by Cynthia Hand
She puts her arms around my shoulder and squeezes.
I let out a shuddery breath. “I have the best support system I can imagine. The thing with my mom dying is hard, but I’m okay. Really. I’m fine. I’m curious about my birth mother, is all. I want to know what happened, because I feel like . . . I should be able to know my own story. It’s mine. It’s about me.”
“I get it,” she says.
I know she does.
I dab at my eyes. “So why the waterworks? I’m sitting here, boohooing over a stranger, because—”
Because why? Do I even know?
My eyes well up with tears all over again.
“Because . . . she’s out there. But she’s not searching for me. Even though I have a great life, and she gave me that life, this better life that she sacrificed so much for, the idea that she’s not looking for me, it . . .”
“It hurts your feelings,” Nyla says.
“Yeah.” I nod and wipe at my face. “Yeah. It hurts to think she would forget about me.”
“She didn’t forget,” Nyla says.
I blow my nose. “Okay, so right now, I want to watch something really stupid to get my mind off all of this, like this mockumentary about vampires I keep hearing about, but I didn’t want to watch without you.”
We start the movie, which is both hilarious and dumb. We’re there giggling when I suddenly remember: “Oh, I need to tell you about Bastian.”
She tucks her legs up on the couch and swivels to face me immediately. “Yes?”
“When we kissed, the first time.”
She leans forward, eyes wide. “You kissed Bastian?”
“No, for the play, silly. The first time we kissed for the play. Catch up.”
“Okay, the first time you kissed for the play,” she says.
“He said I was the first girl he ever kissed.”
“Shut up.”
“No. He said that.”
She makes a confused face. “Wow.”
“I know, right?”
“Uh-huh. Maybe he’s LDS,” she muses.
I scoff. “He can’t be Mormon. We’d know if he were Mormon, right?”
“We’ve been hanging out a lot,” Nyla says. “I think I would have figured it out, if he was LDS.”
“Yeah. He’d talk about his ward, and his mission. And he’d go to seminary.” The Mormons have a church building right on the campus of the high school where all the Mormon students (which is like 80 percent of BHS) take religion classes every week. Okay, so it’s technically not “on campus,” because the church owns the land it sits on, apparently, but it’s like fifty feet from the common room door. And I’ve never seen Bastian head that way for class. “And he drinks coffee. And he swears.”
“News flash, Cass,” Nyla says matter-of-factly. “We’re all individual people. Some Mormons drink coffee. And some swear. And some don’t go to seminary.”
“But not the good kind, right?”
She closes her eyes like she’s embarrassed to be having this conversation. “Cass, I swear—”
I snicker. “No, you don’t.”
She punches me. But then she laughs.
“Hey!” I protest. “Back to Bastian. The type of Mormon who swears and drinks coffee is probably the type who kisses girls before he’s married, right?”
She sighs. “We can kiss all we—”
“I don’t think Bastian’s Mormon,” I say.
“I agree. So it must be something else, for him not to have kissed a girl. I always thought there was something about Bastian that he wasn’t telling us. Maybe something to do with his dad.”
“His dad does sound a little extreme.”
Right then my phone rings. A familiar number.
“Shit,” I burst out.
“Hey. I’ve got you,” says Nyla.
“Hello?” I say wearily into the phone.
“Can I speak to Cassandra?” says the voice I now recognize as Jennifer Benway’s.
“Speaking.”
“This is Jennifer Benway, from adoptedsearch.org. I hope it’s not too late to call.”
I stare at Nyla. “It’s fine, Jennifer. What do you need?”
“I was just following up,” she says. “I spoke with the other party, the woman who . . .”
“Who’s not my birth mother,” I say sharply.
“No,” she says. “I mean, yes, she’s not your birth mother, but she gave me permission to tell you some of the things she remembers.”
“What’s going on?” whispers Nyla.
“What things?” I ask.
Jennifer clears her throat. “About your mother—excuse me, your biological mother. This person believes she was with your birth mother at Booth Memorial, or that’s what it was called then. She thinks the details on your form match the description of another sixteen-year-old girl she went to school with there, who gave birth the same night that she gave birth to her daughter.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Are you there?” Jennifer asks.
I find my voice. “Yes. Sorry. I’m here.”
“She doesn’t remember the girl’s name, unfortunately, which would of course be useful,” she continues. “It was almost twenty years ago, you understand. And she said she only lived there a few weeks. Or maybe she’s trying to protect your birth mother’s identity. But she did tell me that the other girl’s name started with an S. Sally or Sarah or something similar.”
I think about all the names that start with S on my list of yearbook girls. “An S. Did she remember anything else?”
Nyla disappears for a minute and comes back with a notepad and a pencil. She hands them to me.
“She said your birth mother was kind to her,” Jennifer says. “And she said, if you ever find her, tell her thank you.”
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“She thinks it starts with an S,” Jennifer says again.
