“I’ll talk to you later,” she said, breaking off the kiss and wishing she could wash her hand before she left.

  She had to wait until she got home. Even then, she had to endure a conversation with her father first. He was waiting for her, and when she walked in he said, “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  She was tempted to say, “Do you mind if I wash this dick juice off my hand first?” Instead, she flopped down on the musty sofa and waited for him to say what he had to say.

  Her father, though, said nothing. He sat in a chair across from her, opening and closing his mouth. It reminded her of the fish that lived in the end of the pipe, and she almost laughed. Then he spoke. “I’d like to get to know you better,” he said.

  “Better than what?” Caddie said automatically.

  “You’re my daughter,” Ben said. “I’m your father. Even if we haven’t really acted like it for the past few years.”

  “Ten years,” Caddie corrected him.

  “Actually, it’s only nine,” said Ben.

  Caddie crossed her arms over her chest. Her father sucked one cheek in, and she knew that he was biting it. It was something she did too. It drove her mother crazy. Now she knew where she’d gotten it from, and the realization annoyed her.

  “I want to start over,” her father said. “Now. Can we do that?”

  Caddie regarded him cooly. “Why?” she said.

  “Because I want to,” her father told her. “And I think—despite what you’ve been doing—you want to too.”

  “What I’ve been doing?” Caddie said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her father waved a hand at her. “You know,” he said. “Not coming home for dinner. Not talking. Doing whatever it is you ... do.”

  Caddie shook her head. “You think you know everything about me, don’t you?” she said. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Well, now I’m trying to find out who you are,” said Ben.

  Caddie stood up. “You’ll never know who I am,” she said harshly. “Because I’m not you. And you’re the only thing you care about. Oh, except maybe for your stupid nudibranchs. Why don’t you just stick with them?”

  She rushed from the room, stomping up the stairs, deliberately hitting each step with a forceful “clop” of her clogs. Then she was in the bathroom with the water streaming into the sink. It was too hot, but she didn’t temper it with cold. She scrubbed her hands until they were raw and red. Only then did she turn the cold tap on and try to soothe the burning on her skin.

  As she let the water run she looked into the mirror. Her face was red from the sun; she’d forgotten to apply sunscreen before going diving, and now she had an angry-looking burn. It was going to peel, she could tell.

  She touched her nose gingerly with one finger, testing it for pain. The skin was hot, as if the sun were trapped beneath it. She ran her finger down the length of her nose, then pulled it away and looked at herself.

  She didn’t resemble her mother. Her nose was wider, her lips fuller, and her cheekbones higher. Her eyes, too, were dissimilar. When she was younger it had bothered her a little. She used to look in the mirror, searching for some proof that she had come from the woman who claimed to be her mother. For a time—her fantasies fueled by watching one too many made-for-Lifetime movies—she had thought she might be adopted, even stolen from some other family.

  Looking at herself now, she knew why she didn’t have her mother’s features. She had her father’s. When she looked at her nose, she saw his nose. Her mouth, her cheekbones, even her eye color—they all belonged to him. Only her hair was her own. She grabbed it in her fists, pulled it across her face so that her features were hidden behind it. She peered out through the thicket of curls, and her eye stared back at her.

  You can’t hide who you are, she thought.

  She let go of her hair, and it fell back. Revealed, her face looked back at her accusingly. She scrunched up her nose, pushing the tip up with her finger so that she appeared to have a snout. Even your teeth look like his, she thought, noting the slightly crooked eye teeth on either side of her mouth. They were longer than the others, and pointed. She hated them, but her orthodontist wouldn’t file them down, citing the potential for damage to the nerves. It was something else to blame her father for, she realized, adding it to the list of grievances she carried in her head.

  She turned the tap off and looked at her reflection again. That’s me, she thought, examining the girl in the mirror. That’s what people see when they look at me. She pushed her face closer to the mirror. But who am I?

  Her father had said he wanted to know who she was. I don’t even know who I am, she thought. How can he ever know?

  For the second time that day she sat down on the toilet to think. It was appropriate, she thought. Wasn’t a toilet where you dumped everything you didn’t want inside of you? It was too bad she couldn’t flush her feelings down it as well. Maybe then I’d feel better, she thought.

  She fished in her pocket and found the Valium she’d put there that morning. She hadn’t taken one in a day or two. Now she popped it in her mouth and worked up enough spit to swallow it down. Still, it burned her throat. Not that it would probably help anyway. She had to take two, sometimes three, now to get the mellow feeling she used to get from one. But it was a habit, and she figured it couldn’t hurt.

  She wished she’d gotten some pot from Brian. It had been a relief to find out he smoked. His stuff wasn’t as good as the stuff Nick had, but it did the trick. She could use some now to take her away from herself.

  You’d just have to come back again, she told herself.

  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” she said, hitting her thighs with her fists. “Just shut up.”

  She was crying. The tears slipped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. They were hot, and their touch tormented her burned skin. When she wiped them away, her face was left feeling raw. She stood and looked at herself. Ugly red smears scarred her cheeks. She was looking at the face of a monster, someone she wanted to run from.

