"Your mother lied to you. That's the truth."
That is how the stranger approached me as I was waiting at the bus stop for the bus downtown.
"Excuse me?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"You're Lizzie, right? Lizzie Martin, Eleanor Martin's daughter?" he said.
"Yes...," I replied, hesitantly. Who was this guy, and what was he talking about?
"Your mother lied to you about something very important," he insisted again.
Okay, what on earth is going on here? How does he know my name? How does he know my mother? Who is this stranger?
"So, what did my mother supposedly lie about?" I asked him, very skeptical of whatever he might say. Who does this? I mean, who just approaches a stranger at the bus stop and opens with that sentence? I looked him over. I didn't really pay much attention when he first approached, thinking he was just another bus rider waiting for the bus. He was tall, with sandy hair and sharp blue eyes, wearing a long trench coat against the crisp autumn day. His legs were covered in twill pants, and his feet were wearing brown leather shoes. At least he didn't look homeless.
"Joe Martin is not your father," the stranger said all at once.
I felt like someone had punched me in the chest. Instantly I flashed back to my earliest childhood memories - riding on my father's shoulders around the yard, him playing blocks with me, helping me build magnificent skyscrapers from brightly colored squares and rectangles, curled up in his lap with a book at bedtime, watching him work as he tinkered around in the garage, handing him tools from the silver toolbox with the squeaky hinge. "You must be mistaken," I said. "Joe Martin is my father. He's always been my father. I even have his eyes!"
That is how the stranger approached me as I was waiting at the bus stop for the bus downtown.
"Excuse me?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"You're Lizzie, right? Lizzie Martin, Eleanor Martin's daughter?" he said.
"Yes...," I replied, hesitantly. Who was this guy, and what was he talking about?
"Your mother lied to you about something very important," he insisted again.
Okay, what on earth is going on here? How does he know my name? How does he know my mother? Who is this stranger?
"So, what did my mother supposedly lie about?" I asked him, very skeptical of whatever he might say. Who does this? I mean, who just approaches a stranger at the bus stop and opens with that sentence? I looked him over. I didn't really pay much attention when he first approached, thinking he was just another bus rider waiting for the bus. He was tall, with sandy hair and sharp blue eyes, wearing a long trench coat against the crisp autumn day. His legs were covered in twill pants, and his feet were wearing brown leather shoes. At least he didn't look homeless.
"Joe Martin is not your father," the stranger said all at once.
I felt like someone had punched me in the chest. Instantly I flashed back to my earliest childhood memories - riding on my father's shoulders around the yard, him playing blocks with me, helping me build magnificent skyscrapers from brightly colored squares and rectangles, curled up in his lap with a book at bedtime, watching him work as he tinkered around in the garage, handing him tools from the silver toolbox with the squeaky hinge. "You must be mistaken," I said. "Joe Martin is my father. He's always been my father. I even have his eyes!"
He chuckled at that last remark. “Do you?” he replied. “How about we discuss this over a cup of
coffee across the street?”
And then... You've hooked me
ReplyDeleteAnd then... You've hooked me
ReplyDeleteoh my goodness- you always know how to leave me wanting more!!!
ReplyDelete