To hear her mother tell of it, Astrid never had a father. Deifying herself, Ingrid likened her daughter to Athena, sprung forth from her forehead like she was none other than Zeus. Astrid, of course, knew that wasn't even remotely true, nor did she expect that her mother thought she'd ever believe it. If anything, there was her birth certificate, naming the male part of her chromosomes as Klaus Anders, born in Copenhagen, Demark, residing in Venice Beach, California.

And then there was a photograph, though that was something of a secret Astrid wasn't supposed to have discovered. Tucked away in one of her mother's books of poetry, Windward Avenue, a Polaroid of them at a beachside cafe, with a bunch of other people who'd looked like they'd all come off in the beach - tanned, long-haired people wearing beads, the table covered with beer bottles. Klaus had his arm over the back of Ingrid's chair, careless and proprietary. They looked, to her, like they were sitting in a special patch of sunlight, an aura of beauty around them. They could have been brother and sister. A leonine blond with sensual lips, he smiled all the way and his eyes turned up at the corners. Neither of Astrid nor her mother smiled like that.

The picture and the birth certificate were all she had of him, that and the question mark in her genetic code, all that she didn't know about herself. Mostly, she just wondered what he would think of her. If they'd ever crossed paths. If one day, they'd meet. If one day, when she was a famous artist, he'd see her work and be struck in ways he could never quite understand. Or if he'd instinctively know that was the mark of his own flesh and blood.

Usually, Ingrid wouldn't allow dwelling on such sentimental things. But without her there, being both motherless and fatherless this year, all Astrid could do was dwell, up on the roof again as she'd felt it had the best track record for moping so far, running her thumb over the picture, over Klaus's face, as if trying to remember it, so she'd know and maybe he'd know if they ever truly did pass each other by.


[[ like I can refuse a good chance for a dramatic mopey post! slightly cribbed from chapter seven of Janet Fitch's White Oleander; open roof is open!]]