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “No, I mean this woman’s name. Who’s not my birth mother. What’s her name? Can you maybe give me her number? Can I talk to her myself?”
She doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “I can’t release that information. I’m sorry.”
I can feel my jaw tightening. “So how am I supposed to tell my birth mother thank you, if I ever find her, if I don’t even know this person’s name?”
Another pause. “Well,” Jennifer says slowly, “I can’t tell you her name. But I can mention that she has a profile on our site. You should even be able to see her, as a match.”
I understand immediately. “Okay, thanks.”
“Thank you, Cassandra. Again, I’m so sorry this didn’t work out the way you’d hoped. I wish you all the best in your search. Good night, then.”
I hang up and Nyla and I go straight to my laptop and call up the website. Jennifer’s right; it’s still showing a 100 percent match with someone.
I force down the wave of disappointment and click on the link to the lady’s profile.
Amber84
I am searching for my daughter.
She was born on September 17, 2000, in Boise, Idaho.
She was adopted in Idaho six weeks after her birth.
We have not been in contact since the time of the adoption.
Personal message: I want her to know she’s loved.
Nyla puts her arms around me, and I literally cry onto her shoulder.
“So my birth mother’s name might start with an S.” I wipe my eyes.
Nyla nods. “You should write that down.”
32
“Cassandra McMurtrey to the front office, please. Cassandra McMurtrey to the front office.”
I’m in choir this time. I look over at Nyla in the alto section. She shrugs.
“You can go, Cass,” the teacher says.
So I go. But then I come around a corner and there’s Dad standing in front of the office door with his brave face on.
My legs fail me. I sink down onto the floor like I’m m
ade of cooked spaghetti.
Dad runs over to me. “It’s okay. It’s okay, honey.”
No, it’s not, I think. No, it’s not. It’s not ever going to be okay again. I should be crying. Why aren’t I crying? I wonder. I always thought I would cry when it happened.
Dad’s talking. I can’t understand what he’s really saying. Something like, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I screwed this up royally. I just thought you’d want to be told in person.”
And then I’m crying. Hooray, I’m not broken. My mother has died, and I’m crying. I start to sob. It’s the scene where Cass loses her mother. The one that has everyone in the audience bawling.
Dad has me by the shoulders. He even gives me a little shake. “Cass. Look at me. Look at me.”
I meet his eyes.
“She’s not gone. She’s alive.”
I’m dazed. I’m confused. My tongue feels thick in my mouth for some reason. My heart is thumping strangely in my chest. “What? She’s not dead?”
“No.” He smiles. It’s the happiest smile I’ve ever seen on him. It’s like their wedding photos smile. “It’s happened, Boo.”
“What?” I say again.
“Is she all right?” This is the front office lady, leaning over us both, looking worried.
“She’s fine.” Dad looks at my face. “Well, she’s going to be fine.”
“Dad?” I don’t know what’s happening. My mom was dead, but now she’s not. “I don’t understand.”
“Your mother got a heart.”
We make it to the hospital right before she goes into surgery. She’s glowing when we see her, luminous in a way that’s hard to look at, her hope is so bright.
She squeezes my hand three times. “No matter what happens. Remember.”
I squeeze three times back.
Then they’re wheeling her away to some brightly lit room where they’re going to cut open her chest, take out her faulty, messed-up heart, and give her a better one.
Grandma starts sobbing in the waiting room. I’ve never seen her cry like that before, even on the worst days. Then she wipes her eyes and laughs.
“I can’t believe it,” she says. “I didn’t really think he’d come through.”
She’s talking about God now, I think, which is not a normal topic of conversation in our family.
“She’s going to be all right now,” Dad says.
I sling my arm around Grandma. “Amen to that.”
The old heart goes out. The new comes in. There’s a chance Mom’s body will reject it, so they have to put her on a bunch of meds to try to keep that from happening. But even in her room after the surgery, even before she wakes up, there’s a pinkness to her cheeks that I haven’t seen in a long time.
After she wakes up, she’s full of dreams again. They’ve told her that she can go home in ten days. Of course she’s going to have to keep coming back for months. The new heart has to be constantly checked. She has to do rehab, rebuild all the muscle mass she lost while she was in the hospital, get strong again, but she can come home in ten days.
Ten freaking days.
I’m with Grandma. I can’t believe it.
Mom keeps talking, too. Laughing. I worry that she’s laughing too much. “I can’t buy back the shop,” she says. “But maybe Jodi would give me a job there. That’d be funny, wouldn’t it? Or I could get another job at a different bakery.”
“Whoa there, champ,” Dad says. “You won’t be ready to go back to work for months. Maybe even a year.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She waves her hand at him. “But after that. When I can, I’ll work. I’ve been lying in a bed way too long.”
“Okay, dear,” Grandma says. “You can work.”
