Three Black Swans

by Caroline B. Cooney

  When her Missy self appeared, Genevieve paused the video. She could not pick up the pieces of her brain to make anything fit. She played the rest of it. Her Claire self appeared.

  In the video, her two selves beamed or wept.

  Who were these girls?

  Who was she?

  * * *

  The third time Genevieve played the video, she managed to have a thought: If three girls look exactly alike, perhaps they are triplets.

  How could Genevieve Candler be one of triplets? Only by adoption.

  Had she, Genevieve Candler, been adopted?

  Impossible. Ned and Allegra Candler didn’t even like children. They wouldn’t adopt one.

  And yet, Genevieve remembered something now. Only a few months ago, in August, Uncle Alan had made one of his rare visits to the nursing home. When he found his niece leading a water aerobics class, he said, “You’re pretty young to be so conniving.”

  “GeeGee loves the water,” Genevieve had said, wondering if she had the wrong definition of “conniving.” “They aren’t allowed to go in unless there’s somebody here. So I’m here.”

  Uncle Alan snorted. “Your parents taught you well. You’ll be number one in that will. Ned and Allegra only had a baby to please Grandmother, anyway. That’s why you were named Genevieve. To get closer to the cash. And there’s still cash, believe me. The old bag didn’t run out. She just doesn’t want to share it.”

  How dare he refer to her wonderful great-grandmother as “the old bag.” How could GeeGee—who was good, funny, nice, cheerful, generous—have a grandchild like Uncle Alan, anyway? Genevieve couldn’t stand thinking about ugly people and their ugly thoughts, especially when they were related to her. When Uncle Alan left, she managed to forget about it. After all, nobody had a baby just to get an inheritance.

  Or did they? Could Ned and Allegra be just as ugly as Uncle Alan?

  Had there been a set of triplets available for adoption? Had Genevieve’s parents adopted a girl child in order to name her after the older Genevieve? Had they expected GeeGee to die sensibly at eighty or ninety, leaving baby Vivi her money, which they would then control and spend? And then GeeGee had had the nerve to live long enough to use up the money?

  Maybe that’s the Dark Look. Uncle Alan was right. I failed to achieve my real purpose. And now I’m going to cost even more. I expect to go to college.

  I can’t be adopted. I’m GeeGee’s great-granddaughter. Her sunshine. Her pride and joy. Her sweetness and light. Or a player in a sixteen-year deception.

  She examined the other two Genevieves again.

  What a feeble word “triplet” was. Like insignificant music. Or a small fall.

  I must be adopted, she thought. There’s no other way I can have identical—

  This time the word “triplet” did not come to mind; it was too infrequently used. It was alien. The real word was “sisters.”

  A beautiful, shocking word, one that had never had a use in Genevieve’s life.

  Those two girls could be my sisters? I could have had company all these years when I was home alone? I could have laughed and shared and argued and shopped with sisters?

  Genevieve’s body had dried out. She could not wet her lips or swallow. She could not blink or speak.

  The school day would be over soon. Her great-grandmother would be waiting for her. Nobody could enter the pool unless a certified swim instructor, familiar with life-saving techniques, was present. GeeGee and her aide would sit patiently, awaiting Genevieve’s arrival. Patience was a required skill in a nursing home.

  When she was a girl, GeeGee used to swim in Long Island Sound for miles, from one sandy beach to the next. Now she used a plastic water-wheelchair to get down the ramp into the pool, and wore a flotation device that the aide strapped around her middle. The water at its deepest was three and a half feet. Using a pink foam noodle to support her arms, GeeGee would dog-paddle a few strokes.

  In normal water aerobics, the water splashed and roiled as people kicked and jumped. In GeeGee’s class, the surface of the pool remained flat, because Genevieve’s group mainly rested on their foam noodles, watching her exercise but not really exercising themselves. They loved to hear about her classes and friends and activities, and were befuddled by references to Facebook or texting.

  Genevieve did not have parents to emulate; she just had parents. Instead, she strove to be like her great-grandmother. It was GeeGee whose life, voice, heart and zest Genevieve admired. She was proud of being Little Genevieve.

