Page 135 of Gilt

Even though I don’t want to celebrate with other people, I pluck a Hostess cupcake out of my bag. This had been a tradition of mine and Becca’s since we were kids. The other would stash the individually wrapped treat when dad remembered to get groceries, then present it like the holy grail. It was our job to remember each other’s birthdays. Too many times to count, that one tiny snack cake had been our official birthday cake. As we got older, Marion took charge, picking up a small sheet cake from the grocery store and having our names put on it. But we’d kept this tradition alive quietly. It was a signal that we had each other, and that no matter how bad our family might get, we’d never lose that.

Now it’s my job to remember for the both of us. I unwrap it, but I can’t bring myself to eat a bite. Behind me footsteps crunch along the dry, sun-burnt grass, and I turn. The appearance of my dad at my sister’s grave shouldn’t be a shock, but as far as I know, he’s never actually been here before.

“Hey, Pumpkin. I thought I might find you here.” He nods to the cupcake. “Do you want me to sing you Happy Birthday?”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. When I had said our birthdays were often forgotten, I should have clarified that it was mom who remembered when someone bothered. Dad? He was always a few days late. His apologies generally came with something gift wrapped from behind the counter at Pawnography.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks.

I shrug, afraid to betray any more emotions.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He groans as he settles onto the ground beside me.

“You can have it.” I offer the cupcake to him.

“It’s your birthday, kiddo. I can’t believe you’re 18.”

He remembered my birthday, and he even got the year right. Color me plum surprised. I force myself to turn and look at him. By all accounts, he’s been a lackluster father. His greatest accomplishment has been keeping a roof over our heads, which given the nature of Las Vegas and Belle Mère was actually something to brag about with his gambling addictions.

“You know, you could come home with me,” he offers. “Your mom says you’ve been staying with Josie.”

“You’ve been talking to mom, huh?” I wonder what else she’s told him.

“I know about the divorce,” he says, reading my mind.

“You can have the money,” I say flatly. “Use it to expand the store or something.”

“I don’t want the money. I want you to be happy. Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Our eyes meet. I know what he’s asking me now. It isn’t like my mother to walk away from a cushy situation, especially given that Hans spent most of his time in Los Angeles, giving her free run of her own private Palm Springs resort. He suspects there’s more to the story.

We stare each other down, but he doesn’t push me for the information. I’m more surprised because, although he’s the one seeking answers, I’m the one who finds them.

“We have the same eyes,” I say softly.

“Yep. You got that from me, kiddo.” He looks away then, as if the reality of what we’re saying is too painful to face.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Becca?” I ask him in a low voice as if she might be able to hear us talking about her.

“You two were young.” His voice grows distant as he remembers. “I told myself that I would tell you when you were older, when you could understand.”

“What did mom tell herself?”

“She didn’t want to say anything. She said it wasn’t important.”

“It was important enough to sue Nathaniel West over,” I choke out.

“People do stupid things when they’re hurt, Em. You know that better than anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean I understand it,” I say softly.

“You want the real answer? I guess I never told you because admitting it to you two meant admitting it to myself. When the lawyers finished fighting over the details, they sealed the records. We signed affidavits. At first it was easy to convince myself not to tell because I couldn’t legally, and then it was easier to ignore it. But, you know, I realized something? Maybe a bit too late, but I realized it nonetheless. It never really mattered. Becca was my daughter, your sister. She carried my name, even if she didn’t have my eyes.”

“Sometimes I feel like I didn’t know her at all,” I admit to him.

“You knew her better than anyone.” I want to tell him this isn’t true, that it couldn’t be. I want to spill the secrets she kept.

“There are things that I’m finding out about her now,” I begin.

“You know the funny thing about lies?” Dad interrupts. “Sometimes we don’t mean to lie to other people. Sometimes we’re too busy lying to ourselves. Then, when we realize it, we feel guilty like we’ve pulled one over on them. Truth is, the people close to you, the people you love, they always see through it. They see you better than you see yourself. You saw Becca, just by loving her. I know what it’s like to find something out, and to think it means a person’s been taken away from you, but she wasn’t taken away from you. She’s right here.” He doesn’t point to her gravestone. Instead, he points directly at my chest. “She’s here with both of us right now. Can’t you feel her?”