Work Text:
I
I never quite know how to talk about it. Ruth happily proclaims herself "the poster child for the non-traditional family," but she has more reason than most to distrust the traditional version.
Ruth also proudly calls me her sister; she started that even before my biological father and her adopted one said their vows that sunny October afternoon, almost twenty years ago. I remember our trip down the Grand Canyon: "I'm Ruth, and these are my sisters, Sarah and Billie." I remember thinking, with all the rabid sense of injustice an 11 year old can muster, that neither one of us were her sisters, me least of all. I almost said something, but Sarah gave me a look, and I held my tongue, for that day, anyway.
I learned pretty quickly that, biology aside, Sarah and Ruth really were sisters. There was a bond between them and Tim that was as strong as the bond between my father and his lover; at times I thought, with envy, that it was stronger than any connection I had with anyone, especially my own mother. I didn't understand where that bond came from, or the fierce protectiveness that went along with it, in part because of the way all four of my parents tried to protect me.
I always knew I had another parent out there, my mythical real father. I didn't meet him until I was five, didn't find out who he was until I was six, but I knew the story--I was two years old when my mom met Evan. I can't remember that life, before Evan married my mother, but I always knew about it. Evan was Evan, had been since the day I met him; I never quite decided if it was to his credit or detriment that he never once presumed to call himself my father, even though Mom would refer to me as "our daughter" fairly frequently.
I don't remember meeting Evan, but I do remember when I met Billy Tallent, Joe Dick, and the strange personage I thought of as Mr. Sandwich Man, which is, after all, no more bizarre a name than Pipefitter.
For some reason, my mother made me take a nap that afternoon, which I protested to no avail. I had a hard time falling asleep; I could tell she was excited and nervous about something, and she said there'd be a surprise later on. Evan frowned whenever she talked about it, took her aside and mentioned a babysitter, but she insisted that I should go with them to the concert.
I don't know if he knew which one of them it was, but he had to have figured out why she was so insistent on bringing me along, had to know that his wife was a former groupie, and we were going to see my father perform. He didn't like the kind of music my mother listened to, and he'd stayed home with me in the past when she went to clubs, but this time he didn't try to argue, especially once he saw she was bound and determined to take her five year old daughter to a late night punk rock show, complete with cursing, spitting, and a 2 am backstage visit. He may not have claimed the title, but he walked the walk, and he was going along to protect me as best he could from whatever weird stuff my mom got us into.
Joe and Pipe both scared me, but my father didn't, despite the cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth and the strong smell of beer. Even if there'd been nothing more to the evening, no future events to put it into sharp relief, I could never forget that night. I was beyond tired, and completely overwhelmed, but the man I didn't know was my father, the man with the same name as mine, was kind to me, before either one of us knew we were related. I never forgot that.
I don't remember much about the year that followed, just my mother's shocked tears when she heard about Joe, and the near-constant tension between her and Evan. I was interviewed a couple times by social workers, but they kept as much from me as they could. I listened in around corners, though, or pretended to be asleep or engrossed in the television. I didn't understand what I heard--I don't think I realized my real father was involved until my mother came home one afternoon, crying, and told me I'd be seeing him the next day.
He told me later how scared he was that day, how worried that he'd done the wrong thing after all. He did a good job of hiding his fear, though--he's always been a consummate performer, on and off the stage.
As I got to know him better, and as I grew up a little, I learned to read between the lines, see what was going on behind the masks he could put on so effortlessly. That's how I knew something was wrong during the long months Tim Bayliss was undercover. Of course, I didn't have a clue what it was, even when Dad called that October night from a hospital in Arizona to tell me and my mom that he was staying there for awhile, because a friend of his had a broken leg and needed his help.
I did some more listening around corners in the next few weeks, enough to figure out that there was something strange going on with my father and this friend of his. My mother refused to answer my rather innocent questions, but Evan took me aside one afternoon and explained, in simple terms, what bisexual meant, that he and my mother thought my father was attracted to men, and that he might feel more than friendship for this mystery FBI agent in Phoenix. So my dad liked another guy--no big deal. I'd had dinner with him, Kat, and Chelle often enough that the idea of same sex partnerships didn't shock me, even if my mother thought it should. I was much more excited by the idea of going to the exotic locale of Arizona than I was by my dad being with another man.
When my mother found out about my conversation with Evan, she was furious. She almost didn't take me down there for the visit we had planned. Evan must have said something to convince her, though, because we did go--she even took me out of school for a few days. I had to write a report on Arizona, on what I saw there, but that was no hardship. Mom flew down there with me, but she wanted even less to do with Dad than usual. She was polite enough, I suppose, but she spent as little time in the hospital as possible.
She's never been willing to talk about her irrational jealousy of Tim, her denial of my father's bisexuality. I know she felt she loved him as much or more than she ever loved Evan, and I don't think she ever got over the fact that Bill Boisy had exactly two great loves in his life, and she wasn't one of them.
That bothered me for awhile. I think it would have bothered me more if I hadn't loved Evan so much, or if I had any reason at all to suspect my father didn't love me with all his heart, which I never really did, even at the height of my jealousy of Tim, Sarah, and Ruth. I had occasional fantasies of both my biological parents living with me, but it got confusing trying to figure out where Evan would fit in, and when Tim and his girls joined the mix, it got even more confusing.
