The Wrong Side of Right(5)

He smelled like cedar. Was this what fathers smelled like?

Across the room, Leprechaun shot me a cheery thumbs-up, and I was so confused by the gesture that I stopped crying long enough for all of them to get out the door.

“Well!” Barry clapped his hands. “Pasta for dinner?”





3


Wednesday, June 11

This Is Actually Happening

146 DAYS UNTIL THE GENERAL ELECTION



I woke with the usual litany of realizations.

I’m awake.

I’m in South Carolina.

My mom is dead.

But now, a new one—an oh yeah that made me bolt upright, nearly capsizing my twin mattress into the frame.

My father. I have a father. Maybe. Probably. Oh my God.

Outside my window, I could hear voices, the whirring of generators. And something else—a piped-in announcement, muffled by bad speakers.

I pulled back the yellowed lace curtains. The police were here. They’d put a partial blockade around our house, but the press still lined the block, waiting. For me.

I closed the curtain with a sigh. At least with the cops here, no one could climb the oak tree in the side yard to get a shot of me in the bathroom.

The light was faint outside. Streetlamps still lit. I turned on my ancient flip phone. 6:07 A.M. and wow—twenty-seven missed calls and texts. Spotting Lily’s number, I flinched, remembering that I’d blown off last night’s invitation, but her text didn’t even mention it. “Saw the news! Call me if you need ANYTHING.”

Most of the other texts were from my best friend Penny back in California, increasing in freakedoutedness from “Kate? Anything you care to tell me?” to “Turn your phone on I’m DYYYYYING” to a simple, elegant “ARGGGGGHHHDEADcallme.”

My fingers ached to push that call button and wake her up immediately, if only to hear her reassuringly brassy voice on the other end of the line. But no—not now. Later. When I knew what on earth to say.

In the dingy light of the bathroom, I brushed my teeth, trying to conjure the senator’s face while analyzing my own. His eyes—those were probably the closest match. My mother’s were hazel, long and narrow like a cat’s, while mine were blue and round. I’d inherited Mom’s tiny stature, that was for sure, what nice people called “petite,” my doctor called five-two, and Penny called “at least a quarter hobbit.”

My mouth wasn’t quite Mom’s, though. My hair was dirt brown where hers was sunset auburn. My nose was smaller, stubbier. Mom used to call it a ski-jump nose. When I was little, she would slide her finger down its bridge, and when it hit air, she’d let out a yodel, like an out-of-control skier.

My vision blurred. I swiped at my eyes and blinked hard to refocus, on the faucet, the cracked grout, anything but Mom. Thinking about her sent my brain along the wrong track, the down track, the track that pulled like quicksand, stronger and stronger the deeper I sank.

I didn’t have time for quicksand. It was 6:22 A.M. I had to hurry.

I dug through my closet for something nice, something I’d wear to a college interview maybe. Everyone was so dressed up yesterday, the men in suits, Nancy in her silk sweater set and skirt. The best I could find was a plain blue cotton dress that my mom had bought me last year and I’d never worn. I slipped it on, yanked off the tag, and hurried downstairs to my uncle’s office, where I curled up in his swivel chair and clicked the computer to life.

Barry’s homepage was a news feed. My name was in the headlines.

My cursor hovered—and dashed away. Not yet. Focus.

Google. Senator Cooper. I started with the Wiki.

Age forty-seven. Born and raised in Massachusetts. Harvard undergrad, Yale Law. Worked as a public defender, then switched to the district attorney’s office in Newton. He left to pursue a seat in state government.

His campaign was based in Boston’s Kenmore Square neighborhood, near the Boston University campus.

That was where my mom went to college.

An image floated up: Mom as a young woman, auburn hair pulled into a ponytail, a backpack across one shoulder as she strolled the campus, spotted a sign for campaign volunteers, stopped to take a look.

But then another image drove that one out—the real one on the screen. There was a woman standing next to Senator Cooper in most of his campaign pictures.

Her name was Margaret Abbott Cooper. They’d been married for nineteen years. The photos showed a tall and elegant woman, her hair a smooth, ash-blond helmet that just grazed her shoulders. There was a chilliness to everything about her—except for her eyes. In every photo, I saw a spark of humor in them, like someone had told a good joke just before the click.

I read on quickly, reeling from each new tidbit. Especially this one: They had two children. Twins. Eight years old. Their names were Grace and Gabriel.