosquito being lured into an ultraviolet light, and then he’d zap me with his electric smile. Even at that moment, I could feel the pull of his sienna eyes, the music of his voice, the rhythm of his words and his breath, and knew I was already done for. Wylie would be next. It was inevitable. Moreover, having those same eyes, I knew she was capable of doing the same to him.

We got back to the house by late afternoon/early evening, and I realized that I had forgotten to turn my cell phone back on (I always turned it off when we went out to eat). When I did, I found a terse voice mail from my mother. I called her back, and she picked up on the first ring.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

“Where were you?”

“In Amherst with Wylie. She’s staying with us for the weekend.” I was trying to speak nonchalantly, as if this were something we did every Saturday.

“Wylie? The daughter?” my mother asked. “Already? Aren’t you rushing things a bit?”

I dipped into another room, out of earshot from David and Wylie. “It’s what he wants,” I said. “We both do. And they should get to know each other.”

“Are you sure she’s not some golddigger?”

“Mom!”

“Not her personally. I mean maybe her mother is putting her up to it.”

“I’ve met her mother. Trust me, she’s not putting anyone up to anything. And I told you, Wylie just wants to know her real father. I want that for her too. It’s something I never had at her age.”