I Want It That Way: Presley's Favorite Memory


"I've got a little surprise for everybody today..." Presley's voice rang all around over the speaker system, echoed off the mountain. Everyone in the crowd cheered, waving their arms over their heads, staring up at my little girl. She sat on a stool, the microphone directly in front of her, her guitar slung across her knee, her arms hugging it's body. "In honor of Father's Day, I have a guest here... some of you might be too young to remember him from back in his heyday..." she glanced over at me, a smirk playing on her face. "I'm just kidding, Daddy, you aren't that old. Everybody... Nick Carter."

I walked across the stage. My own guitar swung over my back, carrying my microphone and stand. A roadie ran across the stage with a stool for me and dropped it next to Presley. I thanked him and sat down. The audience cheered, and I heard a voice from somewhere in the midst of it scream out, "Oh my God! Nick I love you!"

I laughed, "Love you too," I replied into the microphone and a chorus of bleating shrieks followed. I found Ashley and Zoey standing off to the side and smiled at them. Zoey waved and I waved back.

"My dad taught me everything when it comes to guitars," Presley was saying into the mic, "He taught me everything when it comes to everything, really, though." She looked over at me, a smile playing on her lips. "You ready to give cuff rock a try, daddy?"

I laughed, "Back in my day we practiced for performances and memorized lyrics," I answered.

"Back in your day the songs were the same every time you sang'em," she teased.

The audience crowed with applause.

Presley was a part of a new movement in music called Cuff Rock. It was short for off-the-cuff, as in making it up as you go along. The result was this ever changing art strung together by catchy choruses. The verses were never the same twice. The lyrics were made up as the artist was playing. It made for real, honest words from the professionals who were good at what they did - like Presley was - and jibberish bullshit from the amatuers - that'd be me in this instance. But Presley had really wanted me to duet with her, so here I was. About to make an utter fool of myself in front of a bunch of cuff rockers.

Presley cleared her throat, "Okay so everybody knows the chorus to this one. Even you daddy," she said. She looked down at the guitar and played some notes I recognized all too well. Her voice pierced the mountainside again, thick and low, raspy, she sang out, "Tell me why, ain't nothing but a heartache... Tell me why, ain't nothing but a mistake.... Tell me why... I never wanna hear you say... I want it that way..." She turned to me, still strumming the notes and said, "Think you can remember that dad?"

"I think I got a handle on that one," I replied, smirking.

Presley laughed. "Okay now for the verses. I'll go first."

"Those I don't know about," I laughed.

Presley changed the rift of the guitar just a little bit and turned back to the microphone. "When I was little... You said... I could be anything... But I... Just wanted... to be exactly like you... Everything... you did amazed me... and I... looked up to you... I never... told you this... but you were my hero." She grinned over at me. "Now you sing it," she said to me, bringing the guitar's cries back to the chorus.

"Tell me why, ain't nothin' but a heart ache..." I sang. It felt so familiar, yet so foreign. It'd been years since I'd sang this song. "Tell me why, ain't nothin' but a mistake... tell me why... I neeeever waaannnaa heaaaar you sayyyyy-ayyyyyyyyy I want it thaaaaaaaaaat wayyyyyy..."

Presley grinned, "Showing off with the runs there dad."

"That's what I do."

"You ready for the verse?"

"Not really."

"Well here it comes. Just like the first one," she instructed, and dipped back into the verse chords.

I swallowed, waited for the cue, my brain racing over what the hell to say.

"I've never... been real good at this... whole making... up words thing... but when yourbabygirlasksyoutodoit you dooo it," I crammed the last sentence into one quick breath. Presley laughed and rolled her eyes, mouthed the word cheater, but grinned even as she accused me. I grinned back, "If I... was a hero... it was only because I loved you... and you... will always be... my sweet baby Presley."

Presley looked surprised by my sudden adeptness at this. Her eyes sparkled. "Did you prewrite that, daddy?" she teased.