We’re all quiet for a minute, soaking in the idea of Mom getting to have her life back. Mom squeezes my hand again. I compose a text to Nyla. It’s picture night for the play—when Mama Jo invites all the parents to come see the final rehearsal and come up onto the stage with their cameras. It’s kind of fun—at any time during the performance a parent can shout, “Freeze!” and all of the actors have to freeze in place and have their picture taken. Mama Jo says if we can stay in character and keep moving through the play smoothly with all of these interruptions, it means we’re truly ready for the performance. It’s always been one of my favorite rehearsals for any show.
I’m not even a little bit sorry to miss it.
Mama Cat has a new heart, I write. It’s working fine.
Dear X,
Brace yourself: this one’s going to be a doozy. But it’s relevant, X, or at least it’s a part of my story, which is your story, so hang in there.
I went to see Dawson today. I know, I know, I’m a glutton for punishment. But again, I keep thinking about you, X, and how you’ll want to know the things about him that only he could tell you. I hate to admit, but I didn’t get to know him that well when we were dating. (Or whatever it was that we were doing.) I also wanted to make him look me in the eye and tell me, face-to-face, that you aren’t his, when he knows you are. He knows it, and I know it. I want to hear him say it.
Plus I was feeling cooped up at Booth. I feel like everyone’s staring at me, waiting for me to pop. I needed to get out for a while, so I asked Melly to take me to the Kappa house to give the birth father the forms.
“And you’re sure this boy’s the father?” she had the gall to ask me as we were driving over there. Melly always uses these occasions to try to talk things through with me. Like apparently what a promiscuous teenager I am.
“I know this might totally shock you,” I answered, “but he’s the only guy I’ve ever slept with. So yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Hey, I’m not judging. I was just asking.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “It does make a certain amount of sense for him to deny it.”
I stared at her, not knowing if I should be wildly offended or not. “How does that make sense?”
“He’s in college. You’re in high school. Having a sexual relationship with you was technically illegal.”
I was fully aware of this—it occurred to me back when my dad asked me about the father that first day we knew about you. It was unsettling, thinking about how some people might put the word rape on what had happened between Dawson and me, when it was absolutely consensual. Melly saying this stuff made me want to reconsider the entire trip. “You won’t report him, will you?”
“No. That’s not my business. My job is to help you.”
Whew. I mean, I want you to know as much as you can about your birth father, X. But I don’t want him to be arrested. I’m mad at him—sure—but I don’t want to see him get punished. Not for this.
“We should also probably talk about contraception,” Melly said.
I was drinking from a bottle of water when she dropped this little gem on me, and I choked a little.
“I think it’s too late for the sex talk, Melly.” I coughed. “It’s safe to say that I know all about the birds and the bees.”
“You’re be surprised at what some of the girls have asked me over the years, considering that they’re pregnant. But you’re not going to be pregnant much longer. You’ll be out there in the world again. I like you—you’re actually one of my favorites, kid, if I’m allowed to say that—but I don’t want to see you come back to Booth.”
“I don’t want that, either. No offense.”
“None taken,” she said. “So let’s talk about how to prevent this situation in the future.”
“I know all about it. Pills. Condoms. Diaphragms. Some weird little thing they can stick up in your uterus that will keep you from getting pregnant for five years. I like that option. I might go with that.”
“But the IUD won’t keep you from getting sexually transmitted diseases,” she said so casually, like we were discussing the stock market. “So it’s safest to use condoms, too.”
“Condoms fail,” I pointed out by motioning toward my belly. “Case in point.”
“Let’s talk a
bout that,” she said. “How did it happen?”
I tell her about the missing condom.
“Hmm” is all she said. “Well, they can come off. But you never . . . located it?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm,” she says again.
I felt stupid then. Like I was one of those girls she’d been referring to. The clueless type.
“Nice weather we’re having today, huh?” I said to change the subject. A joke, since it’s so hot out still you’d burn your feet on the sidewalk if you walked barefoot. It was over a hundred degrees out. I was enjoying sitting in front of the air conditioner in the car and having it blast me in the face. “I hear hell is nice and moderate this time of year.”
“It’ll cool off,” Melly said. “Just give it time.”
We drove the rest of the way in relative silence. When we pulled up to the Kappa house, which was located across the street from the college campus, I told Melly I wanted her to wait in the car.
“All right,” she said. “But if you have a problem, let me know.”
“I’m going to drop these off and maybe have a little chat with him,” I said, grabbing the forms.
“He’ll need to come in later and sign the adoption papers with a lawyer and a notary,” she reminded me.
“I’ll tell him.”
The problem was, Dawson wasn’t at the Kappa house. And the one half-drunk guy at the Kappa house who finally answered the door had no idea where he was.
“Does he have class?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he said.
“When does he usually come home?”
“No idea.”
I told Melly that I was going to take a walk and see if I could find him. She offered to come with me, of course, but I said no. I crossed the street and the parking lot and made my way into the heart of campus. Then I stopped and turned in a circle. There were so many buildings. So many places for Dawson to be. I didn’t know where to look.
I did know where the SUB was, though. It seemed as good a place as any to start.
