16 Things I Thought were True Part 10

She winces. I press my lips tight, wis.h.i.+ng I had my ChapStick.

He's not my dad. Dad is something you earn. "Well," I say qui- etly, "I didn't find him- not yet. But I can't pretend I don't know his name."

She sighs deeply. "I know."

"Why'd you never tell me before?"

She stares at me and I stare back. And then she pats the bed beside her. I half sit, not wanting to get too close. She reaches for my hand, but I move it away and scratch my head.

"I love you," she says.

I blink back a sudden flood of tears and look away. Now she says it back? I wait, but she doesn't fill the silence. "I know you do. But I still had a right to know. Even if he didn't want me. I had a right to know his name." My toes tingle. I feel it starting there. The anger.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e I focus it toward him. I can hate him with much less guilt because I don't know him. It's harder to aim it at her.

"I can help you with what the insurance doesn't cover," I tell her.

"I have savings."

"Are you crazy?" she asks.

I frown at the intensity in her voice. "Don't get worked up.

It's okay."

"You are not paying for any of this. Your savings are for college.

Do not worry about the insurance. One of my kids needs to go to college. Not that I'm not proud of my boys...but I want you to go. I'll manage. I spoke out of fear before. I thought I might not make it. I didn't want to burden you with bills when I was dead. I certainly won't when I'm alive."

"I can help," I say again.

She blows a feeble raspberry. "No. Absolutely not. The money you made is for your future, working with kids."

The anger in my toes rises a little. She had George to help with some of the boys' things. But there was no help with me. "What's wrong? What's with that face?" my mom asks. "Don't worry, Morgan. I can deal with this. It's going to be okay. It'll all get paid off."

I take a breath. In through my nose. Out of my mouth. She's not perfect, far from it, but she made sure I had everything I needed growing up. Well. Except a father. I stare down at my hands. I did a Google search for Bob White and it brought up a lot of images.

It's embarra.s.sing to not even know him to look at him.

"Bob White is a pretty common name," I say softly.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r She sighs. "I know."

I sit up straighter on her bed. "I don't want to upset you, but I'm going to look for him."

She presses her lips together and stares behind me.

"Mom?"

She doesn't answer.

"Mom?"

A plump tear squeezes out of her eye and rolls down her cheek.

She finally looks at me. "I know. I understand."

My insides ache because I'm adding pain to her recovery. The back of my throat throbs. "I wanted you to know. I don't want to go behind your back. Or hide it. I wanted you to know the truth." Even though she hid it from me for so long. It's the right thing to do.

She stares into s.p.a.ce.

"I need to meet him," I continue. "I'm prepared for him to slam doors in my face. I mean, I know he's never even wanted to meet me. But I have to find him." I don't tell her my fear- that I might be left all alone.

Her face seems to pale even more. She picks at her blanket, looks up at me, but as soon as her eyes meet mine, she looks back down.

She's terrified.

"Mom?"

She picks at the blanket. Her hand shakes. "What's it going to change?" she says softly. I stare at her, but she won't look up.

"Everything," I say, and the resentment in my voice makes it louder than I intend. "Nothing." I want to know who he is. How

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e he lives. Does he have another family? Maybe I have a sister. Other people. Maybe, just maybe, if he meets me, he'll see that I'm not so bad- that I am a good person.

She glances up. "Just be careful what you wish for."

I hear her unsaid words. He's never looked for me. He's never tried to find me. But it's not his choice anymore. And it's not hers either. It's mine. I want to see him in person. I want to know what he looks like- maybe even find out why he left me. I'm ready to handle this like a grown-up, even if the two of them aren't.

"For the record, I don't want you to do this," she says, her voice flat.

I bite my lip to keep myself from backing down, telling her I won't. I inhale deeply and concentrate on breathing in and out.

Neither one of us speaks. The machines in the room whir.

"I'm sorry," she says after another moment of quiet. "I know it's not fair...it's just that..." She stops. Sniffles. Closes her eyes.

"It's okay," I whisper.

"No. It isn't."

I glance toward the door, hearing the boys chattering, their voices getting closer. "Victoria," Mom says softly.

I look back at her, wondering if she's drifted off or if maybe she's hallucinating that she's talking to an old friend or something.

"Mom?" I lean forward and pat her shoulder gently. "It's me, Morgan," I whisper.

"I know that," she says and opens her eyes. "I mean, Victoria, British Columbia. The last I heard, Bob was living in Victoria."

I slowly process that. "You mean in Canada?"

She nods.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r "He's Canadian?" For some reason this strikes me as absurd.

I giggle.

"When we met, he was working in the Seattle office of his company.

He's an engineer. Before you were born, he moved back to Canada."

Of course he did.

G.o.d. This must explain my strange addiction to maple syrup.

"I'll be back in a minute," I manage, and then I rush out of the room. As soon as my toes touch the floor in the hallway, tears burst out of my eyes. The boys are close. Josh is holding a baggie filled with ice chips. My face must look bad, because they both rush to me as I bend over to catch my breath.

"What's wrong?" Jake says and pats on my back. "Is Mom okay?"

I lift my head, unable to speak. It's stupid, but it's the fact that he lives in Canada that slays me. He lives in a different country.

The boys run past me into her room. I start walking. My feet move quickly, until I'm running. Everything I've been holding is fighting to come out. The operation is over. Mom is okay. My dad is alive and his name is Bob White. And the thing that tilts me over the edge is that he doesn't even live in America, that he's Canadian.

And now, I'm a mess.

I jump on the elevator to the main floor, ignoring the smiles of an old man in a hospital gown pus.h.i.+ng around an oxygen tank he's hooked up to. I don't have room in my heart for other people or their troubles. When the elevator door opens, I walk out quickly, avoiding people's eyes until I'm outside the hospital on the sidewalk.

It's dark outside, and I'm surprised the sun is down, though when I think of it, I can't tell when the day started and when it ended. I 66 sixteenthings.indd 66 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e pull my phone from my pocket, turn it on, and walk to the path that leads behind the hospital. My phone beeps in quick succession, letting me know there are new messages. I ignore them and walk to a nearby bench and plunk my b.u.t.t down. My heart beats triple time as I click on the Google icon. I type in Bob White + Victoria BC, take a breath, and press search. The connection is slow.

Finally the search brings up a few links. I scan down. One is a pharmacy website, another advertises a paint shop. I sift through pop- ups and see images of people attached to the name Bob White.

There's an artist, a businessmen, even a politician. I wonder which one of them is dear old Dad. I'm furious I can't tell by looking.

I scroll up and down, clicking on links but nothing jumps out at me, nothing screams, This is your father, Morgan McLean. You've come to the right place. Please call this number to speak with the man who made you.

I'm disappointed. I'm angry. I want to eat carbs. How am I ever going to find him?

I tap my way out of Google, to the Twitter icon, and click on it.

I think about tweeting my dad's name, telling my followers about him- asking for help tracking him down online. But no. I want to do this organically. I don't want anyone or anything to warn him that I'm onto him now. I want to go find him with the element of surprise on my side.

I scroll down, but my heart isn't in any of the things my friends are tweeting. I can't concentrate, and I'm close to typing a tweet to express my distress, something I vowed never to do. My online image is peppy. I don't want to drag people down.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r I click out of Twitter and go to my phone. I stare at Adam's contact number, and then for the first time in my life, initiate a call with a boy. One that has nothing to do with work. Or school.

When Adam's voicemail picks up, I hang up without leaving a message. He has to have caller ID. He'll know it was me. If he wants to call me back, he will.