  What if I’m not? What if I’m somebody else?

  Jimmy Fleming said, “You okay, Gen?”

  STILL THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  GENEVIEVE COULD NOT recall her last class. Had she attended it? Had she spoken to Jimmy again? Or just staggered out of the building? She stared at her great-grandmother’s nursing home. A high wide portico allowed ambulances to drive right up to the entrance, safe from rain and snow. What would it feel like to live in a building where you planned to die? What would it feel like to the older Genevieve Candler when the younger one said, “Guess what? I’m not yours after all.”

  Genevieve glanced at her watch. Minutes and hours were meaningless now. The time that mattered was sixteen years not shared. Sixteen years when she could have had sisters.

  A quick sharp wind showered her with tiny yellow leaves from a thin graceful tree. She caught one in her hand.

  Even if I’m adopted, GeeGee will still love me. It’ll be a different love, but it’ll be just as deep. Adoption won’t cancel how much we love each other. Or will it?

  Genevieve did not want to be here. She wanted to park herself in front of that video and watch it over and over until she had her other selves in her bones.

  On weekdays, her mother did not get home before seven. She could not remember her father’s schedule. But both parents were easy to avoid. Genevieve had the upstairs of their little house, a narrow, low-ceilinged set of tiny rooms and closets, which her parents grandly referred to as “Vivi’s suite” and which Emma called “the starving poet’s attic.” They never bothered her up there.

  It had become popular to send e-mail questions among her friends. Not dull questions like “What is your favorite color?” but disturbing questions like “What do your parents do that you wish they wouldn’t?” Genevieve never replied, although she did read other people’s responses. “I wish my mom wouldn’t run around the house in her underwear,” wrote one girl (quite an image if you knew the mother). “My parents are just right,” wrote another girl—sweet and perhaps true, but perhaps a way to stay in the game while avoiding the question. A few weeks ago the question had been: “On a scale of one to ten, how glad are you to have the parents you have?”

  Genevieve had slammed her mind shut and deleted the e-mail.

  Now the question rushed up like an icon bouncing at the bottom of the desktop, filling the screen of her mind, shouting, You don’t have to worry about the parents you have! Because you don’t have them! You are adopted!

  A dreadful thing happened in Genevieve’s heart. She rejoiced.

  That’s the secret, she realized. Ned and Allegra adopted a child by mistake. They aren’t the parent type.

  She forgave Ned and Allegra a thousand affronts and lapses. They were not her parents! Whoever the parents were, she shared them with the Claire girl and the Missy girl.

  Her restless legs had walked her indoors. The woman at the desk cried, “Gen! How lovely you look today! They’re all waiting! You’re a speck late.”

  Genevieve resented being told that she was late. I’m a volunteer, she wanted to say sharply. I’m here because I’m a good person. If it takes me a few more minutes today than it did last time, I am not late. I am on time whenever I get here, thank you. Out loud she said, “Hi, how are you?”

  The receptionist pushed the guest log toward her.

  I’m a guest, marveled Genevieve. Even in my own family, I’m a guest. Because I’m not theirs.

  She floate
d down the nursing home’s long halls, buoyed by the strange and terrifying thought that she was not descended from Ned and Allegra. She arrived at the pool room. When she opened the door, the distinctive scent of chlorine and the hot dampness of evaporating water would envelop her. Genevieve would play ballet with her class. “It’s Swan Lake!” she would cry. “Arms sweep up! Arms curve down.” For a moment, all motion would be graceful. “It’s Coppelia! We’re mechanical dolls! Tiptoe forward! Tiptoe back!”

  When she was a girl, GeeGee had loved ballet. She had attended ballet classes in the city for decades and had taken her great-granddaughter to many a performance.

  And if I’m not her great-granddaughter? thought Genevieve.

  GeeGee might take the news in stride. Age gave perspective. But if you have staked your all on one child and that child isn’t yours after all, and the parents of that child have been lying for years …

  How had Ned and Allegra gotten away with it? If Allegra had not been pregnant but suddenly had a baby, everybody from her employer to her grandmother-in-law would have known it wasn’t hers.