I laughed, "No it just came from the heart."

"Hey now you're getting the hang of it. Chorus together?"

"Okay baby girl."

Our voices blended, "Tell me why, ain't nothin' but a heartache... tell me why... ain't nothin' but a mistake... tell me why... I never wanna hear you say... I want it that way..." I wailed out my yeah-ah-ah and I heard the chick from the crowd shriek with approval. I laughed.

Presley nodded toward me, "Go on dad, you're a rock star, take the next one..."

"How you amaze me being all grown up, when I remember changing your pooey diapers --"

"Dad!"

"Yeah... But no matter how many you are, I want you to know, to me you will always be......" I turned to look in her eyes. "Four years old... with your fingers... in a birthday cake... laughing... with blue frosting on your face... your face... your face.. your fa-aa-aaace..."

Presley was grinning, "Tell me why..."

"You'll always be my babyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy...." I crowed as she continued on through the chorus, wrapping up the song.

The audience cheered as she strummed the last notes, then turned to me. She swung her guitar around her shoulders so it hung across her back, mimicking me in a move I'd taught her a long time ago. She rushed forward, pulled me close and whispered, "Thank you for singing with me daddy." She kissed my cheek, "It means so much to me."

I hugged her close. "I love you," I whispered, "And I'm proud of you, and you sounded beautiful."

Presley grinned up at me. "Thank you."

As I walked off the stage, she turned back to the audience, "My daddy, everybody," and everyone cheered once more as I quickly moved down the stage steps to rejoin Ashley and Zoey.

"Good job, sweetie," Ashley said, kissing me as I got to their sides.

Zoey turned, "She's been talking about singing with you for years," she said. "You have no idea how much that all just meant to her."

I laughed, "Probably as much as it meant to me..." I smiled. "She really is impressive, isn't she?"

"I wouldn't be able to make up lyrics off the cuff like she does," Zoey replied. "Course I can't even make up lyrics on the cuff. I inherited none of your musical talent." She nudged me, "What the hell kind of bum sperm did you plant to make me?" she teased.

Ashley and I shared a glance.

"I don't know," I replied. "Non-musical ones, I guess."

Closet Monster: Leslie's Favorite Memory


Ashley was upstairs, asleep. But the game was on West Coast time, so I was sitting on the couch in my Buccs jersey, holding the old football I'd spent the day tossing around in the backyard with Oliver, leaning forward, urging the players to move in for the kill. "Go.. go.. go you fat bastards," I muttered under my breath. On the table sat a plate with a few crumbs of sunbaked chips and my half-drank bottle of Ensure that Ashley insisted I drink. Even though I thought it tasted less like chocolate and more like chalklate.

There was a creak on the stairs and I turned and saw our second-youngest, Leslie, who preferred to be called Lessy, rubbing her eyes. I reached for the remote and turned the volume down. "Hey Lessy," I said, my eyebrows stitching together as she came around the couch and crawled onto the cushion beside me. "What'cha doin' up kiddo?" I asked her.

"I couldn't sleep," she complained, "There was nightmares."

I reached over and pulled Lessy up onto my lap and rubbed her back, "Not nightmares, that's the worst," I said.

She nodded and pouted, "They were really scary, too," she said in a pitiful little voice.

I glanced at the TV and sighed, hitting the power off button on the remote. "C'mon, let's go up stairs and inspect your room. Make sure there's no monsters in there," I said.

"Okay," she agreed.

She slid off my lap and took my hand and we went up the stairs to her bedroom at the end of the hallway. Her room was all purple and yellow, her favorite colors, and she quickly crawled into bed, hugging the blankets real close, like they were a protective shield or something. I looked around, "Hmm," I said, "Well, there is some evidence of monsters," I said. I waved at the crayons and legos she had spread across the carpet, "I mean, I know you'd never leave your room a mess after playing... so obviously a monster did that..."

