The Secrets She Keeps

by Jolie Moore

  “Toe broken?” I asked, skipping the medical history and differential diagnosis.

  “No.” He worked the digit back and forth carefully. “Got any aspirin?”

  “Tai Chi hangover?” I tried for nonchalance.

  “Not quite. But I’d rather avoid the headache.” Except for the foot, he looked none the worse for wear. I’d seen him finish the drink, in fact I’d encouraged it. I’d never wanted my partners to remember any more than I did. But of course six foot whatever inches of solid man did not go down easily.

  I left him massaging his large foot, and rummaged through my bag again. Aspirin wasn’t the kind of thing pharmaceutical reps handed out. Acetylsalicylic acid had gone off patent more than a century ago.

  “Ibuprofen is the best I can do,” I said. Coming back around the corner, I put two pills in his hand, snatching my own back like I’d brushed fire. Touching him had sent something akin to an electric current through my body. He was concentrating on the pills and didn’t feel it or didn’t notice, thank goodness.

  Lucas swallowed them dry. Water, damn. I went back to the bathroom to turn on the taps. I threw the remaining paper cover on to the counter and filled the other small glass. Bringing it to him, I was careful not to touch his hand this time. Once burned and all that.

  While his Adam’s apple bobbed, I stepped toward the floor-to-ceiling window, reaching for the sparkling blue of the Pacific Ocean. Smooth cold glass halted my progress. How could this be the same dull gray, cold water of Santa Monica?

  How could Lucas, whom I’d long ago planned to set up with my best friend, have ended up in my own bed? I turned around to face the naked man. Keeping my well eyes above his neck, I found his face was open and smiling.

  “You want to grab breakfast?” he asked. Didn’t he know the hookup code? He was supposed to have been dressed and absent. No, I didn’t want eggs. I wanted to crawl under the nearest rock and sleep off the shame of boinking a co-worker, not break bread. As if the nausea in my gut from the rum wasn't enough, the thought of breakfast nearly pushed me back to the bathroom with the aim of a bigger porcelain bowl.

  “I’d rather die,” I admitted.

  “Food will soak up all that stuff you drank last night,” he said conversationally. Didn’t he realize he was naked? All six foot three, four, whatever of him…totally and completely clothing free. In the light of day, I could see that his curly blond hair did not end at his shirt collar, nor his belly.

  My gaze continued its downward slide. Because I had to see…. Yep. Well, everything was where it should be, including his foreskin. That assessment was only clinical, of course. The gut churning that turned to nervous flutters could be and would be studiously ignored.

  Overwhelmed by a dozen conflicting emotions and a sudden urge to be alone, I started picking up his clothes from the floor and thrusting them at Lucas. I’d seen thousands of nude bodies in my life, but I didn’t want to see his now. Didn’t want to remember tangling my hands in that springy hair and tugging hard. Wanted to forget the pleasure his hands and mouth had brought, even when it hadn’t been about that.

  He didn’t say anything else, but acceded to my silent request and pulled on his boxers. When he bent to add socks to his ensemble, I folded my own clothes and put them on the chaise at the foot of the bed. Pulling the hotel robe closer around me, I sat. Cleared my throat for the brush-off.

  “I have some things to do. So….”

  “What do you have to do?” His question was so earnest, I didn’t have the heart to give him the hard shove through the door.

  Instead I used the old stand-by—pretending to misunderstand.

  “Pardon me?”

  Maybe he’d take the hint.

  “What—”

  “I heard you.” I had to put an end to this. I had candles to light. A ritual to endure. “I know this trip is on the clinic’s dime, but I need to take a day alone.” My voice was properly cool and detached. It was a persona I’d cultivated, no, perfected over the years. Every vowel was perfect, every consonant enunciated. I always made sure my meaning was absolutely clear.

  Lucas wasn’t clueless, thank goodness. Rejecting men was not in my wheelhouse. Sure, I’d perfected the art of rebuffing come-ons. A woman in Los Angeles had to. But rejecting a nice guy who’d only made the mistake of swimming in the toxic waters of my life, that I hadn’t done—ever.

