“So that’s how it ends?” asked Uly incredulously. “Odysseus knows what the bed’s made of, so Penelope just accepts him?”
“That’s how most scholars believe it ends,” said Yale. “There’s an additional ending that includes a trip to see Odysseus’ father, but most believe that was added at a later date.”
“Why would anyone do that?” asked True. “The story’s over.”
“Aren’t you at least curious?” Uly asked in response. “Besides, that’s who I was named after. He ought to be something more.” He turned back to Yale. “Can we read the other ending?”
“Tomorrow. It’s getting late and we still need to do the evening chores.”
But True had noticed something else. “Your name isn’t Odysseus.”
“Mom says it’s the same name, just a different language.”
“It is,” said Yale. “When transliterated into Greek, ‘Odysseus’ becomes ‘Ulysses.’ Your mother didn’t want you to be nicknamed Ody.”
“So she named you after a character in a story? Why would anyone do that?”
“It’s not a story!” retorted Uly hotly. “It’s history!”
“My dad says most of this old stuff was mostly made up to begin with, and then copied down the wrong way.” She sniffed. “None of it’s true. It’s just stories.”
“It may not necessarily be factual,” said Yale, his tone still as calm as ever, “but it is arguably true. There are independent accounts confirming many of the battles that are discussed in the Iliad and the Odyssey.”
“Yeah, but they couldn’t really have included gods and all that, ’cause that’s not the way those work. They’re just myths. Stories. Fiction,” she said loftily. “Definitely not true. Not to mention that naming someone after a story’s pretty lame.”
“Like your name isn’t?” shot back Uly. “It’s just a word. It doesn’t even describe you half the time.”
“It is not!” Now True’s tone was as hot as Uly’s. “I was named for my grandmothers!”
“You had two grandmothers named True? And you said my family’s names are lame?”
“Children.” Yale hadn’t exactly raised his voice, but he definitely was demanding attention. “This isn’t worthy of either of you. It’s time for a break and evening chores.” He closed down the lecture screen. “We’ll discuss this again tomorrow, when you’re both better able to behave.”
True slammed her books closed and shoved them into her bag, seething as her stomach tied itself in knots. Aside from that one conversation, she’d never asked her dad about her name. She wouldn’t even have done that then, except that Alex had told her she hadn’t let her dad name her Eleanor. That wouldn’t have been fair to you. Your dad has no right to expect you to turn into anyone other than yourself.
That’s not why I wanted to do it, he’d drawled from across their tiny living room. Besides, her middle name would’ve been different. Isn’t that enough?
No, Alex had answered, and don’t you try to butter me up by reminding me it would’ve been Alexandra. At least using her grandmothers’ names came up with something more original. The conversation had moved on from there, and True hadn’t thought about asking any follow-up questions. After all, she’d been really young at the time, having only just turned six.
Now, she found him bending over the ATV, which he had turned upside-down to fix whatever he was working on. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you name me True?”
His head popped up. “Where’d that question come from?”
“It just came up.” She shrugged. “It seems weird that my grandmothers would’ve both had that name. Why don’t I have a middle name?”
He looked at her for a long while before securing something and climbing down to the ground. “It’s a nickname, True-girl. You know what those are. Who’s been giving you trouble about it? Uly?”
She didn’t want him to go complaining to Devon about something so silly. “I’m just asking. And how is a nickname? I saw the paperwork you used for our applications to the Eden Project. You said True was my first name.”
With a sigh, her dad found a rag and wiped his hands off. “I was going really fast when I did that, and it didn’t matter anyway, since they pay me and not you.” That was the rule when children were under sixteen and signed on with their parents.
“So it’s not really my name? What were my grandmothers’ names?”
“My mother’s name was Theresa. Your mother’s mother was Ruth. So, Theresa Ruth. That’s what’s on your birth certificate.”
“But that doesn’t sound anything like ‘True.’”
Her dad found a stick and kicked grass aside until they had a bare patch of dirt. “You remember that it was my mother who used to help take care of you, right? She was actually called Theresa, so we had to use something different to tell you apart. Originally, we were going to use your middle name.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You know how people’s names are sometimes written when they go by their middle names? Watch this.” Using the stick, he wrote T. Ruth in the dirt patch he’d cleared. “Remind you of anything?”
She saw it right away. “Why didn’t you call me that, then?”
“It’s easier to say ‘true’ than it is to say ‘truth.’ But,” he continued, as he wiped out the letters in the dirt, “if you don’t like it, you can pick something else. We’d just need to have Julia change your name in your medical records.”
True thought about that for a while. “I don’t know what I’d pick.”
“Then we’ll leave it alone.” In a familiar gesture, he brushed his hand against her hair. “Besides, it fits you. You always want to be honest and know the truth. I’m proud to call you ‘True.’”
Her stomach felt as though it were untying itself and warming up. “Then that’s what you should call me. It’s a heck of a lot better than a name from a story anyway.”