I had a conversation with my father a year or so after he married Tim. I'd figured out by then that I wasn't ever going to get any answers from Mom, and I knew, even though he would tell me whatever he could, that bringing it up with Evan would only hurt him. I also knew that if my father were willing to answer, he'd answer truthfully. So during a visit for American Thanksgiving, while Ruth, Sarah, and Tim were busy in the kitchen, I cornered him.
"Can I ask you something, Dad?"
"You can ask me anything, lovebug; you know that."
"What was it like with you and Mom?"
He hesitated for a minute, frowning. "I'm not sure what you're asking there--you mean, what was our relationship like, or what?"
"Yeah. I mean, how long were you together?"
He looked at me. "This is pretty personal stuff, Billie. I don't mind talking about it, exactly, but I'm not sure it's fair to your mom."
I told myself I didn't care if it was fair to her, I just wanted to know the truth. "I already know she was your groupie, Dad, jeez. I just want to know--was it just a one night stand?" I knew it wasn't, but I figured that was a good place to start, to get him to open up.
He looked at me hard for a few seconds, then sighed. "No, we were together for awhile. A couple months--she came along on our last tour."
"Why'd you break up? Is that why you moved to California, because of something with Mom?"
He looked surprised by the idea, which surprised me in turn. "Your mom had nothing to do with me leaving. Shit, if I'd known she was pregnant--" he broke off, frowning again. "No, I still would've left, I think," he admitted reluctantly.
"Why?" I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice, and he moved closer, put his arm around me and squeezed.
"Billie--" he said, then started again. "Sweetie, I was really fucked up. Your mom--she was sweet, and I liked her a lot, but I--" he looked me in the eye, and I could tell he was trying to figure out how to say whatever he needed to. I said it for him, feeling very sad.
"You never loved her, did you?"
"No," he said gently. "I was in love with someone else."
"You were? With who?" Later, I was amazed at how clueless I was. It should have been obvious, but I was still hung up on the idea that my mother had been someone special to my father.
"Joe. I was in love with Joe, Billie."
"Oh." I pulled away a little and processed that for a minute. Somehow, knowing he was in love with someone else helped--that's why he couldn't love her, because his heart was already spoken for, I thought romantically--although it also hurt. "Did Mom know?"
"I think she could have, if she'd let herself." Even at thirteen, I saw the truth in that. My mother was very good at hiding things from herself.
"So even then, you--"
"Even then," he said, his arm still around me, pulling me closer again, giving me another squeeze.
"When did you first know?"
"That I was bisexual?" I nodded, relieved he'd understood the question immediately, with no need for me to explain. "I think I always knew. I mean, I always knew I was attracted to both men and women. But when it comes to something deeper than just the physical, there've just been two people--Joe, and Tim. I'm sorry I didn't have that with your mom, kiddo."
"Me too," I answered sadly. "She loved you, you know." For a moment I panicked, wondering if my father were incapable of loving women, of loving girls, but then I looked around the house he shared with Tim, but also with Ruth and Sarah. Ruth's poetry was on the fridge, and Sarah's cooking filled it up. There were about ten pictures of me on the fridge as well, and more scattered throughout the house. I looked at the one right in front of me on the coffee table, of me and my dad by the creek, and I breathed easier. Just because he didn't love my mom didn't mean he didn't love me. I knew he loved me.
"Yeah, I know she loved me," Dad said softly, interrupting my reverie. "I'm sorry I was so shitty to her, but I think it worked out for the best, don't you? Evan seems like a great guy."
"He is," I said vehemently. Then something else occurred to me. "So why did you leave?"
"Fight with Joe," he answered simply, but I could tell there was more to it than that. I could also tell he wasn't going to elaborate, that this wasn't something he was willing to talk about, so I let it go and pursued another line of questioning.
"What about Tim?" I asked.
"What about him?"
"When did he know?"
"Uh, depending on how you define know--well, a lot later than me, anyway."
"Not until he met you?"
He laughed. "No, not quite that late. He was 36, I think."
"He was still a cop then, right?"
"That's right."
"I guess that must have been rough."
"Yeah, I think it was. You might want to ask him about it sometime, if you're curious."
"He wouldn't mind?"
"No, I'm sure he wouldn't."
I never did ask him, though. Tim was about as willing to talk about his days as a cop as Dad was about his days with Joe--they'd tell stories, usually to illustrate some parental point, but that was as far as it went. Every once in awhile, they'd let loose with something a little more intense, but it was very rare. Sarah, Ruth, and I had quite a few late-night conversations over the years, wondering what really went on in these men's lives before we knew them. Eventually, we stopped talking about it as obsessively, but I know we never stopped wondering.
II
My mother was uncomfortable with my father's new relationship, in denial about her past with him, but she was legally bound to the visitation schedule. Evan told me once, years later, that the court probably would have awarded custody to my father if he'd really pushed, and if he'd been willing to move back to Canada--Evan and my mother would have been the ones with visitation privileges, thanks to my mother's dishonest and irresponsible behavior. While she never would have admitted it, some part of her realized how close she came to losing custody, so for all her protests, there was never any real question that we'd be going to Arizona when Tim was in the hospital that fall.
My father was different; I noticed it right away. The open affection he'd always shown only me was now being bestowed on another. No longer was I the only one who received the great benediction of his hugs, his special smiles, his protection and solicitude. And since I'd always wished for his happiness, I was glad to see it, at least at first. Tim was sweet; he was bed-bound, helpless and non-threatening, and he shared something with me that no one else ever had--he saw the man my father really was, saw him and loved him. My mother loved Billy Tallent, or thought she did, but I knew and loved the man that Tim knew and loved--Bill Boisy.
