Here We Are Now Read online

  DEDICATION

  To Greg, for giving me that EP ten years ago

  and for everything after

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Day One Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Day Two Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Day Three Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Day Four Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Day Five Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Jasmine Warga

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  DAY ONE

  (In Which a Stranger Who Was Not Really a Stranger Knocked on My Door)

  I.

  There are people that you never expect to show up on your doorstep. For me, this list begins with the pope, the president, and my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, because she absolutely hated me.

  He would’ve been somewhere on my Most Unlikely List. Probably top ten. But there was a time, not so long ago, when he wouldn’t have been on that list. There was actually a time when I would camp out by the window, willing him to pull up into the driveway. I always imagined him driving a black Mustang with a loud, rumbling engine. I used to picture him in the driver’s seat, his sunglasses pushed up in his messy pale corn-colored hair, wearing his mint green plaid pajama pants that had become so iconic thanks to the Rolling Stone photo shoot.

  But after three years of unanswered letter after unanswered letter, I’d finally accepted that it was never going to happen.

  Until it did.

  When I heard the first knock, I freaked out. We weren’t expecting any guests and I have the type of brain that always goes to the Absolute Worst-Case Scenario. And so I did what anyone would do when they believe someone is attempting to break into their house and hack them to death with a chainsaw—I called for help.

  “Harlow?” I called out. She was in the kitchen whipping up a batch of her pistachio cupcakes with buttercream icing.

  “Yes?” she answered over the noisy whirl of the electric mixer and the Dresden Dolls record that was turned on full blast. Amanda Palmer was crooning about jeeps and betrayal. Harlow was in a phase where she was both nursing a major crush on Amanda Palmer and wanting to be Amanda Palmer.

  “I think there’s someone at the door.”

  I heard the electric mixer switch off. “Yeah. I thought I heard a knock. Are you expecting anyone?”

  I reclined farther into the couch and pressed pause on Netflix, frantically trying to remember the name of an artsy French movie that I could turn on. If Harlow and I were about to be savagely murdered by a serial killer, I wanted to be remembered for my unimpeachable taste in foreign cinema, not my penchant for reality cooking competitions. “No,” I answered, this time lowering my voice in case said murderer was eavesdropping on us. “Are you?”

  Harlow walked into the living room. My mother’s paisley-patterned cooking apron was draped over Harlow’s tiny frame, sporting some fresh flour splotches. There was also a sliver of icing on the left side of her face. Harlow was a terrific baker, albeit not a neat one. “Nope. I told Quinn she could come over later for cupcakes and pizza, but she doesn’t get off work until six.” Harlow pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her frayed denim shorts, which she was wearing over polka-dotted tights. “What time is it, anyway?”

  I glanced at the cable box. “Twelve thirty-one. Definitely not six.”

  “Okay. So it isn’t Quinn. But that doesn’t mean it’s Charles Manson.”

  Quinn was Harlow’s girlfriend. And while she wasn’t Charles Manson, she did sort of terrify me. They’d been together seven and a half months, and I still didn’t feel confident that Quinn liked me. I worried that Quinn didn’t find me edgy or interesting enough, or worse, thought I was a complete nutball. How I responded to situations like the one that was presently unfolding did not bode well for my score on the nutball scale.

  “Tal,” Harlow said, using her knowing, level voice with me. “Why don’t you just go open the door and see who it is? I’ll be right here.”

  I bit my bottom lip and stared at the frozen image of Gordon Ramsay on the television screen. I hadn’t yet switched over to the French new wave film whose title I couldn’t remember.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Tal,” Harlow repeated. “Answer the door.”

  “But we don’t know who it is.”

  We’d entered our usual call-and-response pattern. I like to think that’s one of the hallmarks of Bestfrienddom—that comfortable circular conversation.

  She sighed and I watched her flip her phone over in her hands. I had a sinking feeling that she was debating whether or not to text Quinn and tell her I was being a complete nutball. Great.

  The only thing worse than my best friend being infinitely cooler than me was that now she had a girlfriend who was infinitely cooler than both of us. And I could feel Harlow slipping away—slowly, but still slipping. Being pulled into the orbit of Quinn and Quinn’s alluring pack of friends. It terrified me.

  In the past few months, something had shifted between Harlow and me. It was difficult to put a finger on. It wasn’t like an earthquake or anything that dramatic, but there was a fissure. Before, I had been the first person Harlow told everything to. And of course, I told her everything first too. Really, there wasn’t anyone other than my mom who I confided in besides Harlow. Now that Harlow had Quinn, I was Harlow’s second person. But she was still my first. And that made me feel sad.

  No one wants to be in second place.

  When Harlow had first come over today, she pretended like everything was normal. But I knew it was a tactic. Harlow didn’t ever want to talk about what had changed between us. She wanted to keep on pretending like things were as they always had been, even though they clearly weren’t.

