Even with her voice on a rising scale, I couldn’t understand a word they said. She stopped talking, and in a sudden 180 degree move, he turned around and walked away. Neither J.S. nor I stirred. Then the strangest thing happened. The man’s pace slowed and he turned his head to look squarely at J.S. and my heart stopped. That was the man who had followed me the day I was driving Kassandra’s Kia. The man with the muddy, rusty camper. OMG!!! Breathe Monica, breathe.
J.S. walked over to where I stood petrified. “Ready to go? Did you lock up?” Cool as wet sand at low tide.
I shook my head no. Even with my mouth wide open I couldn’t find a word to say. Finally I gulped air and headed back to the house to get the keys and lock it up. The whole time still searching for a smart question for this suddenly alien, redheaded woman.
We went from camaraderie to awkward in less time than it takes to read the 140 characters of a tweet.
I sat on the passenger seat, stiff as a dried up marshmallow. We didn’t speak until we reached Scottsdale Road. “What was that all about?” I asked with as much assertiveness I could fake.
She let out a long, long sigh, so long and soft it sounded like a mourning cry. And I watched her body relax, a balloon doll after they let the air out. “That — was my father.”
Wham! What was that she said? “Your — fath — father?”
“Estranged father.” Her voice grew stronger. “Haven’t seen him in maybe five, six years.”
“And he knew you worked for R.E. Assist?”
“I didn’t ask, although I doubt it. He was probably looking to break into the van and steal whatever he could grab.”
“Wow. Do you know where he lives?”
She shook her head no.
“I ask because,” I cleared my throat. Mercy this was hard, “Because I think he’s the man who cut me off yesterday, on Camelback Road. I was driving Kassandra’s Kia and, okay, it was partly my fault, anyway he was in a beat up camper, got me all scared. But then he stopped me and simply suggested I pay more attention to my driving, and I can’t say he was totally wrong.”
She didn’t answer, just watched me with a sideways glance.
“What is he doing here? You think he followed us? Oh, no, I mean, where was his camper?”
As I said that, the camper with the rusty bumper crashing the gate yesterday flashed through my mind. And the hair on the back of my neck stood to attention.
“He said he has a job as a groundskeeper. I’ve never known him to tell the truth.” She spoke softly, uncomfortably.
The sight of Mark’s auto repair place made me feel like singing. I thanked J.S. We even hugged briefly and I got out of her van so fast a passerby may have assumed I was escaping a snatching gone wrong.
That creep was her father.
Holly crap! Gave all new meaning to dysfunctional family.
AFTER PAYING FOR my new tire, I drove to the office in a mental fog. And found the parking lot nearly full. What had happened? Did I miss some memo about a party? Realtors hardly ever miss something fun and free. Well at least I wore real business clothes. Bring it on. I made it all the way to the doorstep, had my hand on the door handle when I remembered my cell. Left it on the car seat. Needed the phone. I quickly headed back to my Fiat and saw him.
Max. Standing, no, leaning against my car, waiting. Where did he come from? And the dark cloud I managed to push aside all day crashed on me with all its might. Did he know? How?
We faced each other for an awkward moment. No words, no embraces. Silence.
He spoke first. “Hi, Monica.” The voice of a polite stranger. The unanswered phone calls and messages from him clearly flashing in my mind.
“Well, what a surprise.” I attempted a smile. “When did you get back?”
“What do you care?”
Ouch.
“I’m just here a few days. I sold my karate studio. We are closing the deal tomorrow.”
I opened my mouth to ask how that came to be and stopped. He undoubtedly told me all about it in his messages and tried to reach me many times to tell me personally. Well done, Monica.
His incredible blue eyes looked more doll-like today than ever before because, besides being such an intense color, they were also as cold and unemotional as plastic eyes. I had it coming. From the man who may be the father of my unborn child.
“Came to say goodbye. I’m moving to Colorado. I met someone.” His eyes a mere slit. “She loves me, always answers my calls.” He sneered. “Not that you would care, but I wanted you to hear it from me.”
I was still gulping air and only managed to say, “You’ve always been the better person.”
A smile lit his face, a smile of great satisfaction that meant, “I know.”
He tapped me lightly on the shoulder, moved away from my car, and I watched him get into a bronze-colored Jeep Cherokee with a ski rack on the roof and drive out of the parking lot and out of my life.
I had to sit; my legs felt like twigs in the wind. Winds of change. I hid in my pink car, closed the door, rested my head on the steering wheel and cried. A loud engine snapped me out of my self-pity party. A truck parked next to me. Scott’s truck. Was he already back from the skiing trip? I looked into the rearview mirror and quickly wiped my cheeks with the back of my