  She opened the bathroom door and, before she could change her mind, ran down the stairs. Her father was still sitting where she’d left him. His hands hung limply between his knees, and he looked tired.

  “All right,” Caddie said, sitting on the couch and taking a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

  CHAPTER 28

  Ben looked at his daughter. Caddie, sitting across from him, had her arms across her chest in a defensive posture. It wasn’t, he thought, a great way to begin. But he feared that if he didn’t take her up on her unexpected offer to talk, he might never get another chance.

  The only problem was, he couldn’t think of a single thing to ask her. All the questions that had passed through his mind over the past few days suddenly ran together as one, their voices drowning one another out until he couldn’t hear a single one. Who? What? When? Where? How? Before he could complete one thought, another shoved it aside, clamoring for attention.

  “What’s your favorite color?” He heard himself ask the question, but couldn’t believe he’d actually done so.

  “My favorite color?” Caddie repeated. “That’s what you want to know?”

  Ben scratched his forehead distractedly. “Yes,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Yes. What’s your favorite color?”

  Caddie sighed deeply and shook her head. “Blue,” she said, raising her hands and returning them to their protective position. “I guess it would be blue.”

  “Blue,” Ben repeated, nodding his head as if this information were terribly important. “Blue,” he said again. “Blue is good. I like blue too. I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite, but I like it. I prefer green.”

  Caddie said nothing. Ben cleared his throat. “How about food?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Caddie said. “I like food.”

  “What kind?” asked Ben, grasping for something—anything—to say. He could almost physically feel the conversation turning cold, and anxiously rubbed his hands on his thighs to warm them.

  Caddie studied him. “What is this?” she asked. “A first date? Can’t you come up with some actual questions instead of this small-talk shit?”

  “Why do you swear so much?” Ben asked. “It makes you sound like a whore.”

  Caddie stared, her mouth open. Ben, realizing that he’d said the wrong thing, tried to minimize the damage. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “I just meant that that kind of language—”

  “Is the kind of language whores use,” Caddie finished. “Well, maybe that’s what I am then. A whore.” She spat the last word. Ben, hearing it, felt himself blush.

  “It just makes you sound low-class,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I’m not living up to your high expectations,” said Caddie. “I guess I shouldn’t have skipped all of those charm school classes.”

  “Let’s back up,” Ben suggested. “Okay?” He looked at Caddie, watching her face. Her mouth was a tight line, and her fingers dug into her sides as she hugged herself. Finally, she shrugged.

  “Whatever,” she said.

  Ben sighed, trying to relax. He paused, clearing his mind so that he could, hopefully, get the conversation back on track. “What kind of things do you like to do?” he tried.

  Caddie considered the question. Ben couldn’t tell whether she was really thinking about it or if she was trying to come up with the answer that would most successfully express her disdain for it.

  “I like to write,” Caddie said finally.

  “Write,” said Ben.

  “Nothing big,” Caddie said quickly. “It’s not like I have the Great American Novel hiding under my bed or anything. Mostly I write poems.”

  Ben started to reply, but Caddie cut him off. “I’m not reading you any of them, so don’t ask,” she said. “Anyway, I didn’t bring any with me.”

  Ben was trying to imagine this sullen, angry girl writing poems. He wondered what they were about. Probably about how much she hates me, he thought. He doubted very much that Caddie went in for rhymes about kittens and love.

  “I was never very good at writing,” he told Caddie. “I could never quite figure out how to say what was in my head.”

  To his surprise, Caddie made a sound that was almost like a laugh. She was nodding her head as if she understood what he meant. It was an encouraging sign, and Ben decided to keep going with the line of conversation.

  “Science is a lot easier for me,” he said. “That I can write about, because mostly it’s all about facts and numbers. You don’t have to tell anyone why you think octopi are interesting.”

  “I’m not good at science,” said Caddie. “I barely passed biology last year.”

  “I could have helped you with that,” Ben said.

  “You could have,” said Caddie, “if you’d been around.”

  Her tone had cooled again. Ben, desperately wanting to avoid slipping back into frosty silence, began to speak rapidly. “Have you thought about college?” he asked. “What you might want to study?”

  “Not really,” Caddie answered.

  He could tell he was losing her interest, and racked his brain for something more lively to discuss. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he blurted out.

  The question indeed got Caddie’s attention. “Are we back to the whore thing?” she asked. “That’s what you want to know, right? You want to know if I’m fucking anyone?”

  Ben blushed at her emphasis of the word. For a moment he considered telling Caddie that he just assumed she was sleeping with someone. But he knew that was what she wanted him to do. He’d never seen someone so ready for a fight.

  “No,” he said. “I was just asking if you have a boyfriend.”

  “Maybe I have a girlfriend,” Caddie answered. “Did you ever think about that? Maybe I’m a big muff diver.”

  “Are you?” Ben asked.

  “Would you care if I were?” Caddie countered.

  “No,” Ben said without hesitation. “I wouldn’t care. I just want you to be happy.”

  “Happy,” Caddie repeated. “Everybody wants me to be happy. But no one seems to know what that is.”

