I spent Christmas by my Mama's side. She was strong enough to get out of bed, and we ate turkey and dressing on the hospital's third-floor balcony. I gave her a new robe—pink, her favorite color. She gave me a flashdrive filled with pictures of us together, from when I was little, all the way through. I was glad I didn't have my computer there, because when I got back to my temporary apartment, I cried the whole time I was looking through it.

That night, I finally went to Joe's house. I didn't want to, but she said it was her greatest Christmas wish. Who's going to say no to his dying mom when she asks like that? So I drove to the suburbs, where all the fake-nice people live, and I found a regular-looking two-story house. It was the same house, Mama had told me, that she'd shared with Joe. He wasn't big on change, apparently.

I got there pretty late on purpose so I wouldn't have to stay long. There were lights on and extra cars, so I figured they were having a party. I thought about turning right around and leaving, but I couldn't face telling my mom I'd chickened out.

"Come on, Wally," I said to myself. "This is the only time you ever have to talk to them." I finally went to the door when I'd psyched myself up.

"Hi, I'm Wally; I'm Francine's son." I wanted to make it clear up front that I was only there for my mom. But it was my dad who opened the door, and Iris was standing there. Mama wasn't kidding about the beautiful part. Iris was beautiful like a movie star or a model, like my mama was when she was younger and healthier. I didn't really see what Joe looked like right then. My brain kept telling me he was my dad, but I couldn't make it feel real. He was just a really tall guy who looked like he was seeing a ghost when he looked at me.

The company at Joe's house was another couple who also looked like models or something. I was in a room full of weirdly attractive people, and they were all really close and really happy. I felt like an outsider, and I wished I hadn't come after all, regardless of what my mother wanted.

"Wally, this is Barry, our foster brother," Iris told me, and I shook hands with the good-looking, skinny guy.

"Long story," he said. "Nice to meet you. This is Detective Spivot, Joe's partner." So the blonde was a cop. I was in a house with two police detectives, and I was a guy who made his living doing illegal racing. That's irony for you.

Joe tried to give me a glass of champagne, but I didn't take it. "I'd better go back to Francine," I said.

"Please—tell her we're thinking of her," he answered.

"Whatever," I said, already on my way out the door.

"Wally." Iris's voice stopped me. "Will you come to dinner next Monday night?"

"Um, ok." I couldn't think fast enough to say no, and it wasn't until I'd gotten to my car that I realized I'd actually agreed to see these people again. As I drove back to the hospital, I tried to collect my thoughts about Joe.

But I couldn't really do it. He was just a guy. Who was my dad. It was weird and uncomfortable, and I wished I could stop being curious, but I couldn't. Part of me still wanted to know what kind of guy he was. Besides, what could one more dinner really hurt? I could go once more and then never again.

"How was it, Baby?" Mama looked so happy when I got back to her room that I no longer regretted going, not after it brought the biggest smile to her face that I'd seen in days.

"It was ok." I made myself smile.

"How were they?" She wasn't going to be satisfied with generalities.

"Iris is gorgeous, just like you said, and Joe seems—fine."

She shook her head. She could see through me; she always could. "When are you seeing them again?"

"They asked me over for dinner Monday."

Mama's eyes drilled into me. "You're going to go, and you're going to try."

I sighed. "You realize this isn't going to be as easy as you want it to be."

"I don't care about easy," she said. "I just care about effort. You're a good son, Wally. I just want you to finally have the father you deserve." I didn't have the heart to tell her that her detective ex wasn't likely to appreciate a son who did the things I did every night, even if I did want to have anything to do with him, which I didn't—much.

So I went, and it was weird, and I left.

Of course, my mother wasn't going to stand for that as an explanation, so I lied to her. It wasn't that difficult any more; I'd been lying to her about racing for ages. I didn't tell her that I'd felt awkward, that I could tell Joe had felt just as strange as I did, and that we'd all seemed like we were trying too hard. That I was pretty sure it was never going to work.

I told—I told her we'd looked at pictures of their past life together, that Joe had cooked an amazing dinner, that Iris had told me all about her job. I watched Mama's eyes light up, and I tried to focus on her happiness instead of the gnawing guilt about my dishonesty that made me sick to my stomach.

If it hadn't been for that guilt, I never would have gone back and tried again. You wouldn't have caught me dead at Joe's house or with my sister again. But I felt bad because I couldn't escape the truth any more—my mother was dying, and it wouldn't be long.

So I let them talk me into one more time, and this time, it wasn't so bad. It wasn't good. That's not what I'm saying at all. But it didn't make me want to crawl out of my own skin. This time, Joe acted like a pretty normal guy, and I guess I acted like me, and it went okay. This time, I told Mama the truth, that we were getting to know each other.