Lessy nodded solemnly. I had to repress a smirk.

I opened her desk drawer, then closed it and opened the next one down. When I'd gone through all her desk drawers, I opened the top dresser drawer. "Uhoh," I said.

"What?" Lessy looked frightened.

"Just as I suspected..."

"What?" Lessy asked.

"Monsters like eating socks," I said, "And... your sock drawer's a mess... Obviously the monster was looking around for a midnight snack."

Lessy gasped.

I looked around the room again. "Well he didn't go out the window because that's shut tight," I said, "And I didn't hear him sneak downstairs, and he wasn't in the hallway..." I rubbed my chin, and lowered my creaky old self down to the floor to peer under the bed.

"Is he under there?" she whispered hoarsely, crawling and leaning over the side to see me.

I reached under and moved some stuff around, "Nope. Not under here."

"Where then?" Lessy gasped.

I pushed myself up, though it took some effort. I wondered fleetingly what happened to the days when I was able to leap up off the floor without even using my arms to brace myself. Entire dance routines with the Backstreet Boys had once revolved around that move. Now I couldn't have done it if someone had a gun to my head threatening I do it or else.

"There's only one last place he could be," I said.

"The closet," she whispered. She crawled back under the covers quickly so that only the very top of her head and eyes stuck out. She shivered so hard the comforter she was under, which had butterflies all over it, shook.

I tiptoed toward the closet door and she squealed and I stuck a finger across my lips to quiet her. I reached for the knob and turned it slowly. "Ooohh," squeaked Lessy, tossing the blanket over her head so she couldn't see.

I opened the door quickly, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut. I banged around in the closet, threw myself against the door. "I don't think so, Monster!" I said as loudly as I dared to so I wouldn't wake up the whole house. "Get back here!" I thumped against the shelving unit and rattled her coat hangers.

"GET HIM DADDY!" Lessy shrieked, "GET HIM!!!!"

I banged around a few moments longer, then stepped out of the closet, fake-gasping for air, pretending to limp.

Lessy was standing in the center of her bed, holding her pillow up, ready to attack. Her eyes were wide. "Where is he?"

"He went back to Monster Land," I answered. I grabbed her desk chair, swiveled it around, and sank into it.

"There's a door to Monster Land in my closet?" Lessy gasped.

"No, but he can disapparate," I said.

"Disapparate? What's that?"

"When people disappear from somewhere then reappear somewhere else. It's a magic trick, basically," I said.

"But if he can disapparate to Monster Land can't he just disapparate back here?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"Why not?"

"I told him he couldn't come back never again," I answered. "Ever," I emphasized.

Lessy lowered her down-stuffed weapon. "Really? And he's gonna just listen to you?" she asked, amazement in her voice.

"Of course he is," I said, "You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because your old man has your back, kiddo," I said.

Lessy sat down on the bed, put her pillow back where it belonged and pulled the blankets up over her lap. She stared at me. "Daddy," she said, "Are you like a super hero?"

"Nawh," I answered.

"I think you are," she said reverently.

"Well I'm definitely not," I replied with a laugh. "I'm just a regular guy who loves you very, very, very, very much, that's all." I got up and went over to the bed and sat down on the edge. She cuddled into her pillows.

"How do I know he won't come back when you aren't looking?" she asked.

"Because Steve Perry is gonna watch out and tell me if the monster comes back," I replied.

Lessy looked confused, "Who's Steve Perry?" she asked.

Honestly, I'd just said the first name that came to mind. I looked around and spotted a black stuffed dog up on a shelf that my mother had given to Lessy for her birthday the month before. It wasn't played with because Lessy was in that awkward stage between being too old for stuffed animals and too young to give them up yet. I got up, picked up the dog, and put it down next to her. "This is Steve Perry," I said.

Lessy looked at the dog.

"Steve Perry will keep an eye out for you while you sleep."

