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And then fear. Fear that I have no clue who this man standing before me is.
He leaves the window and comes toward me, and I immediately shoot out of my chair, screaming. “Don’t you dare come near me, you crazy lying son of a bitch!” I grab the back of the chair, the only barrier between me and him, as my eyes dart around for a weapon.
He puts up both hands in a reconciliatory gesture, his face a mask of calm. “I understand how betrayed—”
“Betrayed? Betrayed!” I scream, tears gathering and falling in swift rivulets.
“—you must feel.” He continues in that chilling tone as if I hadn’t spoken. “But I promise you, there is a very good reason why it had to happen that way. I’ll explain just as soon as you calm down.”
Calm down? Is he for real?
“The fact I’m not trying to get your skin under my nails right now should inform you how calm I am!” I yell, my hands shaking. “So don’t fucking push me, you fucking bastard.”
“Adele, I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
I try to force my voice to a lower octave, but it doesn’t work. “Fine. Answer me one thing then. What the hell was I doing in Chicago the night I was shot?”
My dad returns to the window, and I breathe a little easier with the length of the room between us again. Still leveling those cold eyes on me, he says, “You were born and raised in Chicago.”
That knocks the breath right out of me. My legs feel weak, and I grip the chair tighter to stay upright. “But my birth certificate states that I was born in Boston.”
His slow head shake confirms my worst fears.
“Does my original birth certificate bear another name?” My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.
He remains silent for the longest time, his gaze fixed on some point in the distance. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. “Adele, just know that you’re not safe out there. And you shouldn’t ever go back to Chicago. Move back in with me. Please.”
Suddenly, it’s too much to take in. The room seems to spin around me, and I feel like I might be sick again.
“Move in with you? Are you fucking insane? I don’t even know who the fuck you are anymore, Benjamin.” I spit his name at him and get a flash of satisfaction when he flinches. But I need more than that. I need to hurt him.
“What? You’re shocked you don’t get to be called ‘daddy’ anymore?” I wag my index finger, my whole arm trembling. “Ah-ah. Fuck that. You’re not my father. You’re the coward who’s lied to me all my life. For all I know, you could even be the deranged psycho who killed my mother and stole me.”
I see a crack in his composure as a sheen of tears turns his hazel eyes glassy. But instead of sick satisfaction, I only feel . . . guilty. I’ve never ever seen him cry before. But he’s lied to me all my life, first about who he was, and now, this. The liar even went as far as creating elaborate fake identities of his wife and children just to deceive me.
So, I steel myself against softening toward him and turn my back to him, my entire body trembling. The buzzing in my ear has become a full-blown screeching of nails on a chalkboard.
“I need to get out of here,” I whisper.
“Adele, please. There’s much more I need to tell you.” His voice cracks, a desperate edge creeping in.
“I’ve heard enough!” I yell even as my heart pounds with the need to run. “I can’t take any more of this twisted, fucked up life.”
As I walk out of the study, I see Ida. Tears are running down her cheeks, carving paths through her makeup. She was obviously eavesdropping. She looks distraught. But rather than being shocked, she looks angry.
Angry at me.
I can tell straight away that Ida knows everything and that she’s on Benjamin’s side. She has always been on Benjamin’s side. My favorite book in middle school flashes before me, a ratty, dogeared copy of George Orwell’s Animal Farm.
Ms. Ida isn’t just our housekeeper. She’s Napoleon’s Squealer, a tool of manipulation and mental shackling.
Suddenly desperate to escape the tangled web of lies, I turn and hurry down the hall, my footsteps echoing loudly in the silent house
“Ungrateful lass, ye are,” she calls after me. The hard edge and assertiveness in her voice stops me in my tracks. Ms. Ida has never spoken to me like that.
Ida continues in her thick Irish brogue, each word hitting me like a physical blow. “For de last eighteen years, we have lived for not’ing except to protect ye, Adele. Ye owe yer life to dat man in dere, and ye should show him more respect, if not gratitude.”
The door opens and my father’s voice floats to me, calm and controlled once more. “Let her go, Ida. It was never going to be easy to break the news, so it’s only fair that we give her some space to process it.”
