Her dad closes the door. Her mom sits on the side of the bed, pulling the covers straight. Mindy feels claustrophobic all of a sudden and rips them back. Her mother frowns once, then puts on a perfectly blank face.
“Sweetheart, what we need to talk to you about is going to come as a shock.”
“I’m dying,” Mindy says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I already know. They can’t find a donor, and I’m not going to make it.”
Jasper pulls a chair to the bed on the other side.
“Actually, honey, no. We’ve certainly not come to that point, and I seriously doubt we will, especially now. Your mother...”
He looks at Lauren, who is kneading the blanket. Mindy doesn’t think she’s ever seen her mother so upset and reaches out a hand to still hers. Lauren smiles weakly, then nods.
“Mindy, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. You’re adopted. I know this comes as a huge shock, and you will have many questions. We will answer all of them, but we want you to know, that—”
“Wait, what? I’m not dying?”
The spark of hope shoots through her like a comet. She’s suddenly on fire, as if everything is possible again. A small part of her is screaming, crying, throwing a tantrum, but the rest of her is flooded with relief.
“Not that we know. Nothing’s changed in your diagnosis.”
“But...I’m adopted? You aren’t my mother, and you’re not my father?”
The words are absurd. This is one of those bizarre nightmares where you’re dreaming inside of a dream, and you know you’re dreaming, so you tell yourself to go ahead and wake up because this isn’t fun at all.
Lauren clears her throat. “I adopted you when you were a few hours old. Your father—”
“Which one? Biological or Dad?”
“Dad. He and I met when you were only a few weeks old. We fell in love, and—”
“And I’ve always felt you were mine, peanut. I’ve never had a thought otherwise.” Jasper strokes her leg. “I’ve always loved you, from the moment you pooped on my shirt the first time.”
She doesn’t laugh, and his face falls. Why is she less mad at her dad than her mom? And is she really mad? Or is she so incandescently relieved that she isn’t staring death in the face today that she wants to scream for joy? She is confused, she’ll acknowledge that.
“Who are my real parents? My biological parents?”
“We don’t know,” Lauren says. “The story is very long and strange.”
Mindy gestures around them. “I have time. Tell me. I want to hear it all.”
They do, and Mindy listens, trying to stop her heart from fluttering every time she thinks—Adopted. I’m adopted. I’m not yours. The pain in her mother’s voice, the guilt she is clearly feeling, Mindy doesn’t know what to do with it, how to process it. Being adopted is a big deal, a huge deal, but in the face of death, in the face of her sudden plans for getting out of this life, adoption feels...dealable.
“Wait. Let me interrupt you. Can we find them?”
Jasper sits back in his chair. “We certainly hope so. Because yes, they might be a match.”
“Okay. I’m pissed at you both. Really pissed that you never told me. But I’m going to put a pin in that emotion for a moment.” God, she sounds like that stupid cow of a therapist. “Right now, I want you to go find them. I can feel this thing inside me, and it’s like my own personal monster that won’t go away. Maybe they can help fix me. I don’t want to die. I want to be cured. And when that happens, then I’ll have a hissy fit about you not telling me the truth.”
Lauren collapses into tears then, burying her face in Mindy’s lap. Mindy pets her mother’s hair and gives her father a tremulous smile.
“This isn’t what I thought you were going to tell me.”
“I gather,” Jasper says, smiling back. “You know this changes nothing about our family.”
“It makes it bigger,” Mindy replies. “And that seems like the stroke of luck we need very badly. You always told me life is ninety-nine percent about giving it your all, and one percent luck. Here’s our one percent.”
It’s a brave speech. They all hug, and Lauren continues to sniff and cry, but in the end, Mindy feels almost relieved, and a little guilty. She knows her mom would prefer she have a huge meltdown to cement their love, but considering the circumstances, who is her blood and who isn’t seems less important than finding the ones who might be able to save her.
She doesn’t think to ask why they didn’t tell her this weeks ago when it was clear she might need the transplant. That will come later.
A knock on the door and Dr. Oliver sticks his head in.
“Everything okay?”
