There’s so much noise. I pace around my room, bouncing Hope on my hip, rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. The vibrations from her little crying body seep into me. The music pumping through my earphones is like Febreze—it covers the sounds of Hope’s crying and Mom’s office music, but it doesn’t erase it. It’s an illusion. I still know the noise is there—outside me, inside me—and all this trying to fool my brain into thinking otherwise is a giant waste of time. And probably causing cancer.
Fuck. Why’d I have to go and think that?
I put Hope in her swing, pull off my earphones, wipe the baby drool from my cheek, and run my finger over my laptop trackpad. The Futurama screen saver vanishes, and I pull up Google. But I don’t know what to type. “Guy named Michael with a son named Ryden Brooks” doesn’t bring up much.
Mom doesn’t like to talk about my father. She wouldn’t admit that, and she’s actually told me many, many times since I was a little kid that if I have any questions about him, I should ask her. But I get the feeling that talking about him makes her sad, so I’ve tried not to ask many questions. Sparing her that pain is one small way I’m able to take care of her.
Here’s what I do know about him:
His first name is Michael.
He was twenty years old when Mom got pregnant with me; she was eighteen, still in high school.
They met at a concert in Boston, which was where he lived. They were together for four months, and he drove back and forth the two hours between her town in Vermont and the city to see her.
He left her when she told him she was keeping the baby.
Mom graduated from high school with a giant belly (I’ve seen the pictures). She didn’t get to go to college.
I don’t know what he does for a living.
I don’t know his last name.
I don’t know what he looks like.
I don’t know if he has other kids or not.
I don’t know anything.
I’ve thought about him a lot over the years. I’ve sort of come up with this vague, faceless image of him in my mind—a guy who wears his hair longish, like me, who’s a little bit taller than I am, who plays a musical instrument (maybe the piano), runs marathons, and travels the world doing something really important.
I know it’s stupid.
At different points in my life, I’ve found myself hoping he would come looking for me—not to replace my mom or anything, but to, I don’t know…complete the picture? Tell me how to, like, exist in the world. Things Mom couldn’t know. Guy things. But I never seriously considered looking for him.
Meg thought I should. She was always trying to convince me to track Michael down and fill in that blank in my mind. I think it had something to do with her own parents being so cold and distant—both to each other and to their kids. I think she imagined that somewhere in my unknown, I might find the happiness she’d never been afforded. But meeting him was always something I knew I would do someday. I never felt any sort of urgency.
Until now. Hope changed everything.
Because now it’s not about me being curious. It’s about me being deficient. A clueless, shitty excuse for a father with a baby who won’t stop crying.
I really need to talk to Mom.
The computer monitor flashes the time: 12:14 p.m.
I could go knock on her office door, but I don’t want to drop the Michael bomb in the middle of her workday. I’ll talk to her tonight.
I look at the clock again, and it hits me. There’s somewhere else I could be right now.
Before I can really think about what I’m doing, I run around the house collecting things to pack in Hope’s diaper bag—diapers, wipes, baby sunscreen, ointment, bottles, burp cloths, a change of clothes (please, God, no explosive diarrhea today), three pacifiers and five teething rings (enough to replace the ones she’ll inevitably throw on the ground), her baby sun hat, and the freakish green monster—and throw on my bathing suit and a T-shirt.
Hope whines as I transfer her from her swing to her car seat, but the motion has calmed her some and she’s not all out crying, so hey, win. With her in one hand, her diaper bag in the other, and a beach towel tossed over my shoulder, I peek my head into Mom’s office.
“We’re going out!” I shout over the P!nk song Mom’s singing along to. “Be back by five.”
She looks surprised. “Okay, well, have—” But before she can finish, I’ve pulled the door closed and am on my way.
I drive toward the lake.
Press down on gas.
Check mirror.
Flip blinker.
Merge.
Press gas harder.