Macy Blue

Macy Blue

Macy picked up the rock sitting at her feet. It was a smooth one like the ones she would find at the beach in her hometown. She ran her soft fingers over the grey-blue stone and turned it over. The rock nearly melted in her hands when she read the inscription: Macy Blue.

She hugged the smooth stone in her palms and plopped down on the nearest bench. Her chest moved in and out as she searched her mind for how this stone knew her name. The name her father called her. This park would have never known him. It lived in Brooklyn, New York. He lived in El Dorado, California. It would have never had the GPS to find its way atop autumn leaves in a neighborhood park, but it did.

Once Macy caught her breath, she walked-ran home and called the only person who would assess this as not happenstance but more like a plot twist in a bizarre story. Her fingers twitched as she dialed her sister’s number, and she sighed, relieved, when she answered. “Toya!”

“Uhhh…hello Macy. Why can I smell your breathing?”

“Sis, I found a rock.” She couldn’t stop the words from flinging out, and once they slipped through her lips, it was too late to realize how silly she sounded.

“Okay?”

“No. No. The rock said Macy Blue.”

Her sister sat up at this. Her warm, brown curls, bounced around her neck. And her eyes flew open.

“You are shitting me.”

“I am not.”

“SHUT UP.”

“I know.”

The air between them fell silent, and their heartbeats seemed to dance to the same rhythm.

“You still there, Mace?

“Yea, I just don’t know what to think right now. I know it is probably just coinci…”

“Girl, stop right there. A coincidence is wearing the same brown sweater as your teacher. This is just…weird.”

“I know. I feel like it’s a sign.”

“Me too.”

“Toya?”

“Yea?”

“You think it’s time to visit him?”

The space between them grew heavy again, and before Macy could make out words to fill the air, her sister answered her…

“Yea. It’s time.”

Fall was hard for Macy. Her sister usually caught the flu around this time, but Macy caught another, more nefarious type of illness, seasonal depression. She always said that is why “Blue” was made for her. But really it was because it was her mother’s first name. Her father started calling her Macy Blue after her mother died.

Macy got the news in 3^rd grade right in the middle of science class. She was presenting her project on photosynthesis, struggling to pronounce ch-lo-ro-phyl, but nailing the presentation, nonetheless. When she got to her seat, her tall, slender teacher, Ms. Clarabel bent forward and whispered in her ear that she should report to the office. I did so good on my project, they must be giving me an award, she thought.

The school counselor got eye-level with Macy and shared that her mother had been hit by a car while on a bike ride. She told her that her mom had been a fighter from the moment she was admitted into the hospital but couldn’t survive. The words flew in Macy’s ear like little birds and flew back out the other end. She was looking at the floor, so the counselor was really talking to the coarse hair bun atop her head instead of her eyes.

Macy sat in that brown, leather chair for 30 minutes without the slightest hint of movement. Whenever she tried to speak, a large marble nestled in her throat. When she tried to look up, a weight rested on her neck. The principal, counselor, and her teacher all tried to break the grips of stoniness, but she just sat there until her dad could pick her up and walk her to their car.

The funeral was long and dull. Macy sat restless in the front row and periodically turned her head to see the sea of faces who deeply loved her mother. Blue was a successful artist in Brooklyn, everyone knew her. Though anguished, Macy felt a sense of relief to see the faces, to know her mother was loved. But there was one face she couldn’t take her eyes off. It was a little girl, perhaps her age, perhaps a bit older, with brown eyes, caramel skin, and a round nose just like hers. The two locked eyes a few times during the service but both quickly looked away as if staring at each other was a sin. It felt like a sin.

When the service was over, the other girl walked up to Macy and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Toya.”

“I’m Macy.”

“Sorry about your mom.”

“Mhmm. It’s alright.”

Both girls held the hems of their dresses, trying to find words to say to each other, when a woman came to grab Toya.

“Toya baby, it’s time to go!” The woman shot a look at Macy that said sorry for your loss, but in sharp way not in the delicate way Toya had said it.

Macy walked over to her father, who was talking to the minister, and tugged on his suit jacket.

“Daddy, who is that girl?” she said and pointed to Toya.

Her father turned to look at the girl, allowing his gaze to linger a moment. Tears started to bubble in his red eyes, and when Macy grabbed his hand, it felt like a river. He looked down at his daughter and said, “I don’t know Mace,” and continued talking to the minister. Macy turned back to the door and caught Toya’s eyes again. This time they let their stares linger.

Macy and Toya arrived at John F. Kennedy airport two hours before boarding. Toya was a stickler for time, which annoyed Macy who was just fine sprinting through the airport five minutes before take-off. They both wore long trench coats and suede boots. Macy’s had a peep-toe and Toya’s were at her knees. They both wore big purses and cute knitted hats. They were New York girls through and through.

Neither one of them had seen the father they shared in a decade. A week after the funeral, people stopped talking about how tragic Blue’s death was, how unmatched she’d been as a friend, and started talking about the other woman. How audacious was she to come to the funeral! The stories then became nearer and nearer, almost closing in on Macy and her father until it was too suffocating to deny that John had had a long-term affair with another woman and fathered a child the same age as Macy.

When the rumors became too much to bear, John knew had to do something. He chose his family, all of them, and moved Macy, Sandra, and Toya in with him. This lasted two years. Sandra found herself like Blue, sucked of her joy. Being with John hadn’t been the fairy tale he promised, plus, somehow the noise of the rumor mill followed them, so she took Toya and moved to Brooklyn. Macy followed them when she turned 18. Though her father and she emailed monthly after her moving, their bond stiffened. There were too many lies between them, so the emails only scratched the surface. Are you dating anyone? How is the music going? How is school? Soon, the time between those messages stretched out months and years until they stopped. Toya owned the pangs of jealousy she felt at those messages, but she refused to send her own and ignored the few from him.