I couldn't articulate any of this at the time, or course. I just saw my dad hanging out with someone who loved him. I saw he was happy, and I was tickled pink. I had a great time hanging out in that fishbowl hospital room for a week, charming the nurses and the FBI agents with the Boisy smile I used almost as effectively as my father did. When Dad answered yes to my question about Tim moving to California, when I saw the joy on both their faces, I was thrilled.
I didn't know what had happened. I didn't know anything--didn't even know my father had gotten hurt as well. I'd never been in a hospital before, so I had no idea that there weren't always FBI agents in the hallways. No one told me anything, and I didn't know to ask, not then.
Christmas is when I first realized how different things were. I flew to California, and once there, I met Sarah and Ruth for the first time. Two years before, the last time I'd been with him over the holidays, Christmas had been wonderful, completely different from any of the Christmases I spent with my mother and Evan--just me and Dad, a ton of cool presents, meals out in Beverly Hills, and Christmas dinner with three out of the four members of the hottest rock band in the country. Half my fourth grade class hung on my every word when I got back--the other half, I told myself, were just jealous.
Two years later, when my father picked me up at the airport the year Tim got out of the hospital, he wasn't alone. There were two strangers with him--Sarah, three years older than me, and Ruth, three years younger. They were shy and uncertain, and I didn't know why they were there. We went home, and we had to be quiet, because Tim was asleep, and Dad was worried about waking him. It was still a great Christmas, and I had fun making cookies with Sarah and being hero worshiped by Ruth, but it wasn't what I was expecting, and I was a little disappointed, a little confused. Whether in Regina or in LA, I had always been the only child, the center of attention, and I liked that attention--who wouldn't? Having the focus shift to Tim, Ruth, and Sarah was difficult.
I coped pretty well until the following spring, when my father told me he and Tim were hoping Sarah and Ruth would come to live with them, full time; Tim was trying to adopt them. That's when I first realized all the implications of my father's happiness. That was the first time I feared being replaced. I could deal with Tim being in my father's life, or at least I thought I could, but I was not prepared to share my father with two other girls.
My jealousy grew when I found out about the wedding. All of a sudden my father, who'd had me as his only family for years, didn't need me anymore, or so it seemed. He had two new daughters and a spouse, and where did that leave me? He tried to reassure me, and I tried to believe him, but that summer, the last he spent in the house he once told me he'd bought for me, was a difficult one for all of us. I certainly didn't make it any easier.
There were some good times that year, too, the highlight being the two week trip down the Colorado. Sarah and Ruth came out of their respective shells some, for one thing, so I got to know them a little better. Spending two weeks sharing a tent with the two of them also made it clear their lives were far from the perfection I imagined and envied--Ruth, in particular, had nightmares practically every night, nightmares she and Sarah simply dealt with like they were perfectly normal. She wouldn't tell me about them--neither one of them would talk about anything prior to meeting me, which I resented at the time, not knowing they were just trying to protect me. Knowing about the nightmares still made a difference, though, made them more human, somehow.
Then came the first real turning point in my relationship with my new family--the rehearsal dinner, when Gordon and Danny, two young men I barely knew, were brutally killed. Sarah, Ruth, and Tim were devastated. I was confused and scared--up to that point, I hadn't realized there was any real danger to me or my father. He sheltered me from the bomb with his own body, but no one could protect me from the truth about Church Canyon, not anymore.
It didn't matter anymore that no one had ever told me exactly what happened in that horrible town, the town Sarah and Ruth escaped, the town where they tried to kill Tim and my father. I saw, finally, a little bit of what had been going on over the past year, understood why there had been FBI agents at the hospital, why my father had installed a new security system at the LA house, why he and Tim would sometimes get squirrely in public places, why they'd insist on me walking between them.
That hard lesson was reinforced at the wedding, when another Church Canyon cultist went after Tim, nearly killing my father and three police officers in the process. I watched, horrified, as my father fell to the ground, bleeding. I saw Tim coolly take out his gun and shoot. I saw how my father looked for me, looked to make sure I was all right, before he let anyone take care of him.
I asked Sarah that night about the woman Tim shot down out of that tree, and she told me a little bit about her life as a child, about how she and Ruth were raised. I could tell she was still holding back, trying not to frighten me, and I appreciated the kindness at the same time as I was consumed by curiosity. My dad and Tim stayed in Arizona an extra day, and I kept staring at the sling on my father's arm, wishing Tim had killed this Jessica psycho instead of just wounding her. I resented Tim for putting my father at risk at the same time I appreciated him keeping Dad safe.
When I left for Regina, I was confused and frustrated, not knowing what to think. I had warmed to my adopted step-sisters, but I was still bothered by their closeness with my father, still jealous of their and Tim's place in his heart, even though I understood a little better why they were so close. Part of me blamed them, along with Tim, for the danger they brought to his, to our, lives. Part of me still wished Dad had never met Tim. Wished I alone could make him as happy as he was now that these other people were in his life.
