Page 102 of Child of Mine

Though it’s been seven years since we’ve spoken in person, he doesn’t skip a beat. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

As he ushers me into the kitchen, he asks, “Do you want something to drink?”

Before I can say I don’t drink anymore, he says, “I was just making some iced tea. The heat is crazy.”

“Sure, that’d be great.”

He takes his time, cutting lemon slices and a couple sprigs of mint before filling two tall glasses with ice and pouring tea from a large carafe. After handing me one, he lifts his glass to clink mine. “Cheers.”

He gestures toward the living room. “You know where everything is.”

In fact, I do because everything is almost exactly the same. The layout, anyway. What’s new are the posters on the walls and the signs stacked in a corner and the printed leaflets in boxes everywhere.

“What is all this?” I ask as I sit on the couch.

My dad sits on a chair opposite and sets his glass on a ceramic coaster on the coffee table. Then he moves a stack of papers and slides another coaster my way.

After taking another sip of his tea and clearing his throat, he asks, “Have you heard of Act Up?”

“I think so. It has something to do with AIDS?”

“It does. We work to make lives better for people with AIDS and to demand more money for research, better access to drugs, things like that.”

I take in the large volume of leaflets and signs and posters. “You’re part of the group?”

“I am. Do you remember Larry Kramer?”

“The playwright?”

“That’s him. We’ve been friends for a long time. He was responsible for getting things going. I do things mostly behind the scenes.” He takes another sip of his tea. “Anyway, what brings you to New York?”

He asks this like it’s something I do once a month, which refuels the anger that waves of nostalgia had doused the moment I stepped inside this building. Now, it comes roaring back.

“Well, let’s see. I guess I’m wondering if cleaning out my savings—your granddaughter’s college fund—wasn’t enough to pay for whatever lifestyle you’ve got going on here. Did you have to resort to blackmail too?”

His hand shakes as sets down his glass. “I’m so sorry about borrowing that money, Izz—uh, Bella. I fully intend to pay it back, but”—he gestures at the piles of posters and leaflets—“I’m still working on that.”

“And the blackmail?”

When tired eyes meet mine, they look genuinely confused. “That I don’t know anything about. Someone is blackmailing you?”

“Someone sent a letter and some old Polaroids of me to WGBH, where I’m now working, threatening to expose my issues with addiction if they don’t fire me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry that’s happened, but it wasn’t me.”

Sitting back, I cross my arms over my chest, not quite ready to let him off the hook. “Are you sure you’re not still angry at me for destroying your marriage?”

“Oh, Izz—sweetheart.” A half laugh escapes past his lips, and when he shakes his head, his expression is one of disbelief. “Have you not talked to your mom about this?”

“Not really. But I know I drove a wedge between you. I practically demanded to move to New York.”

“You were a kid.”

“An obnoxious kid.”

“A persuasive kid.”

“Exactly. A kid that could only see what she wanted.”

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