Long Beach airport was a striking but small box lined with Palm Trees in the middle of the city. The sisters smirked as they let the slight wind cool their skin and their eyes beamed behind their dark sunglasses. They were New York girls now but had a soft spot for El Dorado and couldn’t help but feel a bit robbed that their lives could’ve had more sun.

When they got into the cab headed to their father’s house, they clasped hands in the backseat. The blood that flowed between their hands warmed them. They would need it as a barrier for what they might see when they stepped into John’s door. ALS was an unfair disease.  Toya’s neighbor’s aunt suffered from the condition for 3 years. In her final year, she lost her ability to speak, then to eat, and finally to breathe. She could have lived months on a breathing machine but decided not to. She died at 40 years old.

John was sick but had wealth on his side. This kept the more serious symptoms at bay and afforded him small pleasures. He could still talk (though it took effort), which meant he could entertain guests. He could move his arms but not grasp well, so he needed his girlfriend, Myra, to feed him. On good days he painted. On bad ones he stayed in bed. On all days he missed his daughters and kept up hope that they would come see him.

This was that time.

The cab rolled into the long, winding driveway and stopped at the front door. The house was a modern and massive stucco dwelling with towering wooden doors and a swimming pool as the lawn. Macy winced at memories of pool parties and the game nights they had in the 500 sq foot game room. The girls stepped out of the cab all New York in LA and headed to the front door.

“Heeyyyyy Girls!” Myra enveloped her almond arms around both girls and summoned Andre, the butler, to take their bags. “Your dad is upstairs! Oh, he will be so happy to see the two of you!”

Toya let out a forced smile and Macy, a chuckle.

They followed Andre up the marble staircase and crept down the halls to their father’s room. When Andre motioned them inside, Macy’s breath hitched.

“M…m…Macy?”

“Hi Dad.”

John was in a wheelchair. He was already facing the door on the other side of his double-king sized bed when his daughters walked in: Macy in front and Toya right behind her.

“T…t…Toya.”

Toya didn’t speak but waved at her father. He was a stranger to her, and it was even stranger to see him like this. Barely talking and not walking, almost invisible.

He motioned for the girls to come to him, so they walked over and sat in chairs that faced him. Even in a wheelchair he was imposing. He was dark brown with large hands and had a seriousness to his eyes. His mouth quivered a bit as he tried to talk, but his voice was still velvet and deep. “My…girls…my girls.”

His silvery voice began to crack and soon tears crept out of his eyes. First in droplets and then small streams. He tried lifting his hands to wipe the tears from his face, but they didn’t do what they were supposed to, so he just rested them in his lap. Andre rushed over to him, but Macy got up before he could grab a Kleenex and wiped her father’s face.

“It’s okay dad,” she said.

Toya still sat calmly—at least on the outside. Inside of was a swirl of emotions that ranged from frustration to sadness.

John waved his hand to Andre and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it signaled him to pull something out of his dresser and hand it to John. John cusped the object in his hand and turned it over a few times. He titled his head up in Toya’s direction; it was a motion that said hold my hand. Toya gulped as she stretched out her hand and grabbed the object. The rock was smooth and greyish-blue, and she could feel ridges on the underside. She turned it over and read the words: Toya Smith.

For the first time in years, she looked at her father, directly in his face. She deeply searched for answers to the many questions she’d harbored, and she wanted to know why he kept this rock. Why hadn’t she discovered it in a park atop leaves like her sister had.

“I…I am sorry,” he started, as if it were a response to all her inquiries. He continued to talk, sharing all the details that painted their lives. The affair, the separation, and the life he chose to live without his girls. He mostly told him that he’d never forgotten them and that his love for them stayed strong like those rocks. He had visited New York for work when Macy started college and left the rock at a park, hoping she’d find it and find him.

“So, why did you keep mine?” Toya said.

“I kept yours because…I knew eventually, you’d come. You are m…my stubborn rock,” he let out a chuckle. “I missed you girls with my whole heart, and now that you’re here…I don’t have much time.”

Macy extended her hand to touch her father’s arm and Toya joined her.

“We’ve missed you too dad. So much,” Macy said. “How much time…did the doctor say?”

“Two months…tops.”

The girls let out sighs that echoed through the room, and Macy knew what they had to do.

“We’ll stay!”

Toya shot a look at her sister. Her expression was twisted, and her eyes were empty.

She cleared her throat and said, “no sis…you’ll stay.” Toya leaned in closer to her father and grabbed his brown hands. “Dad, I love you, but I spent most of my life without a father. I walked toward you, and you turned away from me. I will take this rock, but I cannot stay here. I hope you and Macy can heal, together, and close those wounds.”

She blew her sister a kiss, grabbed her purse, and headed toward the door.

As she walked through his mansion, she studied the walls for signs that she existed. There were photos of dignitaries he’d met during his work as a diplomat and walls and walls of artwork. As she looked closer, she noticed that at least half of them were signed Blue. On the wall across from her was another picture. Finally, family! She rubbed her finger over the portrait. A little girl in a white dress and a pink ribbon around a high bun enveloped by two adults: a stunning woman with sepia skin and an imposing man on the other side of the girl. Her eyes swelled as she searched the picture for herself. No matter how hard she looked, she came up empty.

She charged down the hall, found her bags, and pushed the door open. When she stepped outside it was as if the warm sun on her back melted the ice she felt within. It was a reminder: she was loved. She did not have a father, but she had a mother. A mother that never left, and she could be okay with that. She dug in her pocket and felt for the rock. It was still there, still smooth, still sturdy and it had her name. She turned back to the mansion, blew a final kiss, and walked down the driveway.

She was going home.