Lessy pulled the dog under the covers with her, staring up at me. "And if Steve Perry sees the monster come back from Monster Land, he'll go get you right?"

"Yep."

"And you'll come get the monster."

"I'll come immediately, no matter where I am."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Cross your heart?"

"Cross my heart," I said, drawing an X over my chest with my thumb.

Lessy took a deep breath, "Okay," she said.

"Okay." I tucked the blanket around her and the dog and I kissed her forehead and stood up. "Good night, kiddo," I said, standing up.

"And Steve Perry, too," Lessy said.

"Good night Steve Perry," I said, turning back and kissing the dog's forehead.

Lessy smiled up at me. "Good night Daddy."

I stepped out of the room and closed the door, turning, I almost bumped into Ashley, who was leaning against the wall in the hallway, a smile on her face. "What'cha doin'?" I whispered.

"I came to see what all the racket was and discovered that my husband is a monster bully," Ashley replied.

"I prefer to think of myself as The Conquerer of All Things Evil," I said.

"You're a regular warrior king, my love," she answered with a laugh.

"Yeah I am," I replied, grinning.

"C'mon Warrior King," she said, pulling me toward the bedroom, "I know something else you can conquer."

"I do like conquering things," I said, as Ashley smirked and we dove into our bedroom.

Sailing: Oliver's Favorite Memory


It was just me and the stars and a sixer floating in a cooler of mostly melted ice cubes. The lights were dimmed below decks, my family sleeping peacefully, and I lay across the bench, staring up at the dark purple sky at the pinpricks of light that dotted the heavens, being rocked by the ocean as it moved the boat. I could live forever on the water like this, floating, breathing in the scent of the salty ocean water.

It was our last night on vacation. The next day we would guide the boat back to dock, pack our bags, and embark on a 20-something hour flight back to the US, where Zoey would be heading off to college, the first time that she'd live under a roof that didn't belong to Ashley and I. It felt like the last night of childhood, like Peter Pan should be arriving to risk us all away to Neverland, where we could all be preserved exactly as we were that night forever.

The door that led below creaked open and I glanced over and saw Oliver emerge from below, his dark blonde hair reflecting the moonlight. He glanced around and spotted me, pulled the door closed behind him, and walked swiftly to my side. He sank onto the bench beside my head and laid back, like I was doing, our heads so close together that the top of our hairs touched.

Oliver and I had been on uneven grounds lately. Ashley said I was too hard on him because he reminded me too much of myself. Which probably is true. He really took after me when it came to stubborness, and, like me, Oliver was one of those kids that had to learn everything the hardway. He was sixteen, which didn't help any. Every boy is hard-headed at sixteen, I think. Even Brian and Baylee, who'd had a relatively easy time of the father-son relationship, had hit a rocky patch around sixteen. Everyone says boys are easier to raise, but I think that's bullshit. I've got both and the three girls have definitely been a walk in the park compared to Oliver.

"When we go home," his voice breaks the silence of the night, "Are you still gonna be pissed off at me?"

I licked my lips, took a deep breath, and sat up, spinning to face him. "It depends, Oliver," I said. "How many times have you doped up, dude?"

The night before, we'd been staying at a hotel in Sydney. Ashley and I had gone out for dinner in the hotel lobby. Halfway through dinner, I realized my wallet had been left upstairs, and I went up to the room to get it and found Oliver sneaking to the vending machine down the hallway, high as a kite. I'd ushered him back to his room, deposited him into the shower, and turned the water on. Kevin had done this once to me and I remembered it quite vividly. While the water was running, raining over his face, sobering him up from his high, I yelled at him, told him I'd be back to deal with him later, and left him there soaking wet in the bottom of the shower stall. I didn't tell Ashley, and when I went back upstairs to check on him, he had the room light off and he was asleep.

I hadn't had an opportunity to talk to him since. I don't know why, but I didn't want Ashley to know what was going on. I somehow felt like this was a man's problem, something me and Oliver had to work on together.