  I wondered if Harlow was only here now because Mom had called Harlow and asked her to come. I could easily imagine the phone call: “Harlow, dear,” my mother would’ve said in her formal tone that she believed disguised her ever-present accent. “I’m going to be away for a few days in Paris, giving a lecture at the launch of a new gallery. Would you do me a huge favor and check in on Tal from time to time for me?”

  “Yes. Of course, Dr. Abdallat,” Harlow would’ve said, because despite the frayed denim jean shorts and polka-dotted tights and chipped dark nail polish, Harlow at her core was still the authority-pleasing third grader who turned in every book report a week before it was due. She was also one of the few people I knew who referred to my mother as Dr. Abdallat. Yes, she had a degree in art history and theory, but she was a professor, not a medical doctor.

  “Okay. Fine. Let’s just take a deep breath and behave like normal people,” Harlow insisted. She marched toward the window. She pulled back the thin lavender curtain and let out a gasp.

  “What is it?” I whispered, my body stiffening.

  “Taliah Sahar Abdallat, you’re going to want to see this.”

  My throat went dry. “Seriously, what is it?”

  “Taliah.” Her voice was rigid. “Come here.”

  I pulled myself up from the couch.
I walked to stand beside her and looked out the window. The mid-summer daylight was bouncing off the window in a blinding fashion and I had to blink a few times to make sure my eyes were really seeing what I thought they were seeing.

  It was him.

  Three years too late.

  Or really sixteen years too late if we’re being honest.

  But it was him.

  Dear Julian Oliver,

  I really don’t know how to begin this letter other than to say, I think you’re my dad. There is so much I want to say, but I felt the need to start with a neat and pretty and direct beginning. Something to get you hooked so you’ll keep reading this letter until the end.

  I like to imagine this is how you feel when you go about ordering the tracks for one of your albums. You select something nice and catchy for the beginning track and then slyly sandwich in some of the more meaningful but less flashy songs.

  Now, before you throw this letter away, please hear me out. I’m sure you get deranged fan letters all the time, but that’s not what this is. To be honest, I’m not even a huge fan of yours. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I like your music just fine, but it’s not like my favorite or anything. To be fair, that probably has a lot to do with the fact that my mother doesn’t really let me listen to your genre of music much, which, after my recent discovery, is starting to make a lot more sense.

  I guess I should mention that my mother is Dr. Lena Noura Abdallat. Ha! I bet I have your interest now, right?

  Anyway, when I was snooping in her study I found a well-cataloged shoebox. (The shoebox was full of news clippings about you and your band. Cutouts of write-ups from Rolling Stone and the profile that the New York Times did on you a few years back. And then, buried under all the news clippings, there was a single letter from you to her. It was written on yellowed paper. Three lines only:

  Lena,

  Please give me one more chance. This time it will be different. I promise.

  Always,

  Julian

  So you have to understand how my brain basically exploded at that moment. I stared at your photograph from one of the articles that had run in Rolling Stone and was amazed to see that we have the exact same eyes. I mean, exact same eyes, dude. And as you know, Mom is from Jordan, so that was always something I wondered about because Mom told me that my dad was someone she knew from back home. She claimed I was conceived (GROSS) when she went home for her mother’s funeral, but like how many Jordanians do you know with icy blue eyes?

  And then I did more research into you—thanks, Google—and found out that you are from none other than Oak Falls, Indiana. Guess what? Mom went to undergrad at Hampton University in, yup, Oak Falls, Indiana. I’m guessing that’s where you guys met, right?

  Basically, I want you to explain yourself. Or at least answer my letter to tell me if I’m on the right track or not. You owe me some answers.

  I know you are a busy man, so I’ve laid out my three most pressing questions below and would appreciate if you could contact me as soon as possible with the answers:

  1) Are you my father?

  2) Did you already know that you were my father?

  3) What does my mom need to forgive you for?

  Your maybe-possibly-probably daughter,

  Taliah Sahar Abdallat

  PS: I’ve included a recent photograph of Mom. She’s a babe, right? Also, check it out—that’s from an article she had published in Art History. You aren’t the only rock star in this “family.”

  II.

  I clutched Harlow’s shoulder. “Is that who I think it is?”

  She reached out and squeezed my other hand. “That’s a loaded question.”

  I thought of the famous photograph spread shot by Annie Leibovitz where Julian Oliver was holding a gun in his right hand and the neck of his guitar in his left. “Harlow.”

  “Taliah.”

  “Well, I think it is him. Pretty sure he’s Julian Oliver. But I’m still unwilling to fully agree that he is who you think he is.” She squeezed my hand again. “In that regard.”

  “In that regard,” I repeated absently, and snuck another glance at the willowy figure standing on my doorstep. I’d imagined this moment so many times, and now that it was finally here, I found it very difficult to be present in it. It almost felt as if I were watching a videotape of my life.

  My mind repeated the same refrain over and over again: Julian Oliver is standing on your doorstep.

  Julian Oliver of rock star fame.

  Julian Oliver, my long-lost father.

