Page 41 of The Tattered Gloves
“Oh,” I found myself saying, slightly dejected. “She just made it—”
“Look, are we going to start on this or what? I don’t have all day.”
Ouch.
“Right. Of course.” I nodded, diving into my bag for my binder and the notes I’d taken the night before.
Just seeing the black composition book that held the words I’d written during my talk with Addy made my heart hurt a little. She was right. It hadn’t been easy to hear about the life my mom had had before I was born.
Had it changed me?
I still wasn’t sure. I guessed the verdict was still out on that.
Both opting for the floor rather than the rickety old chair, I chose a spot across from him. Attempting to make myself as comfortable as possible, I leaned my backpack against the wall, using it as a sort of pillow, but it only worked so well on the old wooden floors.
“So, how do we do this? One at a time? Or do we just kind of talk?” I said, rambling. The idea of sharing with him the information that I, myself, was still trying to deal with was making me edgy and nervous.
“Why don’t I start, and you can just join in whenever?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“Okay, um…” He surveyed his notes.
I noticed it was a different notepad than the one I’d seen him with when I entered. This one was similar to mine, a black-and-white composition book. The yellow notepad he’d had was nowhere to be seen.
“So, my mother and father are both originally from Virginia. My dad was born in 1969, and I think my mom was born in 1978.”
“You think?” I blurted out, instantly regretting it the moment his eyes met mine.
“She wasn’t around to ask,” he answered coldly before suddenly going quiet.
I guessed it was my turn.
“My mom, Evelyn Fairchild, was born in 1976. I don’t have a birthdate for my father, or his name,” I said before adding, “He wasn’t around to ask.”
A moment of silence settled between us. I could feel the palpable tension I’d brought with me into the room somehow abate, as if we’d finally come to terms with each other.
Having something in common calmed the storm brewing between us.
“Did you always live in DC? Is that where your family is from?” he asked, his questions now a bit more casual.
“Yes — well, I mean, no.”
He smiled slightly. “Well, which one is it, Mittens?”
I winced a little. Still Mittens.
“I grew up in DC, but my mom, she grew up in Charlottesville, Virginia.”
“That’s a long way from DC,” he said.
We both knew he wasn’t speaking about distance.
“My aunt said the Fairchild family was well known in Charlottesville. Our family roots could date back to days when Jefferson was still around.”
“I’m sensing abut,” he said.
“Doesn’t every good story have one?”