  Genevieve walked into the pool room.

  The smile that told Genevieve she was the most welcome person on earth transformed GeeGee’s wrinkled face.

  I’m going to sob, thought Genevieve. Just like Claire sobbed.

  Am I just like Claire? Exactly, precisely, identically like Claire?

  She kissed her great-grandmother and stepped out of her jeans.

  Her ancient “swimmers” invariably felt the pool water ought to be warmer, so Genevieve pleased them by jumping into the pool and shrieking, “Aaaaaah!” as if she too were shocked by the cold, although actually the water was annoyingly warm. Genevieve projected her voice to fill the cavernous room and to overcome the deafness suffered by her entire group. “Let’s all jog in place for a minute! Remember to breathe!”

  The seniors laughed, since taking one’s last breath was a big worry in this crowd.

  “If you hold your breath because it makes exercise seem easier,” Genevieve said for the umpteenth time, “your blood pressure will rise.”

  Everybody had a noodle, a long plump foam ribbon to help with balance. The noodles were green and yellow and pink and blue. “Rainbow!” called Genevieve, and up went the noodles to form brightly colored arcs in the air. The class stretched left and then they stretched right.

  A few summers ago, with both her parents out of town on business trips, Genevieve had amused herself by going through every drawer of the desk and three bureaus in her parents’ bedroom. Doesn’t every kid do the same? Genevieve had not expected to find treasure or secrets; she just wanted to know what was there.

  Jewelry. A stash of cash. Old programs and ticket stubs. Lists. Old passports. Birth certificates, including her own. She couldn’t remember it now, so it must have listed Ned and Allegra Candler as her parents, and Genevieve as their baby, or she would have noticed.

  I’m not adopted after all, she realized. These parents who are so unparental are my parents. Whoever Missy and Claire are, I’m not related to them. I don’t have sisters.

  She leaped into action so she wouldn’t weep. “Crosscountry!” she shouted. “Pretend you’re on skis! Lunge forward! Let’s try to do twenty! Let’s do a countdown! Nineteen! Eighteen! Seventeen! Lucille, you can’t drop out yet!”

  Lucille yelled, “I’m ninety! I can drop out whenever I want!”

  “Not in my class!” yelled Genevieve. “I’m the commander here! Keep up the pace!”

  They were all laughing.

  I only saw Claire crying, thought Genevieve. I only saw Missy excited. I want to see their smiles. I want to hear them laugh.

  Her body exploded. She churned the water, making waves and whirlpools. I want to see them. I want to be in the same room with Missy and Claire.

  Once I see them, I’ll know.

  Do I have sisters?

  Am I adopted?

  I’ll know.

  * * *

  Genevieve’s walk home was peaceful and familiar. A pleasantly shaded sidewalk led through the village, past boutiques and real estate offices, the post office and a coffee shop. Beyond them were the tracks of the Long Island Railroad. She turned south, walked two long blocks, swung left at a little park and followed this street home.

  When she had been young enough to need after-school sitters, Genevieve had not come home to an empty house. Now each time she unlocked the door and reset the alarm, she felt a pang. She acclimated herself to the emptiness and then walked silently into the back half of the house, where there was light. Genevieve loved sunlight. In school, she always wanted a desk by the window. She was vague about her future and could not visualize her life beyond the first week of college, but she knew she wanted sunlight. Texas, maybe. Southern California. Spain.

  The Candlers lived in a town of spacious homes, many of them true mansions, and all with generous yards, but their own house was small and cramped, with a living room/kitchen taking up the entire back half, a master bedroom and bath the front left quarter and the garage the front right quarter.

  In the large living room/kitchen, the Candlers lived like pioneers in a one-room log cabin, except that their one room had every conceivable electronic delight. If her parents were home and awake, they were here. In this room was life: magazines and mail, microwave and gas fireplace, books and television, movies and radio, sound system and computer. The appliances hummed, waiting for human attention.

  Me too, thought Genevieve.

