Monday Mourning

“I’m delighted, Lily.” Jesus! I sounded like a cliché thesaurus.

Lily’s eyes slid to Ryan. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Sorry about that phone call. I—I shouldn’t have said you were dumb.”

The woman at Ryan’s place last Thursday had been Lily.

“I understand.” I smiled. “Sharing your father must be very hard.”

Another shoulder shrug, then Lily turned to Ryan. “Can I go now?”

Ryan nodded. “Got your key?”

Lily patted her purse, turned, and walked down the hall.

“Come in.” I stepped back and opened the door wide. “Dad.”

Ryan followed me to the living room, shrugged off his jacket, and dropped onto the couch.

“This is awkward,” I said, curling into an armchair.

“Yes, it is,” Ryan said.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

“Nor did I. Until August.”

The unscheduled trip from Charlotte to Halifax.

“The problem wasn’t your niece.”

“It started out with my niece. After the overdose, I flew to Nova Scotia to help my sister get Danielle into a drug rehab program. One of the nurse’s aides turned out to be a woman I’d known as an undergrad.”

“A student at St. Francis Xavier?”

Ryan shook his head no. “I was. She wasn’t. I was on a wild ride my first two years at St. F-X. Lutetia was a regular at some of my haunts, hung with a rowdy group of young ladies. Called themselves the Holy Sisters of Negotiable Love.”

I tucked my feet under my bum.

“You know the story. My wild ride ended with a severed artery, a bump in the hospital, and a fresh perspective on the college experience. Lutetia and I went our separate ways. I saw her once, maybe five years after graduation, when I returned to Nova Scotia to visit my folks. Lutetia and I ended up”—Ryan hesitated—“sharing one last religious experience. I returned to Montreal, Lutetia went home to the Bahamas, and we lost track of each other.”

“Lily is Lutetia’s daughter,” I guessed.

Nod.

“Lutetia never told you she was pregnant?”

“She was afraid somehow I’d force her to remain in Canada.”

“Did she marry?”

“In the Abacos. Marriage broke up when Lily was twelve. Lutetia moved them both to Halifax.”

Birdie wandered in and rubbed my leg. I reached down and absently scratched his head.

“Why tell you now?”

“Lily had started asking about her biological father. She’d also started pulling some of the same stunts as Danielle. When I showed up…” Ryan spread his hands.

“You weren’t expecting Lily in Montreal?”

“I opened my door and there she was. The little idiot had hitchhiked.”

Birdie nudged me again. I stroked him, feeling, what? Relieved that the prom queen wasn’t a love interest? Disappointed that Ryan hadn’t confided in me?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Things have been pretty strained between us, Tempe.” Ryan grin. “Probably my fault. I’ve been under some pressure lately. Lily. The meth operation.”

Ryan patted his shirt pocket, remembered my no-smoking ban, dropped his hands to his lap.

“But mostly, I was holding off until I was sure.”

“You asked for proof of paternity?”

Ryan nodded.

“How did Lily respond to that?”

“The kid went ballistic, really started acting out.”

The relapse into smoking. The haggard look. Ryan had been under more stress lately than I had.

“I got the DNA report last week.”

I waited.

“Lily is my daughter.”

“That’s wonderful, Ryan.”

“It is. But the kid’s a pistol, and I’m clueless concerning fatherhood.”

“What have you worked out so far?”

“Lutetia’s largely gotten Lily’s head straight. Lily loves her mother and will continue to live with her. If she decides she wants another parent in her life, I’ll be there for her, whatever it takes.”

I crossed to the couch and sat beside Ryan. He looked at me, eyes boylike. I took his hand.

“You’ll be a wonderful father.”

“I’ll need a lot of help.”

“You’ve got it, cowboy.”

I put my face to Ryan’s, felt his rough stubble on my cheek.

Ryan held me a moment, then set me at arm’s length, and got up.

“Stay here.”

I waited, unsure what was happening. The front door opened, seconds passed. The door closed. I heard rattling. A tinkling bell.

Ryan reappeared wearing the Santa hat and carrying a cage the size of a gym. Inside, a cockatiel clung to an undulating swing.

Ryan placed the cage on my coffee table, dropped next to me on the couch, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. The cockatiel regarded us as it swung back and forth in decreasing arcs.

“Merry Christmas,” Ryan said. “Charlie, meet Tempe.”

The swing settled. Charlie checked me out, first with his left eye, then with his right.

“I can’t have a bird. I’m away far too much.”

Charlie hopped from the swing to his seed dish.

Across the room, Birdie rose, tail puffed, eyes fixed on the cockatiel.

“Birdie, meet Charlie,” Ryan said to my cat.

Birdie oozed across the carpet, a miniature white leopard on a predawn stalk. Placing forepaws on the coffee table, Bird craned toward the cage, tail flicking only at its tip.

Charlie raised his crown, tipped his head at Birdie, then refocused on his seed.

“He’s beautiful, Ryan.” He really was. Soft yellow head, pearl gray body.