Chapter 7 - The Man in the PhotographThree weeks after Leo said my name for the first time, a dead man sent me a letter.
Technically, Daniel Bennett was not dead.
That was the problem.
The envelope arrived on a Thursday.
I found it wedged between an electric bill and a coupon for twenty percent off a mattress I did not need.
Ordinary white paper.
My name handwritten across the front.
No return address.
Philadelphia postmark.
I almost opened it standing in the hallway.
Then I saw the handwriting.
I had seen it before.
Three unopened letters had lived in my mother’s storage box for most of my life.
Three letters from my father.
Daniel Bennett.
I had never opened them.
Not because my mother had forbidden me.
She hadn’t.
She had simply placed them in the box, and after she died, I had looked at those envelopes and decided some doors were allowed to remain closed.
Apparently doors had opinions.
I carried the new letter into my apartment and put it on the kitchen table.
Then I stared at it for twelve minutes.
My phone rang.
Luca.
I answered without taking my eyes off the envelope.
“Hello.”
“You sound strange.”
“I said one word.”
“Yes.”
“That’s unreasonable.”
“What happened?”
I leaned against the counter.
“Nothing.”
“Avery.”
There were times when dating an observant man felt romantic.
There were other times when it felt like living under professionally managed surveillance.
“I got a letter.”
“From?”
I hesitated.
“My father.”
Silence.
Not dramatic silence.
Luca’s silence was rarely empty.
It was the sound of him stopping himself from reacting before I had decided how I felt.
Finally he asked, “Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“The handwriting matches.”
Another pause.
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Do you want me there?”
The question mattered.
Not I’m coming.
Not don’t open it.
Not wait for me.
Do you want me there?
I looked at the envelope again.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
“You live thirty minutes away.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Obey traffic laws.”
“I always obey traffic laws.”
“You employ a driver who treats yellow lights like personal insults.”
“I’m driving.”
“That was not reassuring.”
He hung up.
I made coffee.
Then I made another cup because I forgot I had made the first.
Twenty-seven minutes later, Luca knocked.
I opened the door.
He looked at me.
Then at the table.
“You didn’t open it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was waiting for you.”
Something softened in his expression.
I immediately regretted saying something that vulnerable.
“So don’t become smug.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I was touched.”
“Worse.”
He took off his coat.
Leo was with Gianna for the evening because Luca had been supposed to attend a business dinner.
Apparently my biological father had successfully canceled it from beyond the emotional grave.
Luca sat across from me.
He did not touch the envelope.
I appreciated that.
“You know,” I said, “normal girlfriends probably call because they want dinner.”
“You are frequently hungry.”
“That is not the point.”
“I’ve also brought you dinner.”
He lifted a paper bag.
I stared.
“Is that Thai food?”
“Yes.”
“I might love you.”
The words escaped.
The room changed.
My entire body went still.
Luca’s did too.
Neither of us spoke.
I considered throwing myself through the kitchen window.
Unfortunately, I lived on the fourth floor.
Also, the window stuck.
Luca’s eyes remained on mine.
I cleared my throat.
“For the food.”
“Of course.”
“Specifically the noodles.”
“Obviously.”
“Good.”
“Very.”
We both looked at the letter.
Cowards.
I reached for it.
The paper tore unevenly beneath my thumb.
Inside was one sheet.
Avery,
I don’t know whether this letter will reach you, and I understand if you throw it away after reading my name.
I stopped.
Luca waited.
I continued.
I heard about Mara three months ago.
I am sorry.
There is no version of that sentence large enough, but it is the only one I have.
I should have known sooner.
I should have been there sooner.
I should have done many things sooner.
I know you may have been told I left because I didn’t want you.
That is not entirely true.
It is also not entirely false, and I won’t insult you by pretending I was a good father.
I wasn’t.
My throat tightened.
I read faster.
When you were three, your mother and I were drowning each other.
I had debts.
I had failed at another business.
I was drinking too much.
Mara had stopped believing anything I promised.
She was right.
One night we fought.
You woke up.
You stood in the hallway holding a stuffed rabbit and asked us to stop yelling.
I remember your face more clearly than almost anything else from those years.