Oliver stared up at me from the bench, "I told you, dad, this was the first time I even thought about it."

I took a deep breath and looked around at the water and the silouhettes of the city off in the distance. I rubbed the back of my neck. I thought back to the night I got arrested in Florida, when the cops were slamming my face against the table top, slapping heavy metal cuffs around my wrist, and hauling me out to the car, mocking me for crying. I thought about Kevin's voice when he chewed me out in the car on the way home afterwards. I thought about the night Kevin shoved me in the shower on the bus and hollored at me like I'd done to Oliver the night before. I thought about how none of that shit had worked.

I looked at Oliver, met his eyes real solid-like. My gaze was serious enough that he rolled over and sat up, too, turning to face me. I had his attention now, he knew whatever I was about to say was gonna be important.

"I did a lot worse than pot when I was your age," I confessed. "I've done it all, man," I added, shaking my head. I swallowed. "When I was sixteen I swore it was gonna be different for me than all those stupid after school specials make it out to be, like I was gonna conquer drugs and be the master of my own head and just get the good feelin's off them, you know?" I smiled, "And shit they were good feelings. I was going through a helluva lot back then, a lot of pressure for a kid that age. It was nice to just forget sometimes and light up and -- I called it sailing back then."

Oliver looked down at his lap, "I'm not a pop star like you were or nothin' but it's still hard," he said. "I mean sometimes I feel like everyone expects me to be you, and I'm not you. I still get stopped by your fans, you know, I mean they're all old but they recognize me since I look so much like you, and they're always so disappointed I didn't get your voice. It's like I'm expected to be you and I can't be you. I don't even want to be you."

"I don't expect you to be me," I said, "And I don't want you to be me. I suck."

Oliver laughed, "You don't suck, dad."

"I sucked when I was a kid," I answered. "When I was using. I thought back then I wasn't hurtin' anyone but myself but that was a lie. I was hurting everyone I came in contact with. I was hurting your mother and, really in the long run, I was hurting you kids. I hurt my friends, I hurt my fans. I broke my family." I shook my head, "I mean ultimately, the person I hurt the most was myself. I stole something from myself, something I can't ever get back."

Oliver's face was serious. "I didn't really like the feeling."

"Good," I said simply.

"It was kinda disappointing," he said, "I mean everyone talk about weed like it's awesome and then I try it finally and it's gross..."

"Everything bad is gross, just get that in your head now, it'll save us a lot of time," I said.

Oliver laughed. Then, after a moment, the laugh melted away, and he sighed and looked down at his hands.

I leaned down to look into his eyes. "Oliver," I said, "You're my son, and I love you no matter what, man. It's just that... well, you're growing up so quick and it scares me sometimes. I just wanna make everything easy for you, make everything perfect, and I can't. I'm no superhero."

Oliver looked up again, "I know you're not. And I wish we talked more, I wish we got on better. I just... it's so damn hard Dad, it's hard to talk to you because I don't wanna let you down and disappoint you. I feel like I'm trapped between being myself and being your son."

The words cut deep into my heart. I shook my head, "You're my son, no matter who you are. You can't disappoint me. You can't. It's impossible. "

"Dad, I'm gay."

Oliver's words echoed into the night. He looked paniced the moment they'd come out of his mouth, like he wanted to suck them back in and un-utter them. He looked at me with an expression of vulnerable horror.

It was like being hit with a sheet of ice water. I mean I'm not homophobic by any means, but I'd been waiting since Ashley and I found out she was having a boy to one day teach my son how to work the ladies. I'd been waiting all of Oliver's life for the time when all my experience would finally prove useful... and now here we were, in the middle of the ocean, just as the time was coming up for me to realize this dream of cultivating the next Carter Ladies' Man, and Oliver was saying he was more of a man's man.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking, the horrified look on his face increasing the longer I was silent.

"Don't you dare apologize to me," I said quietly.