I spent Christmas 2003 at home in Regina; my father and his new family went to Baltimore to see Tim's cousin. Dad was worried about the trip, but I didn't know why--I'd never seen the famous Tim Russert interview, and I certainly didn’t know why holidays were so difficult for Tim, and no one had any plans to tell me. I thought I knew a lot about the more recent past, but I was wrong. My mother would have been horrified at how much I knew; I was horrified to discover how ignorant I really was.
I flew down to Flagstaff over New Years; it was the first time I'd been there since the wedding. The atmosphere in the new house was different than it had been the previous fall--it no longer felt like a new house, for one thing. It was a home--home for a family of which I was only a peripheral member. There was a separate room for me, just as there had been in California, but this was Tim, Dad, Sarah, and Ruth's home, built and designed for them, with an elevator and meditation room, a huge kitchen with every bell and whistle imaginable, and a brand new telescope on the deck.
My jealousy came back with a vengeance. I acted like a total brat, whining and complaining about every little thing, demanding my father's undivided attention, barely speaking to the rest of the family. Tim and Sarah wisely left me alone, but Ruth was heartbroken, kept following me, asking me to play with her, to go on hikes or watch tv or play computer games. I kept turning her down, even though I could tell Dad was nearing the end of his patience.
Finally, one afternoon, he knocked on my bedroom door and asked to come in. I knew I was in trouble, but I couldn't help feeling triumphant as well, like I'd won something. One look at his face disabused me of that notion.
"Do you have any idea how little I like you right now?" he asked me, and my face fell. "Jesus, Billie--I love you, you know that, but right now I'm so angry at you--" he stopped, then pulled me into a hug as I started to cry.
"Lovebug, I know this has been hard on you," he said, more calmly. "I know there have been a lot of changes, and you probably feel left out. But Billie, everyone in this house loves you, and right now they're the ones feeling left out, because you're not letting anyone but me anywhere near you. Do you know that Ruth's been crying in her room every day since you've been here? Tim and Sarah and I have all tried to help her understand why you've been acting the way you have, but it hasn't been helping."
"I'm sorry, Dad."
"Are you? Are you really?"
I just looked at him, and he sighed, told me he wanted me to think about things for awhile, gave me another hug, and left the room.
An hour later, I came out of my self-imposed exile and knocked on Ruth's door. It was more because I couldn't stand to have my father angry with me than any real desire to hang out with Ruth, but she didn't know that. She was almost pathetically eager to forgive me, and before I knew it we were perched on the couch watching Mighty Mouse tapes. And a little while later, I remembered that I actually did enjoy her company, was capable of having fun with her and Sarah. I still felt a little like a martyr--look what I'm doing for you, Dad!--but I was doing a pretty good job of hiding it, I thought. Looking back, I'm pretty sure Tim and Dad saw right through my act, and maybe Sarah as well, but since Ruth was so happy, everyone else let it slide.
The next day, the day before I was supposed to go back home, Ruth, Sarah, and I were playing in the snow outside. They didn't have much experience with snow--Sarah told me they rarely got more than a dusting in the high desert where they grew up, and this was their first winter in Flagstaff, so they were still completely thrilled every time they got a new snowfall. That notion blew my mind more than less mundane ones about their earlier lives ever had. My immediate reaction was to suggest we build some snow forts. I managed to make a large number of snowballs on the side, while the two of them were still figuring out how to work with the white stuff. As they were triumphantly building up their walls, I snuck up behind them and started pummeling, laughing gleefully at their shrieks.
I was still laughing, still throwing hard, when I realized the cries coming from Ruth were screams of terror, not delight; that she was curled up in a ball, hands covering her head, shaking with sobs, and that Sarah was standing stock still, white as the snow. I dropped the snowball in my hand and stared at the two of them, wondering what could possibly have happened now. A second later and Sarah was on the ground with her sister, her arms around Ruth, trying to comfort her, but crying too hard herself to do much good.
I didn't know what to do--didn't think there was anything I could do--so I went inside and got my father. He took one look at my face, ran out, brought the two girls in, got their coats and boots off and got them seated on the couch, yelling for Tim. Tim came up from the pool, dripping wet, and asked me what happened. I told him, or tried to--by this point I was crying, too, and he was the one who noticed that, who put one long, damp arm around my snow-covered coat and hung on, telling me it was all right, that everything was going to be all right.
Tim looked after me--got my coat and boots off, had me follow him into their bedroom, sat me down on their bed while he went into the bathroom and changed out of his bathing suit. He sat down next to me, put his arm around me again, and told me exactly how he'd broken his leg. In a quiet, determined, loving voice, he told me how the elders of Church Canyon tried to kill him and my father by throwing rocks at them. Then, in the same quiet voice, he explained that Ruth's mother had been killed the same way.
I'd recently read Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" in school, and I was utterly horrified to hear that something like that could actually happen. There was no denying it, though; I could read the truth of it in Tim's worried brown eyes. I started crying all over again, and Tim comforted me, as my father comforted Tim's daughters down the hall.
As soon as everyone calmed down a little, I apologized to Ruth and Sarah, and the five of us shared stories, hugs, and tears. I'd be lying if I said I was never jealous of their bond with my father again, but I understood it a little better. In fact, I realized that night that, whether I'd wanted to or not, I'd developed a strong relationship with Tim, that I trusted him, that I loved him, and not just because he made my father happy. He'd become another piece in the patchwork that made up my family, as had his daughters. I'd become a member of his family the day he met me, whether I'd known it or not.