“He knows?” Mindy asks.
“He does,” Jasper answers.
This angers her to no end. “Does the whole fucking world know except for me?”
Lauren snaps up her head. “Hey. Language.”
Dr. Oliver shuts the door behind him. They are their own nuclear family now.
“Who else knows? Aunt J?”
“Yes. Juliet knows,” Lauren answers, cringing.
“Gee, thanks. And you too, doc.”
Dr. Oliver clears his throat. “Listen, Mindy. The blood work told me the truth, and I confronted your parents. Be upset with me, not them. I’m the one who—”
“I’m furious with all of you right now. And I’m sick of this place. Can I go home?”
Lauren stands and starts to apologize for Mindy’s tone, but Dr. Oliver nods. “I don’t blame you a bit. Yes, you can be discharged. Take it easy, though. I’ll see you back in a couple of days for a treatment, okay?”
“Thanks, doc.” And to her parents who aren’t her parents, “We can continue this discussion later. Get me out of here.”
30
UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
1993
VIVIAN
The first letter to arrive makes me jump with joy. It’s the first truly happy moment I’ve had since Liesel confided in me that first time. It is almost Christmas, and Liesel has been gone for two weeks. The ward has been a horrible place without her. I’m stuck back into the daily routine with the droolers and visionaries, and I’m lonely, bone-tired, and, if I’m being honest, wondering why I’m still walking the earth when I have absolutely nothing to live for.
Ratchet brings me the letter in the music room and gives me permission to take it to my room to read. She’s been trying to pull me out of my funk, but it’s not working. I am funkalicious. I am the funk.
I close the door most of the way and sit on Liesel’s bed with my feet drawn up. The envelope has already been opened—there is no privacy on the ward.
December 10, 1993
Dear V,
I hope you are doing well. I wanted to say thank you for all you did to help me, both before and after the miscarriage. This is a time of my life I want to put behind me. As you can imagine, the tragedy and heartbreak of the situation is overwhelming. I feel like I have paid for my sins, and now I have a chance to move forward, to experience the world in a different way.
I wasn’t going to write, but then I realized so much of my recovery was because of you. So if you want to write me back, that would be okay. If you don’t want to, I completely understand. We’ve been through a horrible thing together, you and I, and if you’d rather forget and move on, I don’t blame you.
I hope you’re feeling less bleak today.
Thinking of you,
Liesel
At first, I am incensed. Livid. Furious. I stomp around the room, throwing things. Here she is, with the opportunity and choice to escape this shitty life, an opportunity I fear I will never have again. Why is she looking back? I told her if she got out before me to never look back.
But th
e rational part of me is so fucking grateful she’s reached out to me. She’s given me a lifeline to the outside world. She’s given me hope. It is a gift I don’t know that I will ever be able to repay. I hate to be indebted to others. I hate that this small letter makes my heart burst open and gush feelings through my body.
Ours is a special friendship. We’ve been through too much together to let it all go.
I sit down and write back, my wrist hard against the desktop. I’m not used to writing letters, and my hand cramps so badly I have to stop and shake it out a few times.
December 14, 1993
My dearest Liesel,
I was so happy to get your letter. We didn’t really have a proper goodbye. Man, do I miss you. It’s dreadfully dull here. Ratchet et al. are especially surly without your sunny disposition. They miss you, too, I think. I hope they didn’t let you out too soon. I’ve been so worried about you. Are you well? Still no cuts?
We had crafts today—guess what day it is? Yes, it’s Tuesday, give that girl a prize!—and I swear if I see one more stupid painted doormat I am going to jump off the roof. I told them that, then fainted spectacularly, in a dead heap, right at their feet, which is why I’m writing you instead of sitting in group. They locked me away again, five hours in the box, and only let me out if I promised to stop being so dramatic.
Isn’t that why we’re stuck in here in the first place? Because we’re overly dramatic? Except for you. I mean, you had cause.
I’m supposed to be sans roommate for a while. We’ll see how long that lasts.
