LITMIR.BIZ

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it’s short and to the point and it’s from my biological father.

      Jeff,

      Please tell Emily.

      Eli

      Underneath the message are an obituary and a photo of a woman I’ve never met. Her name is Olivia McKinley and she’s Eli’s mother. A weighted sigh escapes my lips and I slouch into a seat at the table. Please tell Emily. Eli does his best to make an impression. It may not be a great impression, but he leaves one nonetheless.

      I squish my lips to the side as I absorb Olivia’s obituary. It’s the first time I’ve seen an image of her. Eli’s talked about her on our rare occasional visits, but he never drew enough of a mental picture for me to visualize what she looked like.

      Eli’s this biker my mom hooked up with once and he abandoned us the moment Mom said, “I missed my period.” While he gave Mom the slip, he also gave me my dark brown hair and my matching dark brown eyes and the ton of freckles over the bridge of my nose. But other than that he hasn’t given me much.

      “So...” Total hesitation as I hunt for the correct words. “Eli’s mom died.”

      “That’s right. Your mom wants us to attend the funeral.”

      Um...I don’t do funerals or cemeteries. Mom and Dad are aware of this situation. My fingers tap against the table. There’s definitely a diplomatic way out of this. I need to find it and find it quick. “Why does she want to go? Not to be rude, but we don’t know this lady. We barely know Eli and...well...I thought Mom hated Kentucky.”

      Dad rubs the back of his head. “I don’t know why. I forwarded the e-mail to your mom this morning. A few minutes later, she called me at work in tears. I came home and she’d already purchased the plane tickets. Your guess is as good as mine here, but there’s one thing I do know—I don’t like seeing your mom cry.”

      Neither do I.

      “What are your thoughts on this, Em?”

      I shrug. There are no words for this. None. Zip. Zero. Nada. “I don’t get it.”

      “I know.”

      That’s it? He knows? “I was hoping for something a little more like ‘I’ll talk to your Mom and I’ll convince her to shelve the crazy for a few days.’ I mean, we are underestimating the value of sending a well-written note attached to a nice flower arrangement.”

      Dad does that thing where he’s quiet while mulling over a response. It’s reason one million and one why I love him. Dad hardly ever loses his temper or yells. He thinks everything through.

      “I don’t claim to understand most of this,” he says. “But this is important to your mom, and you and she are the two most important things to me. If she needs to attend this funeral then we’ll attend.”

      “What if I don’t want to attend?”

      Dad’s patient blue eyes search me and I consider ducking under the table before he notices how much the prospect bothers me. Dead people. He’s asking me to voluntarily enter a building where there are dead people. Inside, I’m screaming. Very loudly. Very manically.

      “Your mom and I will be there and absolutely nothing will harm you. Besides, you and I have had this discussion. The best way to get over your fears is to face them.”

      Sure, his words sound pretty, but there’s this serious anxiety suffocating me like a shroud. Hives form on my wrist and I scratch at the welts under the table while flashing a forced grin. “Are you suggesting a body isn’t going to come back to life and try to eat me?”

      “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re safe from a Walking Dead episode.”

      I release an unladylike snort and Dad laughs. His chuckles fade and I loathe the heavy silence that follows.

      “I’m not only talking about your fear of dead things,” Dad continues. “I’m talking about the paperwork I found in the trash. I believe it mentioned visiting out-of-town universities with your school this summer.”

      Dang it, I should have used the paper shredder.

      “There’s more to life than Florida,” he insists.

      “I love Florida.” I love it so much that I have plans that involve staying here in town after graduation. Specifically, Trisha and I have plans. We’ve spent the past two years dreaming of going to the local college and rooming together. We even have color-coordinated comforters picked out, because that’s how Trisha rolls.

      Dad waves his hand at the room. “There’s more out there for you than these four walls.”

      “I love these four walls.” I do. The kitchen, to the three of us, is the focal point of our existence. Mom’s created a homey room with fresh flowers in several vases scattered on the table, island and counter. She painted the walls yellow because she read an article that said it’s a welcoming color.

      “Emily—”

      “I love my life.” I flutter my eyelashes in an attempt to appear cute. “I’m happy, so stop trying to mess with it.”

      Dad leans back in his chair and tosses a pen he’s been fiddling with onto the table. “Aren’t you even curious about what’s out there?”

      “No. But I’m curious about what the deal is with Mom and this funeral.” I change the subject because I hate arguing with my father. I don’t possess a burning desire to leave home and explore every part of the universe like he did when he was my age. He doesn’t understand and I don’t know how to explain it. Because of that, we fight and it’s the only thing, besides Eli, we disagree about.

      “I already told you I don’t know,” he answers, “but it’s our job to support her. You know as well as I do that demons haunt your mother’s past.”

      It’s true. Mom avoids discussing her life before my birth. I assume it must be because it hurts to know she has family that threw her out because she chose to have me. “Do you think attending this funeral is her way of going home without going home?”

      His eyes snap to mine and I know I hit the nail on the head. Nausea rolls through my intestines. This is one of those moments where doing the right thing makes me want to puke, but this is my mom. My mom. She’s crazy and she’s dramatic, but she has loved me since she saw two lines on the pregnancy test. I refuse to say no to a woman who raised me for the first four years completely by herself.

      “Okay,” I say. “I’m in.”

      “Thank you. And Emily...” A long, painful pause. “You need to view this as an opportunity. Maybe this will help you and your mother reconsider Eli’s offer for you to visit him for two weeks this summer.”

      Oh, hell no. Three weeks ago, Eli contacted Dad with this massively awful idea. Seeing Eli when he wanders into town once a year is one thing, but visiting him—for two weeks straight—on his home turf? “Mom said no.”

      “I think it would be healthy for you to see where your mother once lived and to understand your father’s history. I overheard you asking your mom questions the other day.”

      All right, sue me. Eli’s offer made me curious. Actually, not true. My mother’s sharp shout of “no” when Dad broached the subject of the visit is what did it. And I’m not concerned with Eli or his family, but more over my mother.

      Were Mom’s parents the superconservative people she’s described them as? How did she meet Eli? Was it at school or did they meet the night they conceived me? Was Mom a crazy teenager or was she a good girl until she decided to hook up one night with a biker?

      I’ve asked, but Mom redirects the conversation. I haven’t found the courage yet to press for answers when she shuts me out.

      “I see the curiosity in your eyes whenever Eli is mentioned,” Dad tells me.

      I push away from the

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