  I stepped back toward the windows again, pretending to enjoy the view after I snuck a glance at him. Damn, he looked like I’d kicked his puppy or something. I hated that I’d put that look on his face. It wasn’t even seven in the morning and I’d already violated the first of our profession: First do no harm.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched Lucas shrug into his button-down shirt, pick up his shoes in one hand and his pants in the other. When he emerged from the bathroom a minute later, I made no pretense of watching the ocean. I tried to arrange my lips in some semblance of a smile—an apology. He was all but dressed. The belt buckle clinked shut. I watched him walk to the door. Slowly, he turned one lock, flipped back the safety bar.

  I looked down at my fingers. Cuticle scissors, that’s what I needed. How had stray skin separated from the middle finger of my left hand? I was usually very careful with my personal hygiene. I’d probably overlooked it in the rushed mani/pedi I’d gotten the day before the flight. It would have to be fixed.

  “I guess I’ll see you at work on Monday morning then,” Lucas said with a slight hesitation. I did nothing to halt his progress. He let himself out.

  Chapter 2

  Lucas

  I worked hard to banish Nari from my thoughts. A couple of fellow conference goers patted me on the back as I walked through the lobby in last night’s clothes. I wondered, not for the first time, if the hotel had set the conference attendees up like co-eds, with women in one building, the men in another, as a way to humor the staff. It was like the freshman walk of shame all over again.

  “Had more than a Mai Tai,” one guy said with a playful punch to my shoulder.

  “She was cute even without beer goggles,” another said.

  I unballed the hand I’d chivalrously fisted, resisting the urge to punch these guys out. Doctors at a medical conference were like a bunch of frat boys during spring break.

  Slightly drunken sex with my very pretty co-worker had not been the plan. If I were being honest with myself, I’d have to admit I’d had my eye on Nari ever since I’d joined the practice. For a while, I’d even thought she shared my interest until she mentioned something about her best friend.

  Nari wasn’t all that good at spinning, though. She’d have failed miserably at politics. Her friend sounded like someone in need of rescuing. I liked to confine my heroics to work where writing a prescription or making the right diagnosis could save someone’s life. I most definitely did not want to be set up with some prim and proper New England girl without a real job. I’d met enough of those during my time in Vermont. I’d wanted Nari.

  Weeks ago, I’d decided the best way to get to know Nari would be to ask her to dinner, maybe to a swank place on Third Street or in Beverly Hills. Buy her some wine, maybe take her to a show of some kind. The women in the office were always going on about one production or another at the Pantages. I’d bookmarked the site, and was going to buy tickets to the newest show once they’d gone up for sale. But Nari’s bare leg so close to that other doctor’s hand had blown my carefully laid plans to smithereens. Stupid as it might seem, I hadn’t wanted the guy to take advantage of her. I wanted to be the only one unwinding that hair from those bobby pins. Slipping those skinny straps from her shoulders. But I judged that all wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Drinking had fucked up the whole thing. She couldn’t push me out of her room fast enough. She must have thought I was no different than half the guys here, looking for a drunken hookup. It wasn’t as if I’d done much of anything to invalidate her opinion.

  Sex, no matter how good an idea it had seemed last night afte
r that Tai Chi and holding the keycard of my fantasy date, was not supposed to happen. Not like that, at least. Her swift shove out the door told me all I needed to know. She thought I’d seen her as a conquest. Just another mouse playing in paradise while the cat sat aloof at home.

  Conquest was the name of the game this week. It wasn’t my game, but I didn’t need to start a fight with another one of these doctors to prove that. Instead, I avoided the eyes of everyone else throwing knowing looks my way and peered at my watch instead.

  All thoughts of chivalry and fights were forgotten as I got a closer look at my watch. Damn, I was gonna be late. If I didn’t hustle, I’d miss my appointment. Later, when I got back, I’d have to figure out how to fix the big mess I’d made. But I hadn’t come to Hawaii for sex or the latest miracle drugs. The latter had been an excuse for my family’s sake. I’d come to Kauai for a single reason—to gather information.