  Their backyard was so small it didn’t even have a tree, but their neighbors’ big yards were filled with massive maples. With no fences, it felt and looked as if the Candlers had a big yard too. The setting sun gleamed through half-bare branches.

  She had turned her cell phone off when she arrived at the pool, because when her phone rang, she absolutely could not stand letting it ring. If she vaulted out of the pool to snatch it up, GeeGee was disapproving.

  Now she powered it on, watching a photograph appear on the little screen: an above-the-shoulders picture of herself, GeeGee and her parents at their anniversary party last year. Her parents had a good marriage. Maybe a great one. They loved each other’s company. Of all the events to which her father received tickets, dances were their favorites. Often the dance floor would clear while people stepped back to admire Ned and Allegra. Her mother loved to talk about these wonderful nights, when she and her handsome husband were the envy of every couple.

  On Genevieve’s cell phone were messages from both parents.

  Her mother’s voice was deep, as if she were a heavy smoker, when in fact Mom had literally never touched a cigarette. “I’m afraid of them,” she had told Genevieve once. “It looks like such fun waving them around and watching the smoke waft. If I so much as hold an unlit cigarette between my fingers, I’ll be hooked and spend my life rushing outdoors in all weather to suck on one.”

  Genevieve’s eyes filled with tears. Yes, she wished her parents were different. Yes, she wished they had more time for her. But she loved them. If only they loved her back.

  “Vivi,” said her mother’s voice, “it’s about four. I have a staff meeting I can’t skip. I won’t be home until nine. Ten if I miss my train. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge. I can’t take a call during the meeting, but text so I know you got home all right. Love you.”

  Then Dad’s voice, higher than Mom’s. He was a tenor, and used to sing in a concert choir but missed too many rehearsals what with all his engagements, and had to drop out. “Vivi. Building committee is tonight. I’ll be home maybe ten o’clock. I’m not far, fifteen minutes if you need me. See you.”

  They do love me, she told herself. They do worry. They just trust me to lead my life while they lead theirs. I’ve never said to them, “I hate all this independence. Come home. Do nothing for a change. Sit around. Keep me company.”

  If her parents ever sat around, Genevieve would know they were fatally ill, severely depressed or too penniless to fill t
he gas tank.

  Usually she sent both of them the same text, letting them know that she’d had a good day and was now home studying. I could forward the video instead, she thought. Even on the smallest screen, those girls are me.

  It was tempting. Allegra would see the video during her important meeting. Ned would get his during his not particularly important meeting. Would it slap them in the face? Would they crumble? Or did they know already that there were two more of her in the world?

  I’m probably overreacting, she thought. It was probably an ordinary mild resemblance.

  But both Ray Feingold and Jimmy Fleming had seen Genevieve Candler when they saw Missy and Claire.

  The sun went down. The living space was shadowy and silent. Without music or TV, she was alone in the world of her house.

  What if she was not alone? What if she had Missy and Claire?

  They don’t know that I’ve found them, she thought. They don’t know I exist. They think they’re twins.

  Genevieve never did her homework in her bedroom. It was isolated up there. She worked at the kitchen counter, books spread over the expanse of glittering granite, and she ate dinner in nibbles, a little of this, a bite of that, all evening long. Now she prepared her tools: pencils, Post-its, fork and spoon.

  Where the kitchen counter turned a corner, a built-in desk held the family computer. Genevieve circled the kitchen island where her books were strewn, sat down at the little desk and brought up the video. Claire’s last name had not been given, but Genevieve tried various spellings of Vianello on MySpace and Facebook. And there she was: Missy Vianello, her page closed except to friends.

  Genevieve researched. She herself had been born in Connecticut, and the high school where Missy had introduced her twin was also in Connecticut. Genevieve located the Connecticut statute dealing with the birth certificates of adopted children. It was difficult to work through the legal prose. It looked as if a newborn’s birth certificate gave the biological parents’ names, but once a court decreed the adoption, a new birth certificate was issued. This one had the adoptive parents’ names. So the adoptive parents had a legal birth certificate for their baby, but not precisely a true one.