  You see, three years ago when I’d discovered The Shoebox in my mother’s home studio/office—I obviously immediately shared this life-altering revelation with Harlow because she was and is my first-choice person. But analytical-to-a-fault Harlow hadn’t been as convinced as me. Her arguments, presented below in no particular order, were valid:

  1.Lots of people have glacier-like blue eyes and dimples in their right cheeks.

  2.Mom could have been a huge hardcore fan of Staring Into the Abyss. A secret fan, but a die-hard one nonetheless. Lots of people were.

  3.It was just very unfathomable and unlikely.

  4.See point 3 and repeat it over and over and over again.

  My counterpoints were as follows:

  1.Yes, but there was still a startling resemblance. We even smiled in the same way. Didn’t she see that? (She eventually admitted that she did, indeed, see it. Especially the way both of our bottom lips curved slightly to the left, which served to further highlight the dimple in our right cheek.)

  2.Mom hated rock music. This had been a point of contention between Mom and me for basically my whole life. I’d had to beg—I mean capital-B Beg—her to let me take piano lessons. And to this day, she only wanted me to listen to classical music and musical soundtracks. Any modern music I listened to was a secret affair. Her disdain for rock music had always seemed odd, and I remember one time when she had a very strong reaction to a Staring Into the Abyss song that came over the speakers when we were in a store. All this is to say, Mom’s reactions to rock music, particularly Staring Into the Abyss, seemed suspiciously out of proportion.

  3.Mom had completed her undergraduate studies at Hampton University, a private college nestled in the sleepy town of Oak Falls, Indiana. Guess where Julian Oliver was born and raised? Yup. You guessed it.

  4.Sure, it was very unfathomable and unlikely, but so were many things that existed in this world, such as air travel, the smallpox vaccine, and the absolute perfection of Beyoncé.

  Harlow dropped my hand. “You’re going to answer the door, right?”

  I nodded dumbly. “But what do I say?”

  “Why don’t you wait and see what he says?”

  I stood frozen and she let out a loud sigh. “Taliah. You have to open the door. This is getting weird.”

  “Isn’t it already crazy weird?”

  “Yes,” she said emphatically. “So there’s no need to make it any more weird.” And with that, Harlow pulled open the door.

  Staring Into the Abyss

  Staring Into the Abyss (S.I.T.A.) is an American indie rock band that was formed in Oak Falls, Indiana, in 1999. The band’s lyrics, which have been described as “poetic, esoteric, and melancholy,” are written and sung by Julian Oliver, the band’s lead singer. Oliver also reportedly composes the vast majority of the band’s music, though according to an interview with Pitchfork in 2011, Oliver is occasionally lent a hand, which most people took to be a nod to band member Marty St. Clair. The band has recorded four studio albums, the most popular of which is Blind Windows, which was released in July 2002, and includes the hit single “That Night.” The band hasn’t put out a new album since 2011 and there is much speculation about when or if a new record will be released.

  BAND MEMBERS

  Julian Oliver—lead vocals, guitar

  Marty St. Clair—keyboard, bass, backup vocals

  Chris Stevens—bass, backup vocals

  Brett Bannist
er—drums, percussion

  MUSICAL STYLE

  The band has been compared to several other indie and alternative rock bands and musical acts, such as the National, the White Stripes, Neutral Milk Hotel, the Cure, and Wolf Parade. Oliver has cited Leonard Cohen and Elliott Smith as major influences on his lyrical writing, as well as Isaac Brock. He has also mentioned drawing inspiration from William Blake, Anne Sexton, and William Faulkner. Given that the band’s name is a direct reference to Friedrich Nietzsche, it is likely Oliver is also inspired by Nietzsche and other nineteenth-century philosophers. Because of Oliver’s poetic, wistful, and obscure lyrics, he has developed an almost cult-like following of worship among his fans.

  Due to some of the band’s more hard-edged songs, they have also drawn comparisons to the Clash; one music review outlet once even went as far as to call Staring Into the Abyss a “doe-eyed version of a British punk grunge band. Sure, they have prettier, more esoteric lyrics, but at the end of the day, fans turn out for the same reason—to jump around to the jagged bass lines and thundering percussion.”

  DISCOGRAPHY

  Winter in Indiana (2000)

  Blind Windows (2002)

  Fireproof (2007)

  You’ll Never See Me Again (2011)

  III.

  He looked slightly different from the numerous photos I’d seen of him online. But it was definitely him. Same shaggy pale blond hair that somehow managed to be long and short at the same time. (In the sunlight, I noticed a few gray streaks that never showed up in press photos.) Same globe-shaped, icy blue eyes—my eyes. Same freckled nose that hooked a little to the right. Same willowy frame with slightly hunched posture.

  “Taliah?” he said. Looking back, I think he should’ve come up with a better line. After all, he was the one showing up on my doorstep.

  I didn’t say anything because I was, well, wholly unprepared.

  “I’m Harlow,” Harlow said, and opened the door wider. “And this is Taliah.”