Oliver looked confused.

"Oliver... I don't care. I don't care if you're gay. You're still my son, and I love you."

His face started to relax. "R-really?" he stammered.

"Really."

The lines in his forehead erased and he let out a low breath that I don't think he'd even realized he'd been holding. Like pressure releasing from deep in him. It was like weight had been taken off his shoulders, and I could visibly see the difference in him. "I've known for like two years," he said, "And I've been holding back and not telling you for so long because I was so scared you'd hate me."

"There ain't nothin' in the world that you could do that would make me hate you," I said.

Oliver stared up at me, his eyes threatening tears, "Thanks, Dad."

I reached out and pulled him closer to me, squeezing him right into my chest. He turned inward and pressed his face into my neck. I rubbed his back. He felt different. Larger. More like a man than the child I'd raised. He'd declared his independence tonight, declared his identity. He was an adult, the mission of raising him was complete. I mean sure I had another two years of governing him, but Oliver, in that moment, under the Australian moonlight, had become the first of our four children to find himself.

I released him and turned to the cooler, took out a bottle of beer from the mostly melted ice, tapped the excess water off it on the edge, and held it up to him.

"Dad?" he looked at me like I was mental.

"You're a man now," I said, "That deserves a drink."

Oliver took the bottle.

I reached in and withdrew my own, then popped the bottle cap off on the edge of the bench. Oliver watched and tried to do it, but couldn't quite. I reached over, "Like this," I said, and I guided his wrist through the motion. The cap popped off and clinked on the floor of the boat by his feet. He looked up at me, proud of himself. "Remind me sometime and I'll show you how to pop it off on a belt buckle," I said, "Impress the ladies." I paused. "Or the fellas."

Oliver laughed, a smile crossing his face.

I held up my beer, "Never let anyone, especially me, dictate who you are. Never be afraid to tell the truth, to speak up, to defend what you believe in. Always tell the people you love how much they mean to you when you feel it. Don't wait. Don't hesitate. Just say the words. Find love, be in love, give love. Defend those who can't defend themselves, be strong, be brave, be awesome. Be you."

Oliver clinked his beer against mine, and we both drank.

When we finished, he made a face, "Aw man beer is gross, too."

I laughed.

We sat out there until the sun came up talking, until the girls woke up and one by one came above decks.

Father Figure: Zoey's Favorite Memory


We had The Best of the Beatles playing on the stereo as the car drove up the freeway. She smiled, the window down, her arm fluttering through the air outside, her red hair caught in it, moving around her head in a spiral. Her eyes danced. Those brown eyes that she didn't get from her mother. I stared out at the road ahead, at the flashing white lines that stretched on and on and on toward Kentucky, toward our destination. As each mile passed, I knew more and more that I had to break the illusion, had to shatter that smile.

I just didn't know how.

How do you tell your little girl that she isn't your little girl?

It didn't matter that Zoey was almost thirty-three, it didn't matter that she was as old now as her mother was when everything started. It didn't matter that she was a college graduate with a Masters degree, or that she had a job where she dressed up, and an apartment with a view of the Nashville skyline that only good money could buy. Money that she'd earned herself, not asked for from me. It didn't matter Zoey was a woman. She would always be my little girl.

Sometimes, I still checked the floor of the car for Pink Giraffee, on reflex.

Sometimes, I still went in her old bedroom at night, expecting to read a story before remembering that she didn't live there anymore.

And even if she did, she didn't need a story read to her at bedtime anymore.

But today I had to break an illusion that Ashley and I had let build since she was born. The illusion that I was her father.

Because biologically, I'm not.

Zoey looked over, smiling at me through her swirling hair, and caught a few strands, pulling it away from her eyes. She paused, and reached for the window, rolling it up almost all the way. She drew her hair back as it fell in messy tangles around her face. She stared at me, turned down the radio. The Beatles were but a quiet hum of background noise.

