Autofocus (22 page)

We leave Bee at the table, after I take her picture, and head back toward the car. We're walking through an alleyway bordering a restaurant that has beautiful graffiti on both sides—spray-painted images of a woman crying, the sun rising, an abstract stacking of squares. You wouldn't know this art was down here if you didn't step inside.

“So what now?” Bennett asks tentatively.

“Stopping would be so easy right now,” I say, processing it all. It seemed so petty, but it wasn't. My mother wasn't the person I thought she was; she was hardly a person I would have been friends with, and certainly not a mom. Which makes sense—she was nearly my age. But still—it's hard realizing the mother I once had is someone I can't see myself
in at all. Whenever I felt different, I always felt comforted by the fact that I might be a perfect replica of someone else. But I'm not really. Not at all. It's unsettling, and part of me wishes I never started this in the first place. “Okay, how about this—we leave it to fate,” I say.

“Fate? That's so unlike you. Don't you like concrete answers?”

“Yes, but I don't know how many more concrete answers I can put up with,” I admit, pulling my hair back. “There's Chad and my possible grandmother.”

“Right, which to find first?”

“I'm . . . I'm scared of calling my possible grandmother again. I think . . . I don't want to be let down by her again.”

“So, Chad?” he asks.

“Yeah, let's find Chad. If we do, great, but if we can't find his shop . . .”

“We stop,” Bennett says, opening his car door for me.

“Yes, we stop.”

In the car I steady myself, then type “Chad Glickman mechanic Tallahassee” on my phone, assuming that Jessica was right, and Chad is a mechanic here. And that his shop has a website, or at least contact information. I scroll through the results and find a few mechanics, but none that have Chad's name attached to them. Maybe the shops don't list their mechanics. My heart speeds up as I scroll some more, and I'm still not sure if I'm hoping to find him
or hoping I won't. Because he might bring up a whole other round of questions. I change my search and just look for his name, but nothing appears that's promising. I change the search again and just look for mechanics in Tallahassee.

“Okay,” I say. “There are ten results. Should we just . . . call them?”

“Better than visiting all of them,” he says. “I just wish we knew what part of Tallahassee he worked in—that would narrow it down.”

“Let's start over by the high school. Maybe he never moved out of that area,” I decide, seeing two shops around there. Bennett gets out his phone and dials one number, while I click on the other.

As the phone rings, I realize I have no idea what to say. Just ask for him? Ask if he works there?

“Hello,” a man says before I can decide on anything.

“Hi, um, I'm looking for Chad Glickman?”

“No Chad here.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” I say, feeling dejected.

“No luck,” Bennett says, putting his phone down.

“Same here,” I say. Then I pick up my phone, and we both try again. And again. I'm not sure what to feel, as each call brings me excitement and dread and fear and hope.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I'm looking for Chad Glickman,” I say, for the fourth time.

“Hold on, I'll get him,” the voice says, and I freeze. It
worked. Chad Glickman works at this mechanic shop. And I have no idea which one it is, which one I called. I grab Bennett's arm and point to the phone. He hangs his up quickly, turning to me.

“What do I do?” I whisper frantically. Bennett shakes his head and I quickly drop my phone, ending the call.

“You hung up,” he says, pointing out the obvious.

“I wasn't ready,” I admit. “I mean, this is a guy my mother dated. Around the time I was born. There's a small chance he's my father. Probably not, but you never know. What do I say to that?”

“It's okay,” he says, taking my hand in his. “Would you rather go visit him? We know where he is now, at least.”

I think about it. I want to see him, definitely, but also I'm terrified. Of what he'll say. Of what he won't say. “I think . . . yeah . . . okay . . .” I say, noting the number I called, and which shop it's attached to. “This is so weird.”

“This whole experience is weird,” Bennett says, and I smile. “Do you want to go now, get it over with, or wait? We can go tomorrow if you'd rather, or—”

“Now,” I say quickly. “Let's just go now.”

He turns the car on. “Okay, let's go.”

