Page 114 of Moto
“I don’t mean to.” She livens up. My mother, although loving and nurturing, is not usually the melodramatic type. It’s clear this birthday is affecting her. “I have . . .” She’s interrupted by a rap on the door. “Knock, knock.” My father walks in. “Morning, birthday girl.” He beams as he strides across the room to kiss both my mother and me.
“Morning.” I return his sentiment, enjoying the sugar rush from the homemade cupcake.
“I came to see what my girls want for breakfast.”
“Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream!” Per tradition.
“Why did I even bother to ask?” He chuckles.
“I don’t know. Maybe you just wanted an excuse to see me,” I offer up haughtily.
My parents share a sideways glance—one they often exchange in my presence.
“I don’t need an excuse. I’m your father, if I want to see you, I’ll see you.” He drops a stern kiss on my head.
“Where are the boys?” I ask. Usually, by now, my younger brothers, Kyle and Kennedy, are bouncing on the bed, causing a ruckus like the little pests they are.
“The chuckleheads? They’re still sleeping. They stayed up all night playing Xbox. I’m sure we won’t see them until lunch.” He pretends to sound annoyed, but he isn’t fooling anyone. The bags under his eyes are telling. I guarantee he was right there with them, racing virtual superbikes until midnight. It may be snowy and the middle of January, but those three will always find a way to ride. Simulated or not.
“I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.” He delivers one more lingering kiss before my mother and I watch him strut out of the room.
“Dad! Extra whipped cream!” I yell as his dark head disappears down the stairs. “Extra, got it!” He throws his hand up in acknowledgment before he’s gone.
I love that man. Even though he’s not my biological father, he’s the only paternal figure I’ve ever known. My birth father was a motorcycle racing legend who died before I was born. From what my mother tells me, he was an amazing human being. And every birthday, I wish the same thing—that I could’ve known him. I’ve often wondered how my mom ended up marrying my uncle, and every time I ask, all she’ll say is that their relationship was complicated, and one day, when I’m older, she’ll tell me the whole story. I’m eighteen now. How much older do I have to be?
“Should we go help Dad make breakfast?” I throw the covers off eagerly. If you want to get me out of bed, all you have to do is mention whipped cream.
“Umm...” She places a hand on my thigh. “In one second. I want to give you something first.”
“Oh? Presents?” I bounce on the mattress. I’m as bad as the ten and twelve-year-olds sleeping down the hall.
“Yes, presents.” She pulls out a long box from underneath my messy blanket.
I take it excitedly. It’s wrapped so beautifully, in shiny white paper and a curly bow. “I’ve waited a long time to give this to you.” She watches as I rip off the paper. I pop open the box and stare at the contents. It’s a necklace, I think. My mom pulls it from the cushion and holds it up. “It’s your father’s heartbeat. He gave it to me when he asked me to marry him.”
A lump immediately forms in my throat.
“His real live heartbeat?” I touch the squiggly lines made of diamonds lightly, feeling unexpectedly close to him. Maybe the closest I’ve ever felt.
“Mmm hmm,” she confirms wistfully.
I have a lot of my father’s memorabilia—trophies, helmets, even his motorcycle jacket, but nothing as personal as this. Nothing that made him feel so. . . real.
“I wish I knew him.” I clench my jaw as my eyes sting. I don’t want to cry, but I know it’s inevitable. My father is a sensitive subject for both of us.
“Oh, honey. You do know him.” My mother’s voice is laced with love and compassion. “You are him. You have his spirit and his fire and his drive. You even have his eyes.” She caresses my face. “Every time we look at you, we seem him.”
My lip trembles. “Really?”
“Really. He loved you, and he wanted you, just as much as I did.”
I smile through my tears as she hands me one more present. It’s large and flat like a book. I open it swiftly and read the title aloud. “The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. You used to read this to me all the time.”
“This book is special, though.”
She flips it open to the first page, where there’s a handwritten quote. “If there ever comes a day where we can’t be together, keep me in your heart. I’ll stay there forever.”I run my fingertips over the sharp, slanty handwriting. The lines are so confident, so self- assured.
The script almost looks identical to mine.