I left the next morning.
I told myself you would be better without me.
For a while, that may even have been true.
Then cowardice became habit.
Habit became years.
Years became a life.
I lowered the page.
“Convenient,” I whispered.
Luca didn’t answer.
“He turned cowardice into philosophy.”
“You don’t have to forgive him.”
“I know.”
I kept reading.
I wrote three times.
Mara never answered.
I could have tried harder.
I didn’t.
That belongs to me, not her.
There was another paragraph.
Then another.
He had remarried.
Divorced.
Moved to Arizona.
Worked construction.
Then property management.
He had a heart attack six months ago.
Apparently almost dying had made him interested in unfinished business.
I hated how predictable that felt.
At the bottom was a phone number.
And one final sentence.
I am in Philadelphia until Monday.
If you want to see me, I will come anywhere you choose.
If you don’t, I will leave you alone.
I folded the letter.
My hands were steady.
That bothered me.
I wanted to throw something.
Cry.
Shout.
Instead I said, “The noodles are getting cold.”
Luca watched me.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Pretend you’re fine because you don’t know what else to be.”
I looked at him sharply.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You’re reorganizing the chopsticks.”
I looked down.
I had lined up four chopsticks beside the food.
Perfectly.
I dropped them.
“That proves nothing.”
“Avery.”
“I don’t know what I feel.”
“That’s allowed.”
“He left.”
“Yes.”
“He knew where we were long enough to send letters.”
“Yes.”
“He says he was ashamed.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone in my family was apparently terrified of knocking on doors.”
Luca leaned back slightly.
I stood.
Started pacing.
“My mother didn’t call Elena because she was afraid Elena hated her. Elena didn’t find Mom because she was afraid Mom would reject her. Isabel searched for me but died before she reached me. And now Daniel Bennett has apparently discovered mortality and decided he would like to clean out his emotional attic.”
“That is one interpretation.”
“You disagree?”
“No.”
I stopped.
“That was suspiciously easy.”
“I’m not going to defend a man I’ve never met.”
“Good.”
“But I’m also not going to decide for you whether meeting him is a mistake.”
I hated that answer.
Mostly because it meant the decision remained mine.
I sat again.
“What would you do?”
“If I were you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not you.”
“Luca.”
He studied me.
“If you want my opinion, ask me a more specific question.”
I thought about it.
“If I don’t see him, will I regret it?”
“I don’t know.”
Annoying man.
“If I do see him, could I regret that?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“You asked.”
I put my forehead against the table.
“This is terrible emotional support.”
His hand settled gently on the back of my neck.
Warm.
Still.
“You don’t have to make the decision tonight.”
“He leaves Monday.”
“It’s Thursday.”
I turned my face toward him.
“What if he dies?”
Luca’s expression changed.
There it was.
The real fear.
Not Daniel.
My mother.
Isabel.
Every person whose final conversation had already happened before anyone knew it was final.
“What if I say no,” I whispered, “and then he dies, and five years from now I want to ask something?”
Luca’s thumb moved once against my neck.
“Then you would have to live with that.”
“That sounds harsh.”
“It’s true.”
I sat up.
He continued.
“But meeting him because you’re afraid of future guilt isn’t the same as wanting a relationship.”
“I don’t want a relationship.”
“Then don’t promise one.”
“I don’t even know if I want a conversation.”
“Then promise only a conversation if you choose to have one.”
That stayed with me.
One conversation.
Not forgiveness.
Not reconciliation.
Not father and daughter.
Just information.
At nine thirty, I called Elena.
She went silent when I told her.
Then she said something in Italian that I suspected was not affectionate.
“You knew he was alive?” I asked.
“I assumed.”
“You never looked for him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because after he left, Mara made me promise never to.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Another promise.
Another locked door.
“Did she hate him?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“She hated herself around him.”
I sat straighter.
Elena’s voice became quieter.
“Your mother loved Daniel when she was very young. He was exciting. He made everything feel possible. Then everything became unstable. Money. Work. Housing. His drinking. His disappearing for days when he was ashamed.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“He never hit her. Never hit you. But absence can hurt a family without leaving bruises.”
