My mom called Gary my daddy, but I knew he wasn’ t. I knew he wasn’ t because I had been visiting my real dad in prison for two years when Gary started coming to my supervised visits with Mom. I knew because he was coppercolored, and I was milky-white and covered in freckles. I knew because he kissed Amanda, their copper-colored baby, and giggled with her, but he never kissed me and rarely spoke to me. Knowing, though, didn’ t stop the aching in my chest when he played peek-a-boo with my sister and ignored me. I put myself in his way on purpose, twining myself like a cat between his legs while he made huevos rancheros, sitting in front of the TV so he couldn’ t see the screen. His anger pointed at me, his black rattlesnake eyes finally focused on me. Curses spouted from his mouth, but I had what I wanted— my name, uttered by the gravelly voice I craved.
One night as Amanda and I bathed together, I watched his giant hand take the washcloth and caress her chubby back and legs. Her black hair and eyes mirrored his, only her button nose resembled my mom and me. I found myself looking at it every time I looked at her, searching her dark beauty for something I could claim as mine.“ Daddy, wash me.” I begged, scooting closer. He shook his head.“ You’ re a big girl, do it yourself.” Of course, he didn’ t want to touch another man’ s naked daughter, had no idea that his rejection stung my tender heart. How many men have touched my body to make up for his refusal? I pulled up the lever on the faucet while our bath ran, turning on the showerhead and lighting his fury.
~
“ You know I love you, right?” My mom’ s cigarette-ravaged voice always sounds so distant when she calls me. I stand in my adoptive mother’ s bright blue kitchen, a corded phone pressed tight to my cheek. Not one, but a thousand conversations have passed like this, with her voice pleading for recognition as we both search for something normal to say.
“ I know, mom. I love you too.” I only ever call her mom when I’ m talking to her. To my adoptive mother( who I have called mommy, mom, and ma by turns) I call her Marilyn, to my friends she is my bio mom. It’ s a distinction I’ ve made all my life— that she didn’ t change my diapers, that she never cleaned my vomit, that her cool hand never pressed against my forehead while I lay feverish in bed. In these moments on the phone, though, when I can hear the ache in her voice
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