Conversations From Afar

Bonus | Cam

5 YEARS LATER

Her large blue-grey baby eyes stare into mine. It's creepy—just a little bit. Is it okay for your own baby to creep you out? (Just... a little bit.) What is she seeing? Am I just some blurry white guy or can she see my eyes too?

My phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island and I lift Zora from my chest. "I'm going to go to the kitchen, do you want to come to the kitchen?"

She smiles and gestures emphatically with her chubby baby arms.

"Are you hungry? Would you like to listen to something else?"

She says something in baby and I take it to mean: no thank you father, and I think your musical taste is delightful.

"I agree," I pick up the phone and sit her on the counter in front of me. She just recently gained the ability to sit up by herself, and she clutches my free hand in both of hers. Okay, she's not that creepy. I mean, she is, sometimes, but I love her so much. To the phone, "De Luca."

"Hey Cam, it's... uh, it's Grayer."

Grayer, my youngest client. Seventeen and smart and tenuously vulnerable. "Are you all right?"

"I was wondering... I know you don't have hours today, but I really need to talk to you."

"Grayer..."

"Look, I understand if you say no, but like I really really really need to see you as soon as possible."

Zora suddenly lets out a squeal that I'm half-sure is delighted, but by what I'm not entirely sure, then the cat leaps onto the counter and sniffs the top of her curly, dark head. She adores Klose and I think it might be mutual; he's certainly curious about her.

"Did someone just die?" He asks, and I turn my attention away from my children.

"Ah, I don't normally do this but why don't you come by the house. I'm with my daughter today and can't make it to my office."

"Address?"

He arrives in less than ten minutes which means he was probably already waiting outside of my office in his car. He does a double take when he sees Zora in my arms and I'm expecting everything and nothing because he doesn't have much of a filter.

"She's black," he says, shimmying his feet out of brown Blundstones. "Is your wife black?"

"No." I don't bother giving him something more politically correct, he's heard it all before.

"She looks malato, though. Is that an offensive term? I mean it does mean mixed breed... I'm not calling your daughter a mule by the way. I read that it originated to denote to the offspring of a donkey and a horse? Isn't the instance of postzygotic barriers in mules interesting? It's so strange how they're sterile." As he's been speaking I've guided him down the hallway to the living room.

"The people at the orphanage thought that perhaps both of her biological parents were mixed race."

"Yeah, she's kinda, like, a very milky chocolate milk. She's very cute, congratulations. You won the genetic lottery and stuff, no one wants an ugly kid."

I sink into my favorite chair while he paces in front of the fake fireplace. He is, without a doubt, my most entertaining client. We spend the most part of most sessions on his tangents, but I think it's okay. He doesn't speak freely with many people. "Grayer?"

"Yup?"

"What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Oh yeah, my mother called. The house. I didn't mean to not answer it was just one of those times, I was playing my game and the phone rang and I figured someone else would get it then it was too late and the answering machine picked up so I was like whatever then I heard her voice and I dropped the consol and I was holding the X-acto knife before I even knew what I was doing."