I thought, that night, that I finally knew the whole story. Ridiculous, of course. Even now, twenty years later, I'm not sure what secrets are still being kept. I know about Tim's uncle and about what happened to Sarah. I know Joe Dick did something unforgivable to my father, years before he shot himself, but I only suspect what it actually was. I've heard about some of the cases Tim worked on when he was a cop, but I don't know why he quit when he did--I doubt even his daughters know the whole story on that one, although I'm sure my father does. I'm sure he knows all of Tim's secrets, just as Tim knows all of his. All three of their daughters have had occasion to be jealous of the bond between these two men, have wondered if we'd ever find anything close to it with another person. To us, at times, they can seem a little closed off, a bit too tightly bound to each other to let anyone else all the way in, much as they love us.
Evan, on the other hand, was always an open book. He seemed to have no secrets beyond the question of what he ever saw in my mother, or how he managed to stay with her, with us. My relationship with Evan was the easiest, the simplest of all my parental attachments. It wasn't that we never had any disagreements--I fought with him more, growing up, than I ever did with my mother--but there wasn't anything hidden, and there was never any doubt that family, meaning me (only me, and, to a lesser extent, my mother), came first. Evan, more than anyone else, fulfilled the role of a parent, plain and simple. I never called him my father, but that's what he was.
III
Growing up in Regina as the illegitimate daughter of Billy Tallent wasn't easy. Once I started visiting my dad in Los Angeles, everything changed. I was gone during the summers, and I came home tanned, with expensive clothes and toys and stories of playing soccer with movie stars' children. I bragged incessantly at first, but once the novelty had worn off, my friends accused me of being a stuck-up bitch. Once I grew up a little, I realized they had a point. By the time I hit adolescence, I refused to talk about my other life with anyone but the closest of friends, and I reveled in the ignorance of strangers. It made me sad, sometimes, that I couldn't talk about my unique other family, to whom I'd grown so close, but it was better than inviting ridicule, so I kept quiet.
I was in the foodcourt at the mall one day in high school, hanging out with Ian Gaudreault. His family'd just moved to Regina from Toronto, so, unlike almost everyone else, he hadn't known me my whole life. We were just getting to know each other, finding out about likes and dislikes in school, movies, music, television. He didn't know who I was, and that was really cool. And I had a serious crush on him, and was beginning to think my feelings might be returned. So I was a little annoyed when my cell phone rang and I saw it was my dad.
"Hi, Dad."
"Hey, lovebug, how's it going?"
"Fine, just hanging out with some friends, so can't really talk." I smirked at Ian, and he smirked back.
"Listen, I need to tell you about something that's going on down here."
"Is everyone all right?" I asked, turning away from Ian a little, cupping my hand to my ear so I could hear him better, suddenly concerned. Because lord knows my father and his family were always magnets for trouble.
"Everyone's fine; it's not that. It's about Sarah."
"She's fine, but something’s obviously still wrong. Spit it out, Dad; you’re scaring me," I said, worry sharpening my voice.
He sighed. "Her father's being paroled next week--we just found out about it."
"Her father?" I asked blankly, confused. "Wait--you mean her real father, from the Canyon?"
"Yeah."
"I thought all those people got life, or at least more than ten years. Jeez, Dad, it's only been, what, three or four years?"
"They didn't have a lot on him, and he plea bargained, and then he made a good fucking impression on the fucking parole board or something, Billie, I don’t know," he answered, clearly just as frustrated by the vagaries of the US legal system as I was. "The point is, he's getting out, and he wants to see Sarah, and she's trying to decide how she feels about that."
"But he gave up his parental rights, didn't he? Wasn't that how you guys got to adopt her and Ruth in the first place?"
"That’s right, but she's nineteen now, and Tim--we thought it should be her decision whether to see him or not."
"In other words, Tim thought it should be her decision, and you caved."
"That's not fucking fair, Billie," he said angrily.
"Sorry," I said, although I wasn't, and he knew it.
He sighed again. "Listen, I just wanted to call and give you the heads up. You're still coming this weekend, right?"
My chances to see Sarah were few and far between now that she was in college. And if she was going through a rough time, there was no way I wasn't going to be there, even if it did mean long flights and relatively little time actually in Flagstaff. "Yeah. I leave after school on Friday. My flight gets in pretty late--you want me to grab a taxi?"
"Fuck that, you goof. We'll all be there. We all miss you. Sarah wants to know if you have any requests."
"Beyond something with meat in it? Just the cookies of love."
He laughed. "Tim and Ruth'll have to make do."
"How's Sarah doing with all this?"
"Okay. Not great, but okay. Tim, now--"
I could hear the worry in his voice, and I was sorry for my remark earlier. "He's a wreck, huh?"
"Yeah. Spending way too much time in that fucking pool, you know?"
"Tell him I said to lay off, let you take care of him."
"I'll do that."
"Well, I've got to go," I said, suddenly self-conscious. "Give everyone my love--I'll see you in a few days."
"Done. Love you, kiddo."
"Love you too. Bye, Dad."
I hung up and turned to find Ian staring at me speculatively. "That sounded like a heavy conversation," he said.
I shrugged self-consciously. "Kind of. Just some stuff with my dad."
"Your parents divorced?"
I couldn't help laughing. "No. My father and my mother--it's complicated, but they were never married. My mom married my stepfather, Evan, when I was pretty young."
"But you're going to visit your real father this weekend? Where does he live?"