I looked toward Luca.
He was deliberately studying the food containers.
Giving me privacy without leaving.
“Why did Mom keep his letters?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t she open them?”
Another silence.
“She did.”
I froze.
“What?”
“The letters you have are not sealed?”
I thought back.
They had looked unopened.
But the adhesive had been old.
Loose.
I had assumed age.
“I don’t know.”
Elena exhaled.
“Mara told me once, years later, that Daniel had written.”
“She read them?”
“Yes.”
“And kept them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She said someday you might want evidence that he had tried.”
The anger inside me shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
My mother had not erased him completely.
She had preserved the possibility of my choosing differently.
I looked at the three old envelopes on the shelf across the room.
After I hung up, I took them down.
Luca stayed.
The first letter had been written when I was five.
The second when I was nine.
The third when I was fourteen.
They were clumsy.
Apologetic.
Inconsistent.
He asked about school.
Birthdays.
Whether I still liked horses.
He sent money once.
My mother had returned it.
The receipt was folded inside.
The last letter ended:
If Avery asks about me, tell her I loved her badly.
I dropped the paper.
Luca went still.
The phrase.
Almost the same words Isabel had used about our mothers.
Loved badly.
I laughed once.
It sounded terrible.
“Apparently that’s our family specialty.”
Luca reached for my hand.
This time I took it.
At eleven forty-two, I texted the number from Daniel’s letter.
This is Avery.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
Thank you for writing.
I stared at the screen.
I typed:
Saturday. 10 a.m. Rittenhouse Square. Café on the northwest corner. One hour.
His answer came quickly.
I’ll be there.
I put down the phone.
Luca squeezed my hand.
“One conversation,” I said.
“One conversation.”
Saturday morning arrived cold and bright.
I got there early.
Naturally, Luca got there earlier.
He was across the street.
I spotted him immediately.
“You are terrible at covert surveillance,” I told him over the phone.
“I’m not being covert.”
“You’re wearing sunglasses.”
“It’s sunny.”
“You look like a federal agent.”
“I’ll move.”
“No.”
He paused.
“No?”
“Stay where I can see you.”
Another pause.
“All right.”
I entered the café alone.
At 9:58, the door opened.
The man who walked inside was sixty-one.
Maybe sixty-two.
Tall once, though age had begun bending him.
Gray hair.
Brown jacket.
A scar near his chin.
He looked around.
Then he saw me.
His entire face collapsed.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
As if something inside him had lost its structure.
“Avery.”
I knew immediately.
Not because he looked like me.
He didn’t.
I had my mother’s face.
But I had his hands.
Long fingers.
Crooked little finger on the left.
I had stared at those hands every day of my life without knowing they belonged to anyone before me.
He stopped several feet away.
“May I sit?”
I nodded.
Daniel Bennett sat across from me.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then he looked at the silver oval pendant around my neck.
“Mara’s.”
“Yes.”
His eyes filled.
I hardened immediately.
“You don’t get to make me comfort you.”
His gaze snapped back to mine.
“You’re right.”
Good answer.
I hated him slightly less for giving it.
“You have one hour.”
“I know.”
“Don’t call yourself my father.”
Pain crossed his face.
“I understand.”
“Don’t tell me Mom kept you away unless you can prove it.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t ask me to forgive you.”
“I won’t.”
I folded my arms.
Daniel nodded slowly.
Then he reached into his coat.
Across the street, Luca stood.
Daniel noticed.
“That him?”
“Who?”
“The man who looks like he’s deciding whether I’m a threat.”
“He does that recreationally.”
A tiny smile appeared.
It vanished quickly.
Daniel placed an old photograph on the table.
My mother.
Twenty-two.
Laughing.
Pregnant.
Beside her stood Daniel.
Young.
Thin.
His hand on her stomach.
On the back, in my mother’s handwriting, were four words.
Our impossible little girl.
My breath stopped.
Daniel looked down.
“I thought you should have that.”
I picked up the photograph.
For the first time in my life, I saw evidence that before disappointment, before abandonment, before all the years of silence—
May you like
I had been wanted.
And that was much more complicated than hatred.