"You look sad."

"I'm okay," I replied.

Zoey tilted her head. "You know, you still haven't told me why we're going to Kentucky anyway."

I took a deep breath as the car sped over the Tennessee-Kentucky statelines. "Zoey, we're going to... to visit someone," I said.

"Who?"

My mouth felt full of paste. I stared straight ahead. "An old friend," I said thickly. Which wasn't entirely a lie. He had once been a friend, whatever he was now.

"Who?" she asked again.

"His name is Chris," I said.

Zoey was quiet a moment. "Chris... like mom's ex, Chris?" she looked surprised.

I nodded slowly.

"Why are we going to visit mom's ex?" she laughed. I didn't know how to answer, and in the time it took me to try to process even a vague idea for a response, Zoey breathed in sharply. "Oh my God," she whispered. She looked at me, her eyes were wild. "Daddy." I could hear the question in her voice.

"When you were born --"

"No," she whispered.

"--- your mother thought it would be best if we tell you that I --"

"No stop, stop." Zoey begged, interrupting me. She stared at me. "No. I refuse to believe this. No. You are my father. You."

"Zoey..."

"Stop the car."

"Honey..."

"Stop the car!"

I pulled over on the shoulder of the highway and Zoey stumbled out, her hands gripped the steel guard rail and she leaned over it and threw up. I climbed out of the car, careful not to get run down by passing traffic, and ran around to her side. I pulled her hair back, out of the line of vomit, and held it at the nape of her neck as she emptied herself onto the grass. The car's emergency flashers clicked and blinked and traffic drove past in blurs of color.

"Oh God," Zoey choked, coughed, spit, and slowly stood up. I released her hair and she swiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

I reached into the car and grabbed my bottle of vitamin water from the cupholder. "Here," I said, "Drink this." She unscrewed the cap and poured the contents into her mouth. She sat against the guard rail and slid down to the concrete. I sat beside her, rubbed her back.

Zoey looked up at me. "Why are you telling me this now? Why now, why not when I was little, or when mummy told me about Chris and everything that happened with you guys?"

I took a deep breath. "Your mother was in a very similar situation once, where she knew her real father, and it didn't work out so well. Your grampa Patrick was -- well, he was basically me in that situation. Your mother just didn't want you to have to go through what she went through."

"But why tell me now? Why tell me at all?"

"We got a call yesterday from the prison. Chris is -- he's dying, Zoey. And I didn't think it was fair for you to never meet him if you wanted to."

She stared at me. "So we're going to visit him."

I nodded.

"When were you going to tell me?" she asked. "When I was sitting in front of him and realized that's where my eyes came from?"

I shook my head. "I didn't know how to tell you, I've been trying to think of someway to say it since we left." I sighed. "But I didn't know how to tell my baby girl that you aren't... mine."

Zoey stared up at me, tears in her eyes. She struggled to her feet and climbed into the car. She slammed the door. I saw her cup her eyes with her hands and bend forward.

I gave her a moment. I stayed sitting in the dust on the side of the highway, the smell of sick and pine mixing. After a few moments, I stood up and walked around the nose of the car and waited until I could climb in safely. Once I was inside, I looked over at Zoey, who sat up and started buckling her seatbelt. I buckled mine. I took a deep breath. "It's up to you," I said, "Home or onward?"

Zoey's breath was shaky. She wiped away tears. "Onward," she whispered.

I pulled into traffic and the car continued on through Kentucky. She sipped the vitamin water and stared out the window. The Beatles still just a dull hum below it all. I could almost pick out the strains of Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da. She sniffled and stared out.

An hour went by like that before we got to the prison where Chris was being detained. The big brick building loomed ahead of us as I parked and I was reminded of a time years before when I'd sat in Witchita with Ashley beside me. I looked over at Zoey as she stared out at the building, pale and nervous.

I turned the car off.

Zoey turned to me. "You'll come in with me?"