“I'm kind of scared,” I admit, feeling adrenaline coursing through my veins as he starts to drive.

“I'm here,” he says. “It'll be okay. And if it's not, we can leave.”

I nod, reminding myself that leaving is always an
option. I look at Bennett and am happy he's here with me, but part of me still wishes it was Treena. Despite everything. I think back to what Bee said about my mom, and how her biggest regret is not making things right. I know, no matter what, I'll go back to Treena and we'll work things out. We won't ever lose each other, despite what we do, and knowing that comforts me, in a way. I don't want us to grow apart—I know we'll grow, but I want us to grow together.

She and I used to joke about who my dad could be—a celebrity, the president, anyone, really. And though I don't know about Chad, it's upsetting she's not going through this with me. “I wish I could tell Treena . . .”

“About this?”

“About everything. This. You.”

“I think she knows who I am,” he says, pulling back onto the road.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

“So I get to be the topic of girl talk?”

“You wish.” I shake my head. “There are some things you just really want to tell your best friend when they happen.”

“She'll come around,” he says.

“I know,” I answer.

We pull up to an old, weathered building with an open garage door. An equally weathered billboard in blue and white towers above us, reading
CARL'S CARS
.

“Looks like we're here,” Bennett says, and I nod, looking up.

“So what now?” Before us, there are two cars in the open garage, both elevated, with a mechanic working underneath each one. There are stains on the floor, towels tossed around, and giant red toolboxes next to them. There's also a lot of noise.

“Well,” he says, looking at me, “you can either go in there and ask for him, or we can turn around and go back to my dorm to make out.”

I start laughing despite my nerves. “Tempting,” I say.

“You can do it,” he says, taking my hand. “The talking to him, that is. The making out we already know you can do.”

“Thank you for the affirmation,” I say. I look at the shop and think my whole unknown past could be through that door. And all I have to do is open it.

I turn to Bennett, but he cuts me off. “I know—I'll stay here.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

I get out of the car and open the front door of the building. A little bell rings, signaling that I'm here, and I look around. It's a small room with a few empty plastic chairs lining the wall. There's a TV playing the local news, and before me is a desk with one man standing behind it, scribbling something into a notebook. The room smells like gasoline, oil, and burnt coffee.

I look over the guy behind the counter. He's tall, taller
than Bennett at least, with dark brown frizzy hair. Hair like mine. He's wearing a red plaid shirt and has a few days' worth of scruff on his face.

Something tells me this is it. I walk toward him.

“Excuse me,” I say, and he looks up at me. He has a pink scar on his cheek, I notice, right under his eye. “I was wondering if a Chad Glickman worked here?”

“Yeah,” he says, standing up straight. “Did you call earlier?” I recognize a slight southern accent in his speech.

“Um, yes, sorry, dropped my phone,” I say, blushing. “Um, is he here? Working today?”

“It depends.” He rests one arm on the counter and leans to the side. “Who wants to know?” he asks with a grin, and that's when I know it's him. And I'm not sure if he's being nice or flirting with me, and that makes it all very uncomfortable.

So I answer simply, “Claire Fullman.”

He jerks back, removing his arm from the counter, and drops his mouth open. He furrows his brow and stares at me, takes me in. Then he remembers to breathe—as I do—and drums his fingers on the counter. “Claire Fullman?” he asks. “I haven't heard that name in years. How do you know her?”

“I'm her daughter,” I admit.

His face goes white, ashen, and his fingers stop moving. “Daughter?”

“Yes. Um, she gave birth to me before she . . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, looking down. He rubs the back of his neck with his right hand, and I can see wrinkles stretching his face. “I know, I remember.”

I can see this is hurting him, surprising him. I need to backtrack. “Sorry for throwing all of that at you . . . so quickly. Chad, I'm assuming?”

“Yeah, I'm Chad,” he says, nodding. “And you are?”

“Maude,” I say.

