My mom called Gary my daddy , but I knew he wasn ’ t . I knew he wasn ’ t because I had been visiting my real dad in prison for two years when Gary started coming to my supervised visits with Mom . I knew because he was coppercolored , and I was milky-white and covered in freckles . I knew because he kissed Amanda , their copper-colored baby , and giggled with her , but he never kissed me and rarely spoke to me . Knowing , though , didn ’ t stop the aching in my chest when he played peek-a-boo with my sister and ignored me . I put myself in his way on purpose , twining myself like a cat between his legs while he made huevos rancheros , sitting in front of the TV so he couldn ’ t see the screen . His anger pointed at me , his black rattlesnake eyes finally focused on me . Curses spouted from his mouth , but I had what I wanted — my name , uttered by the gravelly voice I craved .
One night as Amanda and I bathed together , I watched his giant hand take the washcloth and caress her chubby back and legs . Her black hair and eyes mirrored his , only her button nose resembled my mom and me . I found myself looking at it every time I looked at her , searching her dark beauty for something I could claim as mine . “ Daddy , wash me .” I begged , scooting closer . He shook his head . “ You ’ re a big girl , do it yourself .” Of course , he didn ’ t want to touch another man ’ s naked daughter , had no idea that his rejection stung my tender heart . How many men have touched my body to make up for his refusal ? I pulled up the lever on the faucet while our bath ran , turning on the showerhead and lighting his fury .
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“ You know I love you , right ?” My mom ’ s cigarette-ravaged voice always sounds so distant when she calls me . I stand in my adoptive mother ’ s bright blue kitchen , a corded phone pressed tight to my cheek . Not one , but a thousand conversations have passed like this , with her voice pleading for recognition as we both search for something normal to say .
“ I know , mom . I love you too .” I only ever call her mom when I ’ m talking to her . To my adoptive mother ( who I have called mommy , mom , and ma by turns ) I call her Marilyn , to my friends she is my bio mom . It ’ s a distinction I ’ ve made all my life — that she didn ’ t change my diapers , that she never cleaned my vomit , that her cool hand never pressed against my forehead while I lay feverish in bed . In these moments on the phone , though , when I can hear the ache in her voice
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