  With renewed purpose, I jogged to my hotel room. A shower and a shave later, I grabbed a free coffee from the lobby and made my way through the revolving door to a waiting taxi. Nari wasn’t the only one planning a skip day.

  Before I could lay my hand on the front door of the lawyer’s office, thirty minutes of winding roads later, my phone rang. I stepped back into a tall stand of bougainvillea near the front door.

  “Lucas honey, how are you?” Mom. It was as if the woman had a sixth sense. A blood relationship couldn’t have made us any more attuned to each other.

  “Enjoying Kauai,” I answered cautiously. She’d seeded my room with condoms the first time I’d had sex. I didn’t put sniffing out my night with Nari past her. But that was a no-go area. She must have gathered that from my tone.

  “What are you up to today?” she probed instead.

  “I think I should ask why you’re home in the middle of the afternoon?” I looked at my watch and added six. It had to be, what, four in the afternoon on the east coast. My mom was a dedicated teacher who worked it like a nine to five job. She was usually at school meetings with parents planning fundraisers, or hand deep in sorting through natural fibers preparing for the next day’s lesson.

  “I couldn’t get anything done today with everyone at the school running around prepping for the yearly fundraiser. Your dad has an early day anyway. So I came home to make his favorite dinner. While I was breading the pork chops you popped into my head.”

  Guilt flooded my veins. I couldn’t get anything right today. First I’d botched things with Nari, now with my mom. It wasn’t the time, though to make amends for my first son disappearing act or talk to her about my impending appointment. I looked at my watch again.

  “I’m actually going into a session about treating patients with compromised immune systems,” I lied.

  “Well, okay,” my mom said, her disbelief evident. “Call us back when you get a chance. We miss you now that you’re so far away.”

  I rung off.

  I hadn’t exactly hidden the fact from my mom and dad that I was looking for my birth parents. But I couldn’t really share each leg of the journey with them either. They’d looked so nervous when I’d finally admitted my plan. Briefing them on each and every step along the way would have been agony for everyone involved. I wasn’t so dense that I couldn’t see that. But closing them off from nearly aspect of my life was hurting them as well. Striking the right balance was hard.

  I was still smarting from the fact that I’d probably ruined the family’s last Christmas dinner when I’d announced my plans to find my birth parents. The one where my brother had pronounced me self-involved, and my sister had called me dense.

  “But why, Lucas?” my sister Brooke had asked. I’d looked at her face, tiny and sharp featured like my mom. She topped out at maybe five foot three, barely squeaking by Joyce.

  My brother didn’t ask a single question, but I could feel Christian’s judgment across the long pine table. My brother looked like a male version of my mom and sister. Taller, broader, but still as different from me as night and day with stick straight brown hair and the Tucker face.

  At six foot four with curly blond hair and brown eyes, I was a giant in their Lilliputian universe. I needed to find my own Brobdingnagian clan.

  My dad had paused while cutting the ham. My mother had nearly dropped the basket of biscuits, the dog snagging one before my mom saved the rest of them from Angus’ waiting mouth.

  Bringing dinner to a grinding halt hadn’t been what I’d intended. But I’d wanted to announce my plans when everyone was together. I didn’t think I could do it twice. And with me in California, holidays were the only time we were all in one place nowadays.

  “Because I need to know my background,” I punted. Expressing the need to find out why my birth parents had abandoned me was more than I was willing to admit in front of everyone. “Every day I treat patients who know their medical history. I don’t really know mine,” I’d offered.

  “You could fork over the money for DNA analysis, couldn’t you?” Christian said.

  Count on brother Chris, the biologist, to come up with that recommendation.

  “I’ve seen patients bring in those so-called analyses. They can’t tell you if your dad had cancer or your mother had diabetes.” I tried to ignore our father’s squint, my mother’s trembling hands. “Nothing is greater than firsthand information. You and Brooke have that. Why can’t I?”

