Page 117 of Meant to Be

“You really don’t know?” he said, meeting my gaze.

“No clue,” I said, though he really did look eerily familiar. “Have we met?”

Silence stretched between us as I stared at him, waiting.

“Yes, Cate,” he finally said. “I’m your father.”

Bolting up from the bench like it was on fire, I took a few steps away from it, then glared down at him, something snapping inside me. “You’re a real sicko, you know that?”

“Cate—”

“Nice try,” I said. “My father died when I was three years old.”

He shook his head. “No, Cate. I didn’t die…. Shit…is that what your mother told you?”

“Yes. That’s what she told me,” I said, my voice shaking, my world spinning. “Because that’s what happened. My father was in a car accident. He’s dead. You arenotmy father.”

“Yes, I am, Cate,” he said, nodding, a desperate look on his face. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it out in the dirt at his feet, then looked at me again. “Iwasin a car accident—an accident that I caused. I’d been drinking and driving…and I…I killed a man and his pregnant wife. I got charged with three murders…and I went to prison. For twenty-two years. I just got out—”

I shook my head, thinking that there was no way—nopossibleway. But as he stared back at me, I remembered where I had seen his eyes. They were the eyes from the photograph. The only one I had of my father.

“Oh my God,” I heard myself say. My knees buckled, and I collapsed back onto the bench.

The next few minutes were like a dream, his voice coming in and out. He talked about the letters and birthday cards he had sent me from prison and how they came back as undeliverable. He told me about his grief and guilt. How not a day went by that he didn’t think about that couple and their unborn baby. He talked about finding God, and praying for forgiveness, and living for the day when he could see me again.

Hot tears streamed down my face as anger bubbled up from deep within me. Anger at him for drinking and driving and killing people. Anger at Chip for taking his place. Anger at my mother for lying to me all these years. “Why didn’t she tell me?” I said. “Why?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Don’t call me that,” I said.

“I’m sorry….”

I took a few gulps of air, then said, “Does my mother know you’re out of prison?”

He nodded. “Yes. I found her first—”

“And?”

“And it didn’t go well. She begged me not to look for you.”

“Why?” I said, although I knewexactlywhy. To cover for herself and her lies. I wondered if Chip even knew the truth. I bet not—or he would have rubbed this in my face long ago.

But this man gave me a different answer. “Because of Joe—and your beautiful life. She didn’t want me to ruin things.”

“She told you about Joe?”

“No. I saw her in theNational Enquirer.A buddy of mine recognized her—and showed me…. That’s how I tracked her down….”

I closed my eyes as the bitter, shameful reality sank in. It was worse than I’d ever thought. Joe was a Harvard alum running for Congress with a father who had died an American hero. I was a high-school dropout with a father who had taken three lives and spent most of his life in prison. This wassomuch worse than Chip; Chip had never murdered anyone. And he wasn’t myblood.

I thought of what the tabloids would say about me when they found out. What Joe’smotherwould say. It was too much—waytoo much—and every feeling of self-doubt and inadequacy I’d ever known came rushing back. Joe was too good for me, plain and simple, and even if he could get over the horrible truth about where I came from, I knew that I never would.

“I have to go,” I said, getting to my feet again.

“Cate—” he pleaded, staring up at me, his own tears spilling. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you—”

“Sorry won’t bring those people back.”

---