"Stateside--Flagstaff, Arizona. With Tim--his lover--and their two adopted daughters. Like I said, it's complicated."
"Sounds like it. Is there a problem in Arizona? Because, I mean, I wasn't listening, or at least I wasn’t trying to, but you seemed kind of upset."
"It's just family stuff--I don’t really want to talk about it, okay? Let's talk about something else."
"Sure," he said agreeably. "How about music? Who’s your favorite band?"
I burst out laughing again. "What?" he said. I shook my head. "Nothing. Tell you later. My favorite band is Jenifur."
"Jenifur? You're kidding! I mean, I love Jenifur, but most of my friends think they're past their prime, you know?"
"Look," I said, giving up, grabbing my backpack. "I'm going to show you a picture of my father, all right?"
"No, it’s all right, you don’t have to--why can't we just talk about why you like Jenifur?" he asked, puzzled. I pulled out their latest cd, a Hard Core Logo cd, and a couple books, before I found what I was looking for. It was a snapshot from Christmas of Dad and Tim, and I thrust it under his nose.
"That's my father," I told him. "There on the right. Bill Boisy, his name is, although some folks know him better as Billy Tallent. And that’s his husband with him, Tim Bayliss."
"Shit," Ian said, laughing with embarrassment. "Okay, I get it. I’m sorry, Billie--jesus, were you named after him?"
"Yeah," I admitted grudgingly.
"He's done a good job of keeping you out of it, hasn’t he?" Ian asked with bemused admiration. "I mean, I'd heard that he had a daughter in Regina, but I had no idea it was you."
"Ian, you've only lived here a few weeks. Believe me, you'd have found out sooner or later."
"I'm glad I heard about it from you."
Ian and I went out for a year, but he never met my other family. Only a select few friends and lovers ever made the cut, and he wasn't one of them. Everyone met Evan and my mother, though. Evan insisted on it, for one thing--not that I minded too much, although I never let him know. But you had to get pretty close to me to get an invite down to Flagstaff to meet the rest of my family. Sarah, Ruth, Tim, and my dad--they were an exclusive little corner of my universe, and I wasn't going to share them with just anyone.
IV
Evan died several years ago--prostate cancer. I'd just gotten out of university, but I stayed in Regina, not moving to Toronto until a year after he died. I didn't want to leave him just with Mom, so I stayed, through the chemo and everything else that didn't work, until he died, at home, with me sitting at his bedside.
It was the middle of the night when he finally stopped breathing. I hadn't talked with my father for a week or so, and I wasn't sure what his schedule was, but I wasn't surprised when Tim answered the phone after the first ring. Whether or not Dad was there, Tim, if he was home, was always the one who answered middle of the night phone calls.
"Oh, Billie, I'm so sorry," he said when I confirmed the reason for my call. "I know how much you loved him. He's always been there for you--it must be so hard to lose him."
"It's worse than if Mom died," I confessed. I doubt I could have admitted that to my father, but I knew Tim would understand, even though he'd hated his own father, with very good reason.
"He was always there for you," Tim repeated softly. "He loved you very much. I'm glad you were able to be there for him."
"Dad's not home?" I asked, sniffling a bit, but still keeping it together--I'd been doing that so long, for my mom, that I didn't know how to stop.
"He's producing a band, and they're recording in LA. He'll be back in the morning. How's your mom doing?"
"She's a mess, a total basket case." I think she only realized how much she'd loved Evan when he was dying. I loved my mother, but I had no illusions about her intelligence or emotional stability.
"Tell her how sorry we are."
"I will."
"We'll be up as soon as we can--tomorrow, if we can work it out. I'll call Sarah and Ruth, but it might take them another day or so--I think Ruth's got a couple exams this week--"
"It's okay. I mean, if they can't make it, I'll understand. They barely knew him."
"They love you, Billie," he reminded me gently. "They'll be there."
"Yeah, okay," I said with a sigh. "Good."
"Is there anything you need?"
"No, I don't think so. No--jeez, Tim, I don't know."
"You feel up to telling your dad, or do you want me to call him?" I started sniffling again at the kindness of his offer.
"Would you?"
"Of course, sweetie. Don't worry about it. You need to just be with your mom right now."
"It's just--it's hard. Telling people. It's really hard."
"I know, lovebug, I know." And he did know, better than anyone. He had lots of experience telling people someone was dead.
He stayed on the phone with me, listening to me, meeting my need to tell someone the sad, mundane, terrible details of my step-father's last night, until I was able to get back to my mom, back to being the supportive only daughter. I was all she had left, after all.
And it was Tim who was the first to arrive the next day, driving through the night to Las Vegas and getting an early and surprisingly direct flight. When I opened the door and saw him standing there, I burst into tears and fell into his arms. There was something about his presence that freed me from the rigid control I'd held onto throughout the year Evan spent dying.
He didn't say much, just murmured vague, comforting noises, holding on, holding both of us up, standing on our porch with the front door wide open. We stood there, me crying into his broad, solid chest, until my mother came out of the bedroom to see who had arrived. He helped me, helped us, through the rest of that long day, asking if I would like to sit with him, sharing a few Buddhist concepts with me and my mother, making sure we ate, answering the phone.
I thought about the time, less than a year before, when we'd thought Tim might die, when he had that horrible infection. His recovery had been long, slow, and painful, but he'd never once failed to ask about Evan. He'd always listened, always been there for me, no matter what he was going through.
