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“This morning I got winded putting on my sandals.”
Dad pulls back his head to look at me, his crooked smile small but present. “Yeah, I remember your mom going through that like it was yesterday.”
Proceed with caution, I tell myself because never, and I mean never, has my father spoken about my mother outside of the occasional fact.
I swallow my nerves and try to nudge him. “Yeah?”
“She was just as beautiful as you, bun. She glowed when she was pregnant. Went through the ringer with symptoms, especially with the boys,” he says fondly and my pulse picks up its pace. Maybe if I pay closer attention, I’ll be able to brand this moment as a core memory. I can sense Rafael’s stillness on my other side, like he, too, is afraid to make a move so as to not scare off these rare glimpses into my mom’s life.
“Did she have any cravings?” I ask gingerly, desperate for any scrap of her.
“You know, now that you say it, I do remember her eating a lot of grapefruit. And nothing was spicy enough for her.”
“Really?” I interject. “Me too! Well, not about the grapefruit, but the spicy food, yeah.”
“I guess that makes sense; you two share so much as it is.” His expression turns unreadable for a moment as his focus shifts elsewhere and then he clears his throat. “I’m not sure you know this, but twins actually run in your mom’s family.”
“What? Really? I thought I was an outlier.”
“No. Um,” he says, then grabs his beer bottle and sits on the edge of the couch with his legs spread and elbows on his knees. “Your mom’s mom, Grandma Dabrowski, was a twin.”
“I didn’t know that,” I whisper. I knew my grandma had a sister in Poland, but I didn’t know she was her twin.
“And,” he pauses. “Your mom was actually pregnant with twins when…she was…killed in the car accident.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I would ask him how am I just hearing about this, but he’s never uttered a word about my mom or her family since she’s been gone.
The label on his full beer bottle is slowly and methodically being pulled away when he speaks again, not looking at me. “She was only twelve weeks along. We had just found out we were having two, and we weren’t expecting any—they were a surprise, but a welcome one.” I’m fascinated and in shock. His eyes slam shut and he shakes his head. “How Ivy survived that accident is a miracle.”
I’ve always thought that too, and it’s no wonder everyone else in the family babies her. I’ve also put myself in my dad’s shoes more times than I can count, thinking what he must have gone through losing his wife in a horrible car accident and almost losing his youngest child—and I sympathize with him because it’s impossible not to. But knowing he’s been holding on to this extra loss the whole time brings renewed grief, understanding, and sorrow along with it.
“Why didn’t you tell me until now?” I choke out, tears springing.
“I was never planning on telling you, truth be told. But I’ve been seeing a therapist for the last six months, and I realized there’s a lot of things I need to come clean about and make right with you kids.”
“Dad,” I say, my voice pitchy and small.
“I know,” he nods then finally looks at me, a single tear threatening to escape. “I should have gone a long time ago. I’m sorry I didn’t. I wasn’t the father you kids needed me to be, but I hope there’s still time to be.”
“There is,” I cry, then throw myself into him as we wrap our arms around one another. “I’m so proud of you, Dad. I hoped someday you would get here, but I never thought it would come.”
“Thank you, bunny. Thank you for waiting.” When we pull away, each of us wiping at the remnants of tears, he says, “There will probably be a lot more apologizing in the future, so get ready.”
“Will I also get more stories about Mom?” I ask hesitantly.
“I’d love to share them. Would you like her journals?”
“She had journals?” I exclaim.
Chapter 22
August 30th
Angie
Ididn’t think it was possible, but something other than my raging libido has taken up every inch of my brain this week. The journals my mom kept have been the only thing I’ve cared about, analyzed, and sobbed over. She kept one journal for each of her pregnancies up until each child turned one. Including the two blank journals she never had the chance to fill in.
“What did Isaiah and Dane say when you gave them theirs?” my sister Ivy says over a video call, the sunshine still vibrant in her small shared apartment in the background compared to the setting sun outside my window. Even though I know she’s tired, she still looks beautiful in her sundress. Guatemala looks good on her—still doesn’t ease my worry for her safety in another country without any family around.