"Of course."

We got out of the car and walked across the lot. After signing in and being given visitor badges, we were led up to the visitation room. It looked like a giant cafeteria. And Chris was there, sitting at a table in an orange jumpsuit, his face unshaved for a couple days, his hair dirty. I stood behind Zoey as she hesitated at the door. Chris hadn't looked up yet. Zoey shook, staring across the room. She looked up at me.

"I'm here," I said thickly.

Zoey nodded, then started walking across the room. I followed her closely.

Chris looked up as our footfalls echoed. His eyes widened as he looked at Zoey, then at me.




It doesn't really matter what was said between Chris and I, between Chris and Zoey. It was kinda personal, you know. But by the time we left the prison, almost an hour later, everything felt... I don't know... complete, I guess. Like we'd come a full circle. It felt like I'd finally let go of something that had been eating at me from the inside for years. I finally had closure.

A month later, we received a package in the mail for Zoey at our address with Chris's personal belongings in it. All it contained was a photograph of Ashley from their wedding day, his old wedding band, seventeen dollars, and a letter to Zoey.

In Zoey's, he apologized, for not being the father that she deserved, and telling her he was glad that she'd had me. "In the end," he wrote, "Your mother chose the right man. She chose the man that made you who you are. And I'm thankful you and your mother are happy."

Chris died alone in his cell at the prison in Kentucky.

And despite everything, Ashley and I both cried when we heard the news.




The day Zoey and I went to see Chris, on the way home, in the silence of digesting the day's events, we stopped to eat. We were sitting at a little diner somewhere in Kentucky. Zoey was staring at the plate of food that had just been put in front of her. Her eyes were red. Her fork pushed the food around her plate. Her lower lip trembled.

I reached over and took her hand in mine. She looked up.

I wanted to speak wisdom to her, I wanted to say something meaningful and important. Something that she'd look back on one day and know how much I loved her, how thankful I was for her. But it was like one of those moments where words kind of escape you and you can't quite say the things you're thinking and feeling. She stared up at me, desperate for me to say the words I was feeling, the things she needed me to say and feel.

But only one thing came to mind whenever Zoey cried.

"Hey where did we go...days when the rain came... down in the hollow... playing a new game... laughin' and a runnin' ...hey-hey... skipping and jumping... in the misty morning fog with our hearts a thumpin' and you -- my brown eyed girl.... you... my brown eyed girl..."

Zoey's eyes filled with tears and she laughed.

"Whatever happened to Tuesday and so slow... goin' down to the old mine... with a transistor radio... standin' the sunlight laghin'... hidin' behind a rainbow's wall... slipping and a slidin'... along the water fall with you... my brown eyed girl... you... my brown eyed girl..."

"Daddy," she whispered.

"Do you remember when we used to sing sha la la la la la la la te da..."

Zoey laughed, her cheeks red as a couple people looked over to see who was singing. I nodded at them, and held Zoey's hands in mine. Despite the tears in her eyes, she had a smile on her face.

"That song always, always made you smile," I whispered. I kissed her hand. "I used to pick you up out of your crib, and you'd be waaaaaiiling and your momma would be trying so hard to make you stop crying, and I'd just spin around and sing tht song with you in the nursery and you'd stop..." I laughed, smiling, remembering how her weight had felt pressed against my chest, how her chubby little cheeks would bunch up.

Zoey smiled.

I rubbed her hand and sat back, letting her fingers slip out of my own. I watched as she, too, sat back, against the booth.

"You know, whatever biology says, there's nothin' that can take the fact away that I know how to make you smile when you think you'll never smile again," I said.

Zoey nodded.

"I may not be your father, Zoey," I said quietly, "But I'll always be your daddy."

Zoey was quiet for a long moment. Then she slid out of her side of the booth, came over, and slid into mine. She laid her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her. She closed her eyes. "I love you, daddy."

"I love you, too, my brown eyed girl," I said.