My father arrived that evening, and he helped deal with the funeral arrangements. Evan had appointed him executor, which rankled my mother to no end, but the rest of us knew why, knew Dad would handle everything with business-like efficiency while my mother continued to fall apart.
Sarah and Ruth arrived the following morning, in time for the funeral. Sarah brought cookies, which got me crying again, and Ruth was just there for me, solid and loving, the way her father was.
It's funny how much she takes after Tim. She even looks like him--people are surprised when they find out she was adopted, although they believe it easily about Sarah, who is several inches shorter than her younger sister and has blue eyes, black hair, and pale skin.
No matter what physical appearance any of them have, though, they are family--their own, but mine as well. Because we're family, I was there for them when Tim almost died. Because we're family, they were there for me when Evan died. There for me, and there for my mother--because she was my family, even if she wasn't theirs. And I think even she understood that, and appreciated it.
V
I met my husband when my purse was snatched at the St. Laurence Market. He was the Toronto Police officer who took my statement. He was impressed with how together I was, with how detailed a description I was able to give of the thief, that I wasn't freaking out.
I didn't tell him my father's lover was a former detective and FBI agent, not then. I didn't give him any sort of explanation for why I knew what details were important (the guy's height, his age, his build, his clothing), and which were less important (that I had been thinking about buying some salmon sausage). I didn't tell him anything about my family until later, when we went out to dinner, after I successfully identified the thief in a line-up. He asked me, and I said yes (to dinner), and over orange roughy, he asked me gentle but persistent questions, and I told him about Tim, about my father, about Sarah and Ruth.
He'd heard of my father, but he was indifferent to Billy Tallent and Jenifur and Hard Core Logo. No, the star of my family, the person he got excited about, was Tim Bayliss.
"What he did undercover is amazing, Billie. Do you know what kind of people those were? Wasn't he stoned or something?"
I had to point out that yes, I knew what kind of people those were, as my adopted sisters had grown up in Church Canyon, and my father had also been stoned. He apologized. He was cute when he apologized. He was cute all the time, actually. Except when he was just pure drop dead sexy.
Clint--who somehow managed to be named Clint and still be intelligent--didn't know Tim had been a detective in Baltimore, and when he found that out he got even more excited. It turned out he wanted to be a homicide detective. Of course, he said bashfully, there were nowhere near as many murders in Toronto each year as there were in Baltimore.
"Hooray for gun control," I muttered, thinking about Sarah, who loved target shooting even more than her father did. That was one arena where she took after him far more than Ruth did.
I almost didn't go out with him again, despite how cute he was. I'd heard enough of Tim's stories to think it might be best to stay very far away from someone who wanted to get into that line of work, even in a city with so many more people and so many fewer murders. I figured I didn't need that kind of grief. After all, how many of Tim's colleagues actually managed to stay with their spouses? And besides--a cop named Clint? You had to be kidding, right?
He was so cute, however, and very intelligent, and he had other interests besides becoming a detective. He asked good questions about my life and job. He didn't think I was weird because I didn't drink and I didn't swear--he understood when I fumblingly tried to explain that I wouldn't be offended by however many "fucks" or "shits" he put into the conversation, that it was just a choice I'd made, a way to honor Evan (who never swore), a way to assert my individuality in a family that included a former punk rocker (also an alcoholic) and a former cop (also a Buddhist, with the attendant vegetarianism and avoidance of alcohol). He understood that my family life was complicated. He never made any comment that could be considered the slightest bit homophobic, even before he knew about my father.
He understood a lot. And it turned out that he was the best kisser I'd ever had the pleasure to lock lips with. In some ways (good ways) he reminded me of Tim. So I went out with him again. And again. And we fell in love.
The first time I took him to Flag to meet Dad and the rest of the family, he was adorably nervous. I'd had girlfriends who were quietly impressed by Tim, by the work he'd done with the Adena Watson Fund, but this was the first time someone had been more star-struck by meeting him than the famous rock star who'd accidentally impregnated my mother.
"Do you think he'd be willing to give me any pointers about conducting interrogations?" he asked me on the plane. "From what you've said, he sounds like he was pretty amazing at it."
"His old partner Frank and he were the best detectives in Homicide, from what I've heard," I told him, smiling inwardly at his eagerness. "I've met some of the other detectives he worked with, like at the wedding, and the couple times I've been to Baltimore with the family. And his old boss from the FBI keeps trying to get him out to Quantico to teach seminars. So, yeah, I think he was pretty amazing at it. But he doesn't talk about it much."
"Oh, okay," Clint said, disappointed. "I mean, I won't bug him about it."
"You're a cop, though," I said, smiling at him. "He might be into talking to you about it. Brothers in blue and all that."
And that, it turns out, is exactly what happened. Whenever we got together, whenever Tim and Clint were in the same room, we'd all hear more than we'd ever heard before about life as a murder police.
At first we were into it, Ruth and Sarah and I crowded around the two of them, soaking it all up, my dad listening intently on the periphery, but we soon tired of the lingo, the detailed descriptions of murdered bodies, the talk of forensics and paperwork and courtroom testimony. Clint and Tim never talked about what I wanted them to, at least not when I heard them--how to handle the day in, day out grind, the fact that they were dealing with loss and grief and violence every single day. Clint talked to me about it, sometimes--I wished he did more--but that wasn't the focus of his discussions with Tim.