  “Even you?” Ben asked.

  “Especially me,” said Caddie.

  Her honesty surprised him. Even more, it confused him. He felt that he should have some kind of answer for her, but he didn’t. If anything, he knew just what she meant. But if he said that, would she understand that he wasn’t just trying to show her that they had something in common? He was supposed to be the adult. She probably expected him to know what life was all about. If he told her that he had as many doubts as she did, how would that help?

  “What do you think would make you happy?” he tried.

  Caddie was looking away, staring at a spot on the wall. She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe nothing.”

  “Well, let’s look at it another way,” said Ben. “What’s making you unhappy?”

  Caddie swung her face toward him. “Being here,” she said.

  Ben tried to ignore the stab of pain her answer sent through him. “Do you really think you would be happier back with your mother?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t be any less happy,” said Caddie.

  Ben looked into her eyes. “Do you hate me that much?” he asked quietly.

  He saw something change in Caddie’s face, a softening of the muscles, a shifting of the eyes away from him. “It’s not you,” she said. “Not all you, anyway.”

  “But I’m a big part of it,” Ben said. “Right?”

  Caddie didn’t say anything. In a strange way, this made Ben feel better. He’d expected her to agree with his assessment; her not doing so gave him hope that perhaps she was ready to admit that she didn’t blame him for everything.

  “Right,” she said.

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The breath left him, and all he could do was sit and nod stupidly, as if he were admitting his guilt. Caddie stared at the floor. Neither spoke for a long time.

  It was Caddie who broke the silence. “I don’t hate you,” she said. “I’m angry. There’s a difference.”

  Ben nodded. He understood what she meant. Still, it hurt to know that he was the cause of her unhappiness, even if only partially. He’d known before, of course. But this was different. Caddie’s voice was that of a little girl, not an irate teenager. It was easier to take when she was yelling. Then he could dodge her words as he would rocks, seeing them only as missiles designed to inflict pain. Now, though, he felt the full impact of her admission. He had hurt her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “About what?” said Caddie.

  Ben shrugged. “About everything, I guess,” he said. “Mostly I’m sorry that you’re unhappy. I wish I could change that.”

  What he really wanted to say was, Tell me how to make it better! But he knew Caddie had no more idea of how he could do that than he did. That, he told himself, was something else they had in common.

  “Maybe we should go back to talking about favorite colors,” Caddie suggested.

  Ben laughed. To his surprise, Caddie did too. She drew one leg up, placing her foot on the couch and wrapping her arms around her knee. He recognized the gesture; it was one of Carol’s. So, Caddie had inherited more than just her eyes from her mother. He was oddly jealous to see so much of his ex-wife coming through in Caddie, as though his absence, and not genetics, were responsible for his inability to find himself in his own child.

  “Thai,” Caddie said.

  “What?” Ben asked, confused.

  “Thai food,” Caddie elaborated. “I like Thai food. And Japanese. I pretty much like everything, actually.”

  “Me too,” Ben told her. “Except for broccoli. I’ve always hated broccoli.”

  Caddie made a face. “Broccoli sucks,” she said firmly. “Mom eats broccoli all the time.”

  “I remember,” said Ben.

  “It makes her fart something fierce,” Caddie remarked.

  Ben smiled. Broccoli, he thought. Is that what we have in common—not liking broccoli? It wasn’t much to go on, but he would take it. At least it was something to start with.

  “How about roller coasters?” asked Caddie unexpectedly. “Are you pro or con?”

  “Well, I haven’t been on one since before you were born,” Ben answered. “But as I recall, I liked them. In fact, I remember having one of my first fights with your mother about her not wanting to go on one.”

  “I figured I got it from you,” said Caddie, sounding almost pleased. “I love them, and Mom would never take me on them when I was a kid. She always had to talk some other adult in line into letting me go with them.”

  Ben imagined Caddie seated beside some unknown man, her face filled with joy as she rode the crest of a roller coaster. “I would have taken you,” he told her. “We would have sat in the first car.”

  “That’s the best one,” Caddie agreed. “You can’t see anyone else, and it makes you feel like you’re flying.”

  Again Ben remarked on the small connections that existed, unseen, between them. Broccoli. Roller coasters. There was nothing unique whatsoever about these things. Suddenly, however, they were immeasurably important to him. They were ties, however insubstantial, to the young woman sitting across from him. If he could just find a few more, perhaps they would not feel like such strangers to one another.

  “I guess there isn’t that much to know after all.”

  Ben, startled by Caddie’s voice, looked at her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Just that there’s not a lot to talk about,” said Caddie. “I guess I’m not that interesting.”

  “No,” said Ben. His heart was beating more quickly, and he realized that he was afraid that Caddie would stop talking now. “You are interesting. To me.”

  “But not to anyone else?” Caddie said.

  “To anyone, probably,” said Ben. “But right now to me especially.”

  “I’m guessing this is why you don’t date much,” said Caddie.

  At first Ben thought that she was angry again, but she was smiling a little, and he realized that she was merely teasing him.