  Dad swiftly cut off the discussion.

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t have all the answers you need, Lucas,” he said. My dad’s reasonableness cut more deeply than an angry lash of words would have.

  Recovered, Mom passed me the biscuits.

  “I agree,” she said, taking one big swallow of air. “We support whatever you need to do.”

  Nothing like unconditional love to bring on the guilt. They’d pulled me aside when they’d dropped me off at the airport to assure me that I had their full support. But I would have to have been blind not to see what that support had cost them.

  Nida Vara was a chatty one. I drank the lawyer’s chai, endured her small talk, and tried not to cringe at the clashing floral prints of her walls, furniture, and clothes. But after ten minutes of being nice, I wanted the bottom line.

  “Can you open my adoption records?” I asked.

  “The short answer is no.” It was the most succinct sentence she’d uttered in our limited acquaintance.

  My intestines tied themselves into knots. Coming to Hawaii, the place I’d been born, I’d thought there was a crack in the door to the past. The lawyer had been so optimistic on the phone. Now that same door was slamming in my face, a key twisting in the lock. The thought that I might never know the origins of my birth set the acid pouring into my gut. I wished I could articulate why this was so damned important–to myself, to my parents, to anyone. But I needed to know. I leaned forward, eager to accept whatever help she could offer.

  The lawyer grasped my hands. She spoke before I could think what to ask.

  “But I do have some information and a few questions.” Nida Vara pulled a single sheet of paper from a slim manila folder. Its thin presence paled in comparison to the thick brown accordion files practically spilling their contents on the shelf behind her. “You were born on April seventeenth at Kauai Veteran’s Memorial Hospital,” she said.

  I grasped onto the one new shred of information. “Does that mean my parents were in the military?”

  “Yes. Probably the birth father. Women weren’t enlisted in the numbers they are now.”

  “Were they married?” So many scenarios had run through my mind since the day my parents had told me I was adopted. From a teen girl hiding her pregnancy, to a mom with one kid too many, all the way to the tragic situation of a rape. But I very much hoped my birth and existence didn’t start from an act of violence and bring grief to some woman every time she thought of me.

  “Can’t say. But probably. That would have been the reason she was admitted there versus a county or state hospital. Both parents were nam
ed on the birth certificate.”

  “Why can’t you tell me who they were?” If I was in Hawaii, and the solution to the mystery of my birth was here, why could I not put those two together like puzzle pieces and get to the truth?

  “I received a non-identifying document,” Vara said.

  I could feel my eyes going crossed. Throw a complex diagnosis my way, no problem. Legalese I couldn’t stomach. “What does that mean in plain English?”

  “In older adoptions like yours, courts and agencies are happy to provide adoptees copies of the birth certificate, but they redact anything that would give a hint about the birth parents. That’s what I have here.”

  She handed me a blurry copy of an old microfilm record. I pinched the bridge of my nose. I wondered if the sudden headache was from the lawyer in front of me or the rum from last night.

  Nida Vara looked a little uneasy. I gestured for her to continue. Might as well swallow whatever bitter pill she had to offer.

  “Well, Mr., excuse me, Dr. Tucker, have you asked your adoptive parents for the records they might possess?”

  Gut churning started again. “No. I’d rather do this any other way than that. It was hard enough for them to support my search,” I said.

  “I’ve seen this before,” she said. Vara’s headshake of disapproval was so slight I might not have noticed if I hadn’t been watching her so closely for clues about my background. I wanted to stop and ask her why my parents couldn’t understand that my love for them had nothing to do with this. But I needed legal advice, not therapy from Ms. Vara, and I had the wisdom to know the difference. Wish I could say the same for some of my patients.

  “Let’s try a different question. Where were your parents living when they adopted you?” she asked, her voice a bit softer.

  “Vermont…” Damn. I had no idea. I paused for a long moment, searching my memory. Came up blank. “Maybe New Hampshire. Why?”