The two of them eventually realized the rest of us weren't exactly thrilled by their shop talk, so they'd go out to lunch, go on a hike, or just hang out together when everyone else was busy with something else. Clint never really lost his hero worship of Tim, though. When we were planning our wedding, I used to tease him that he could ask Tim to walk him down the aisle. He settled for making Tim one of his groomsmen, which finally won my father, who'd been a little nervous about his daughter marrying a cop, over completely.
And both of them--Tim, standing next to Clint, and Dad, walking me down the aisle--were smiling so big they practically blinded me. I missed Evan, but other than that, my wedding was perfect. I only hope my marriage stays as solid as my dad's has.
VI
I called my father tonight with some news. I hadn't seen him since Ruth's graduation from law school, and I caught him the night before he headed back to Baltimore to visit her. We spent a few minutes catching up on the latest--Tim was still looking for Gwen's replacement at the Adena Watson Fund, Sarah's new restaurant was going like gangbusters, Dad was producing Deeja's new album, and Ruth was spending too much time studying and working. So he's not only going to visit, he's going to be taking her to the Orioles game, and Tim's going to show up as well and surprise her.
"That's great, Dad," I told him. "You tell her I said she should have some fun."
"I'll do that, kiddo. So, what's up with you and Clint? How's life in the big city?"
"Life is--well, I have some news. Some pretty big news."
"Good news?"
"Definitely good," I said nervously, hoping he'd see it that way. "You're going to be a grandfather, Dad. I'm pregnant."
"Jesus, Billie, really?"
"That's what the test says, yeah."
"Wow. That's fucking great news! When is this grandchild of mine going to arrive?"
"January, we think. I've got an appointment with the midwife in a couple weeks, so I'll find out the exact due date then."
"January. Fuck. I can't wait to tell--no, wait. You want me to tell people, or you want to tell them yourself?"
"I'd prefer to tell them myself, although I have my doubts you're going to be able to keep this secret."
"That's not buddies," he answered by rote, his voice still full of joy. "You'd better call Tim right away, because I sure as hell won't be able to keep from telling him."
"I'll call him right after we hang up. Is he at home?"
"No, he's in New York; call him on his cell. Jesus, Billie, this is great! What did Clint say?"
I laugh. "I'm not sure it's sunk in yet. He's pretty excited, but I think he's a little overwhelmed, too."
"What did your mom say?"
"I haven't told her yet. I'm not sure she's ready to be a grandma, you know?"
"Bullshit. She'll do great at it," he says firmly.
"Yeah, maybe," I conceded. "Less responsibility, more fun--you're right, maybe she will make a great grandma."
"That's exactly it. And you and Clint--shit, lovebug, this kid's gonna have the best parents a kid could want."
"Thanks, Dad. He or she will have a couple pretty incredible grandfathers, too, I'm thinking."
"You need anything, you let us know."
"I will, Dad. I'd better go and call Tim now, before he calls you and you spill the news."
He laughs. "Yeah, you do that. Tell him to call me after, okay?"
"I'll do that. Love you dad. Grandpa."
"Love you too, kiddo."
VII
Clint dialed the phone while the midwife helped me reposition myself. It's mere minutes after the birth, but I'm not going to wait any longer to call.
Dad picks up after the first ring.
"Billie?"
"Yeah, Dad. Grandpa."
"Everything's okay?"
"It's great. We had a boy, Dad."
"A boy. Jesus, a boy. How much did he weigh?"
"They haven't weighed him yet, but the midwife thinks he's about 8 pounds."
"He's big! That's great, lovebug, eight pounds, wow. What's his name?"
"Evan Timothy."
"Evan Timothy--fuck, Billie--" he chokes up.
"I figured we already had too many variations on William in the family--I hope you don't mind--"
"No," he says quickly. "It's--you don't need my approval, but the name is perfect. Tim--he's--here, I'm just gonna let you talk to him."
I hear some fumbling, then Tim's voice. "Billie, how are you doing?"
"Great, Tim. Tired, but great."
"And the baby?"
"He's beautiful. Did you hear what I told Dad? We named him Evan Timothy, after two of his grandparents."
"Ah, jesus, Billie--I don't know what to say."
"How about, 'congratulations'?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, congratulations, definitely, congratulations! I'm so glad everything's okay. And I can't tell you--I'm honored."
"So, when are you and Dad coming up here to visit your new grandson?"
"Uh, how's next week sound?"
"Wonderful. Listen, I think the baby wants to nurse, so I've got to go--I'll call you guys later. Give Dad a kiss for me, okay?"
"Yeah, of course. We love you, Billie, you and little Evan both. And Clint, give our love to Clint, too."
"Love you too. Talk to you soon."
I called Dad right away, but I wait awhile before I call my mom. I rationalize it that I want to wait until I know his weight, his length, all those wonderful statistics, but the truth is, there's a reason I called Flagstaff first. Once Evan got sick, it was clear to me who my real parents were. There were three of them, and none of them gave birth to me.
This baby of mine, this little Evan Timothy, his life will be different from mine. He'll have a mother and a father, the traditional version of both. But the best parenting lessons his mother learned were from the men who raised her.
"Welcome to the world, Evan Timothy McHarg," I tell him, nestled in my arms, rooting for the nipple.
"Welcome to the world, Evan," Clint echoes, staring adoringly down at our son.