Filthy Daddy

I rub my temples to stop the pounding against the spot. Yes, she’s giving me a headache with all this suspense. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I demand. “What do I have to do with Mongols, branding, and photographs from twenty years ago? Unless you and this Debbie character had jobs in marketing or advertising two decades ago, and are feeling like walking down memory lane with me to make nice.”

“That’s not it.”

“What is it, then?”

“That thing on your wrist.”

I look at my wrist and back at her. “My birthmark?” I reply. It’s a small, weird spot on my wrist. It’s faded and blends into my skin color. No one has ever noticed it before. “What about it?”

“That’s not a birthmark.”

“Of course, it is. It’s been there since before I can remember.”

Cindy eyes the spot again. She’s being so strange about it that I cover it up with my other hand. “You need to talk to your parents, young lady.”

“What?”

“Q-Tips. That’s what I’m getting for your scrawny ass if we ever hold you a fucking baby shower. I said you need to talk to your parents.”

“I heard that, Cindy. But why? What the hell does a stupid birthmark have to do with our conversation or this baby?”

“I’m not talking about your baby. I’m talking about you.”

“What about me? It’s just birthmark. It’s not like a skin tag that can turn cancerous or something. Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Well you and I already know something’s wrong with you, but you’ve got some extra drama going on from your past.” She leans forward and whispers, “That’s not a birthmark.”

“How would you know? What do you think it is?”

“It’s not my place to share that.”

“But you can scare the crap out of me with all this secrecy?”

“Talk to your parents. If they don’t answer your questions, my friend Debbie knows all about it. She’ll tell you if they won’t.”

“Do you realize how weird this all sounds?”

“You need to talk to your parents.”

“About what specifically?”

“Are you deaf or hard headed? I just told you. Go talk to your family and find out what that thing is on your arm. Ask them about the Mongols. I’m done talking about it.” She groans when she sees my confused face hasn’t changed. I clearly don’t get it. “Does your mother have any connection to the Mongols?”

“No.”

‘Then it’s your father.”

“But he’s been dead for years.”

“I can’t help you. Talk to your mother.”

Cindy is making no sense. Neither of my parents was ever a part of a biker gang. “Okay. I’ll ask my mother. I just don’t get why this has anything to do with my baby.”

“Jeez, do I look like a walking ultrasound machine? I told you it doesn’t have anything to do with your child. But I’ll be damned if we get all cozied up with you if the Mongols have some kind of past claim on someone in your family. Talk to your mother. I’ll make sure the club helps you when the baby’s born.”

For the sake of getting the hell out of there, I nod. “Thanks for meeting me, Cindy.”

“No problem. And I’m sorry for getting in your face before.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

“Cut the bullshit, honey. I shouldn’t have come at you. That’s a fact. I got a little territorial. It wasn’t my call to make, though at the time it seemed damned important to shut down what I thought was happening.”

She seems sincere. That kind of honesty makes me a little uncomfortable. “I apologize.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you have any other questions? You said you did over the phone.”

“I think I’m good,” I tell her. She’s freaked me out enough.

“No. I don’t plan to have another chat with you anytime soon.” She points to my belly and meets my eyes. “You wanted to know how involved we’ll be in your child’s life. Is that it?

“Sure,” I admit.

“You’ll be fine. Just know that Tate’s not your child’s only family now.”