“Nice to . . . nice to meet you,” Chad says. “Why don't we . . . um . . . okay, hold on. I'll be right back,” he says, then walks through a door behind the desk.

As soon as he's gone, I let out a long breath. I can't shake the sight of him being surprised to see me. I can't deny that it might mean something else—that I might mean something else to him.

The door opens again, and he's back, looking less flustered. “Okay, sorry, let's go outside. I'm taking a break,” he says, and walks out from behind the counter. I follow him out to the side of the building, where there is a pile of tires and a wooden picnic table with an ashtray atop it. He signals for me to sit down, then gets out a package of cigarettes. “Mind if I . . . ?”

“No,” I say, and he lights his cigarette, the embers burning deep orange as he breathes in.

“So,” he says. “You're Claire's daughter.”

“I am,” I say, and when he doesn't answer, I add, “Again, I'm sorry for coming here like this. I'm only in Tallahassee
for a few days. Um . . . I never knew Claire, obviously, so I wanted to meet some of her friends from school, see what she was like, learn some things about her,” I admit.

He nods, blows smoke away from us, then starts pacing. “How'd you find me?” he asks—not briskly; more curiously.

“I saw her high school yearbook, and saw you were in Key Club with her,” I say. “I tried messaging you on Facebook, but—”

“What? Oh, I never check that thing,” he says.

“Right,” I say. “So I saw Jessica Cally yesterday, and she said you were a mechanic—”

“Jessica? How's she?”

“She's good,” I say. “A painter. Still here in Tallahassee.”

“Wow.” He chucks the rest of his cigarette on the grass, steps on it, then sits at the table.

“And Bee Trenton said you used to date Claire, so—”

“Bee? You talked to her, too? I'm sure she had plenty of nice things to say about me,” he says, shaking his head.

“She didn't say much,” I say, hiding the rest of it. It seems like he doesn't need reminding. “Anyway,” I continue. “Um, I was hoping you could tell me a bit about her.”

He nods, then says, “What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” I practically beg.

He exhales gruffly, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “She was a real firecracker, your mother. Didn't take crap from anyone. She just did what she wanted, whenever she wanted. And I loved that about her.”

“Like what? What'd she do?” I ask.

“I'm sure you heard about her nickname already,” he says, and I nod. “So, that. She stood up to teachers, argued about her grades and usually got her way. She convinced people to do things for her, for free. She just had this amazing charm that people couldn't resist.”

“Why were people so drawn in by her?”

“She was . . . magnetic,” he says. “Her personality, everything. And she was beautiful. Guys would do anything to be with her.” He laughs. “I mean, even me.”

“So you dated?” I ask, already kind of knowing the answer.

“Ahhh,” he says, rubbing his head again. “Claire and me, we weren't relationship people. We had fun, but we always knew there was more fun to have. She had other guys; I had other girls. We were eighteen.”

It's strange to think that all of the stories and information I've collected continue to pile up and create a picture of a woman I don't know. And will never know. But the biggest realization comes from them thinking I'm like her. I'm not. Being a high school student is the only similarity we have, and that's just it. She was
just
a high school student—not a mother at all. It makes sense, but it's still crushing.

“Do you have any other memories of her?”

“Hmmm,” he says, scratching his chin. “Me and her and Jessica used to play this game where we'd go into a store and see what we could leave with. Small things, you know, like
toothpicks or bookmarks. Just put them in our pockets and walk out. Jessica was caught once, but never us. We always got away with it. It was such a crazy game. That girl, she got me to do anything.”

I know now that not only am I not like her, but also if I knew her, I wouldn't have been friends with her. Which is bizarre to admit. How can we be so different? She might have been one of the girls who laughed at me, and I feel like each story Chad shares brings her farther and farther away from me.

When I don't answer, he says, “But all that ended, you know?” He leans back. “I didn't go to college, but she did. She was so smart. And then she dropped out when she found out about her— Well, you, I guess,” he says, nodding toward me. “And then . . .” He pauses again, then looks down. “It was real sad when she died. Real sad.”