“Good,” I said. “We should.”
I started up the stairway, trying to look strong and determined, even though my legs were trembling. Yes, the Marches owed me a lot, perhaps more than they could ever repay, but they had given me a great deal, too, and provided for me. I didn’t need to be reminded that I was still technically a foster child, their ward, someone without any of my own family willing to claim me and provide for me. I was, for all practical purposes, an orphan. I didn’t have to hear the threat of their giving up on me. They had almost done that when Kiera had them believing I was responsible for the bad things that were done when she was trying to destroy me. The echo of that threat lingered despite the revelations and my accomplishments. It hung out there like smog. The Marches could give up on me and turn me back to the state until I was eighteen.
It was a topic I was naturally interested in learning more about. At the moment, in America, there were an estimated half a million children in foster care. About half were in nonrelative homes. I was part of that statistic and felt like a second-class citizen even though I lived in a palatial home and had more than most girls from wealthy families had.
Sometimes, when I thought about my status in the world and compared myself with the other girls my age who were at Pacifica, I would think about my real father. My memories of him now were so vague. I had no pictures of him. Mama was so angry at him when he left us desolate that she destroyed any pictures of her and him that there were. There was never a letter from him since Mama’s death. I wondered if he even knew about that. He never tried to contact me. Whenever I thought about him now, I had to rely more on my imagination than my memory.
Before Jordan brought me to the March home, she had a detective search for my father or for information about him. She was the one who had told me he had gone from Hawaii to Australia and had a new daughter. What greater rejection was there for any girl to experience than her father totally ignoring her very existence?
At first, especially when I was much younger, I used to think it was somehow my fault. It wasn’t that I had done terrible things that he couldn’t tolerate or understand; it was that he couldn’t look at me and think of me as his daughter. It was one thing for him to have a love affair with an Asian woman and even marry her. For him, as for so many people, apparently, marriage wasn’t that big a deal anymore. I often heard Jordan say that marriage today is like what young couples in high school and college did when they decided to go steady. For a while, it was hot and heavy, but there was always the expectation of a breakup. A wedding ring had become no more important than a class ring. Divorce, she said, was a new industry.
What I came to believe was that my father couldn’t tolerate my Asian features. I was too different. I would look in the mirror and try to imagine what it was about me that disgusted him. Did he hate my eyes, my hair, the shape of my mouth? What? That was how I thought when I was so much younger. I couldn’t think of any other reason he would be able to pick up and leave me forever without a good-bye or a phone call or a card. It had to have been my fault.
Even so, I couldn’t help imagining him appearing one day. Of course, in my fantasy, he would be as young and as handsome as he had been when my mother first fell in love with him. He would be like someone who had awoken from a long sleep, my own Rip Van Winkle, who realized that he had left his daughter behind when he lost his mind and left us. He would have worked hard at tracking me down, and when he had, he would come here. I would see him drive up an
d see him out there looking up at my room. Somehow he would know exactly where I was in this great mansion. Mrs. Duval would call me down to meet someone, and I would descend the stairs wondering who this handsome person could be.
“Hi,” he would say. “You’re as beautiful as I imagined you would be. I’m so sorry I left you. I made a terrible mistake. I want you back. I know I can’t make up for all the pain, but I want to try. I want to take care of you now. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Of course, I would be hesitant, even a little afraid, but his smile would wash that all away, and I would run to him, eager to have him embrace me. Now I would walk with my father and hold his hand, and I wouldn’t feel that I was less than any other girl. He would tell me wonderful stories about his own youth and his own family.
“You’ll never be an orphan again. You’ll never be anyone’s ward. You’ll never be without family,” he would promise.
Later I would take him to Mama’s grave, and he would kneel in front of her headstone and beg her forgiveness. He would promise her that he would take good care of me, and we would both stand there and cry for her.
How many times I had dreamed this scenario. Right now, feeling more vulnerable than ever, I longed for such a dream to come true. Of course, it never happened. His name was never mentioned, nor was there ever any reference to him and where he was now. I had a father made of smoke. A strong onshore breeze had washed him away.
I snapped out of my reverie and looked at the clock. The time drew closer to when I knew Donald would be arriving home. I tried to occupy myself with my homework but couldn’t concentrate. Every time I heard a footstep or a door slam, I anticipated a knock on my bedroom door. Finally, Mrs. Duval came to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. March wanted to see me in Mr. March’s office. I thanked her, put my books away, glanced at myself in the mirror to fix my hair, and started out.
We hadn’t had one of these meetings in Donald March’s office for a while. Most of the time, I had met just with Jordan in the living room or occasionally, as recently, with only Donald in his office. Our “family” conversations were usually held at the dinner table, but having one among the three of us like this in Donald’s office made it seem much more serious and much more important.
Jordan was sitting on the settee looking meek and small, and Donald was behind his desk looking glum. Because of the long pause when I entered, I thought something even more terrible had occurred. Could it be that Shayne Peters really did have a concussion, perhaps something even worse? Had Ryder been arrested?
“Just sit on the settee,” Donald said, spinning his chair so he could look directly at me.
I sat. Jordan dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. She looked absolutely terrified for me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come to your office today,” I began.
He put his hand up to stop me talking. Then he straightened up in his chair. “That’s hardly important at the moment. We’ve been through quite a great deal together in the short time you have been with us. I suppose it has been like a roller-coaster ride for you, as well as for us. Last night, we were way high up because of your academic achievements, and today we’re way down.”
“Mr. March,” I began, “before you start on what happened at school today, let me explain what . . .” His smile caused me to pause.
“You’re not going to call me Donald anymore?”
Why was that so important right now? I wondered.
“Donald. What I wanted to say was that this whole thing was not Ryder Garfield’s fault.”
“Not his fault? Who hit those boys and sent one to the hospital?”
“They brought it on themselves. They went after him in the hallway first.”
“Why?”
“They have been jealous of Ryder from the moment he entered the school.”
“Jealous? Shayne Peters? He’s the school’s basketball star, isn’t he? His father is a famous attorney, too. Maybe he’s not on Entertainment Tonight, but everyone in this city knows who Austin Peters is. And they’re quite well off financially. Why would Shayne Peters be jealous?”