Mack
Humiliate: to say or do something which makes
someone feel ashamed or stupid
I hate my stupid life.
Mack lay in the dark, wishing the house would collapse and bury her in the rubble.
She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. She’d meant to say a few nice things about her dad—Ed? What was she even supposed to call him?—and then sit down, but in the end what came out of her mouth hadn’t been what was in her head. Epic fail. And now she didn’t know what to do. She’d cried herself dry and she didn’t know if she was crying for herself or Ed.
She knew she was acting loopy.
She’d felt loopy ever since she’d discovered her dad wasn’t her dad.
That had been the worst day of her life. She’d started to shake like a little kid on her first day at kindergarten. She’d lived in terror of someone finding out and now she’d made the nightmare come true.
Abigail, Phoebe and Tracy had been in the back row at the funeral, supposedly to give her moral support. And David had been there, too. David, from the neighboring boys’ school, who she’d been exchanging looks with for a while. Boys didn’t usually look at her, but she’d been quietly hoping he might ask her to the movies or something. She’d even tried making herself more “girly,” but it had all been for nothing.
It would be round the whole school that Mackenzie didn’t know who her dad was. A few of the kids in her class had divorced parents, but at least they knew who they were. No one had identity issues. She’d walk into class and everyone would stare at her. She’d be on display, like some sort of museum exhibit.
An idea formed in her head. Wild, desperate, but possible.
She could run away.
No one could stare at her if she wasn’t there, could they? She didn’t have to go to school ever again. She had some savings and if she wore a push-up bra and a ton of makeup she could pass for eighteen. She’d get a job. Would she need her passport for that? Her birth certificate?
With a groan, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. It was still covered in those tiny fluorescent stars her mother had put there when Mack was six. Bookshelves lined the wall above her bed so she could reach out her hand and grab one whenever she couldn’t sleep, which was depressingly often. Closest to her was her tattered copy of Moby-Dick and next to that The Old Man and the Sea. Her mother wanted to box them up and put them in the attic but Mack couldn’t bear to be parted from them.
She didn’t much like English or writing essays, but she did love reading and those books connected her to her past. They made her feel as if she belonged somewhere. Not London, where the traffic and the people crammed together so tightly that there were days when it felt as if there was no oxygen left, but somewhere by the sea where there was air and room to breathe. Her favorite place in the world was The Captain’s House on Martha’s Vineyard, where her other grandmother lived. The house had a room on the top floor where Mack always slept. If you half closed your eyes you could imagine you were on a ship.
Maybe she could get a job on a boat and spend months away at sea like her ancestors.
Not whaling like the old days, she’d never do anything that cruel, but anything that meant not being back on land for at least a year.
If she got really lucky she’d be shipwrecked like Robinson Crusoe.
Anything was more appealing than going back to school on Monday.
She wished she’d never done that stupid ancestry project; then she never would have dug out her birth certificate and found out the truth.
Instead of a name where her father’s name should have been, there was a line. A line. Like she’d appeared from nowhere or something.
She’d stared at it for at least an hour, sure there was some mistake.
Her parents must have filled it out wrong. Some stupid admin person must have had a hearing problem. Hello? Why has someone drawn a line? The father’s name is Edward Hudson. Hudson, like the river.
She’d bombarded a search engine with questions.
What does it mean when it’s not your dad’s name on your birth certificate?
Can your birth certificate be wrong?
She’d wanted there to be an alternative explanation, something simple, but the simple truth was she had no idea who her father was and her birth certificate was no help at all.
Every time she’d looked at it she’d felt a hot flush of embarrassment.
And almost as bad as not knowing the identity of her father was the thought of her mother having sex with someone. If there was one thing no teenager ever wanted to think about it was parents having sex.
She shook her head, trying to get rid of the vision.
She’d always been close to her mother, but now she couldn’t even be in a room with her without imagining her with a man. It was hideous.
She’d worried that her dad might find out and leave. Then she’d be shuttled back and forth between warring parents like a couple of the kids in her class.
But now Ed was never going to find out.
He was never coming back.
It felt as if someone had thrown her emotions into a blender. One portion of misery, two of fear, one of anger and a handful of freshly picked resentment. Pulse on full power until the whole thing is so mixed up you can’t identify any of it and there you have it—one head case smoothie. Drink in one gulp and wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again.
Her phone lit up and she saw Phoebe’s name pop up.
Phoebe the dreamer. Phoebe who, if she knew what Mack was going through, would probably say, Are you sure you’re not a secret princess?
Did her real dad even know she existed? Was he suddenly going to turn up and try to yank her into a whole new life? She wanted to know who he was and what happened next, but it was obvious her mother was freaking so there was no chance of a proper conversation and honestly Mack wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about it. What if the truth was even worse? Maybe her dad was an ax murderer or something. Maybe he’d chopped up old ladies or messed with little kids.
Maybe she’d rather have a line on her birth certificate.
She heard a soft tap on the door and quickly stuffed her phone under the pillow and rolled onto her side, keeping her back to the room.
“Mack?”
At least her mom was talking again. When she’d gone silent in the church, Mack had been scared she’d killed her or something.
She heard the door open, then footsteps. The bed dipped as her mother sat down next to her. She smoothed her hair as she’d always done when Mack was little and it made her feel like crying again. She was so mad at her mom and yet she’d never needed her more.
Whenever Mack had a problem, her mom was the person she talked to. She never freaked like all the other moms she knew. Phoebe’s mother lectured her. Abigail’s mother shrieked, sometimes when Mack was there, which was oh-so embarrassing. Her mom listened. They’d always laughed together. Because her mother was younger than the other moms, sometimes she’d felt more like an older sister. And her friends had all envied her, although not anymore.
But this time her mother was the problem. She’d lied. How could Mack ever trust her again?
She jerked her head away from the soothing touch even though part of her desperately wanted it.
“Talk to me, Mack. You’re very upset and I understand that.”
“You’re the one who should be talking.” She felt physically sick. What if she threw up in her bed like a little kid?
“Could you at least turn round so I can see your face?”
“Why?” Mack turned, the movement sending her hair whipping across the face. “Checking for something familiar? Trying to work out who my father is?” She hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse than she already did but she saw the hurt in her mother’s eyes and realized it was possible.
How could you be mad at someone and feel guilty all at the same time?
Her mother took a deep breath. “I don’t need to work anything out. I know exactly who your father is, Mack.”