Page 9 of Really Truly Yours
Sperm donor, as I’ve come to think of the man.
Suddenly, the term feels harsh. The frail man with an oxygen cannula up his nose and holding a hospital mug with a bendy straw appears capable of neither creating a child nor of the reckless destruction I know he set in motion.
From a face that looks halfway to the grave, eyes the same color as mine spark. “Son.”
Way too soon. “Don’t call me that.”
His gaunt cheeks wince, and for the second time today, I spy an ogre in the mirror.
“Look at you. You’re even bigger than you look on the field.”
He’s been watching?
He grins. “Me, the father of a professional ball player. Who would have thought?”
I’d like to smack the pride off his sunken face. “You’re not my real father, you know?” The declaration slingshots off my tongue and does the trick.
His shoulders wilt. “Right.”
Sydnee goes to the weathered man, adjusting the ugly throw across his lap, the simple interaction speaking volumes. “Need more water, Donny?”
He nods, extending the mug with his bony hand.
Tossing me a sober face, Sydnee takes the two steps required to disappear into what apparently passes for a kitchen around here. Dad, my real dad, has a hunting cabin bigger than this place.
I swipe my brow. A blanket? I could strip to my skivvies and I’d still sweat buckets in this furnace.
“Sorry ’bout the heat. My AC there busted last week.” Donny nods toward a dusty unit in the front window. “You’re welcome to have a seat.” His shaky finger wobbles in the direction of the eighties-plaid sofa.
I slip my fists into my pockets. “No, thanks.”
I think I hear a unit blowing air in the bedroom off to the side. A kitchen cabinet closes in the distance. Water runs. I want to run, too, but my shoes stay glued to the probably-not-originally-gray carpet.
“It’s good to see you, Tuff.”
“Don’t call me that either!” Tripp is the only one with the privilege of using my ridiculous birthname.
My words draw another flinch, and then a smile that exposes the absence of a couple teeth, which could, as much as the cancer, account for the sunken cheeks and receding jaw. “I’m with you…Grayson. I couldn’t believe your momma named you that. When I seen it, I was madder than blazes.”
Grayson. I’m consumed with the sudden need to pick yet another name.
Wait. Go back. “When you saw it?”
He blinks. “That’s right. I wasn’t there when you was born.”
Of course he wasn’t. I shake my head, otherwise tamping down on my feelings.
What am I feeling?
Besides the fact that, for openers, I’d like to peel off the lid on the mug Sydnee hands Donny and toss its icy contents in his sallow face?
Alongside a box of generic tissues, a tray of pill bottles, and a duct-taped remote, there’s a Bible on the cheap folding table next to his chair. Tom Smith might keep a Bible on his coffee table. Donny Grayson? Was this staged for my benefit?
“How’s you brother, Tu—Grayson?”
“What’s it to you?” I spit the question almost before he’s done asking his.
His expression falters, and me? I relish the moment. It’s like I’m back at the batting cages in my hometown. The balls keep coming and I keep swinging, harder every time. Did he really expect we’d have a nice little chat?