What are you doing out there in the big wide world? Is the sky bluer when you’re free? Does the sun shine brighter? God knows they’ve pumped you full of every imaginable drug, so maybe you’re just asleep. Which I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll dream of my mom again. That was cool. Write me!
Love and stitches,
V
31
CURRENT DAY
Mindy uses her crutches carefully as they leave the hospital. She gets in her mother’s car; her dad follows in his. She puts on her headphones, and they ride in silence up the hill, lost in their own thoughts, until she finally breaks, pulls the headphones down around her neck.
“You seriously adopted me?”
“I did.”
“And you have no idea who from? I find that hard to believe.”
Her mom glances over, then shakes her head. “Oh, sweetheart. I know this is scary and a huge shock. It’s terrible that we had to share it this way, out of desperation. But in the long run, we’re going to be blessed, I can feel it. Dr. Oliver and Dr. Berger know exactly what they’re doing. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”
“I don’t feel fine, and I’m talking about your lying to me my whole life.”
“I understand you’re angry at me. I don’t blame you.” Her mom pats her arm. Her touch is foreign and unwanted.
“Stop.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll tell you this. Dr. Oliver is excited about the possibility of being able to find you a match in the database through something he called ancestral genetics. Your birth mother was Hispanic. Knowing that will help them narrow the choices. It was important that we be honest with him.”
“But you don’t know where she is?”
“Unfortunately, no, we don’t. Not yet. But Aunt Juliet is looking for her right now. We’re going to find a match for you, sweetheart. I promise.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
“I believe it, Mindy. I believe the universe is going to give us what we need right now.”
“Since when are you all mystic?”
“Since when are you such a smart-ass?”
Mindy jerks her arm away. “You have no idea what this is like. I’ve worked my entire life to make the US team, and now that I’m there, this happens. I get cancer. I find out I’m adopted. I might die before they find a match. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. Why didn’t you tell them before? Why did you wait so long?”
“Because I was being a coward, Melinda. I was afraid I might lose you. Not only your life, but your heart, and your love. And I know you don’t believe me, but I do know what it’s like, sweetheart. I’ve had unfair things happen to me, too.”
Her mother sounds lost, and alone. The letter. Ask her about the letter.
But they are home, and the moment passes. Lauren pulls into the garage and turns off the engine. “Look at me.”
Mindy glances over, then away. She feels tears threatening. She hates to cry, hates it. It’s the ultimate weakness, and Mindy doesn’t show weakness.
“We are going to get through this. They’re going to find you a match, and you’re going to get well. In time for the trials. I feel that in my heart.”
Mindy can’t speak without the tears falling. She nods.
“Good girl. Now, let’s get you upstairs.”
Mindy navigates the stairs from the garage to the main floor, noticing for the first time she is out of breath at the top. She tries not to panic. Dr. Oliver told her the chemo was going to sap all her energy and strength.
“What would you like to do, sweetheart? Are you feeling up for something to eat?”
Mindy shakes her head. She is feeling woozy and wants some time alone. She needs to adjust to this news, to the idea that she belongs to someone else. “I just want to lie down. I might watch the rest of the races. You recorded them, right?”
Lauren’s face clouds, her eyebrows draw together into a single line. “Is that such a good idea, honey? You watching the team move on without you?”
Without me... “Of course it is. By the way, Coach texted me, said I have a spot as soon as I can get back on my feet. He wants to come talk to you when he gets back from France.”
“I don’t think we’re quite ready for visitors, do you?”
“Mom, cancer isn’t catching.”
“But we have to keep your immune system strong, and Coach has been traveling. I think it would be best to keep you isolated, just until the transplant. Okay?”
“Is the adoption what was up between you and Aunt J?”
Lauren’s eyes flash and she turns away, heads into the kitchen. “We had a disagreement, that’s all. Your father will be here any minute, and he has a work call to make. If you’re going to take it easy in your room for a bit, I think I’ll go to King Soopers and get a few things. Low sodium broth? Sugar-free Jell-O?”
Mindy makes a face. Life-changing moments and her mom wants to go grocery shopping. “Fine. But pudding. Chocolate. Don’t get the low-cal sugar-free stuff. I probably need it with sugar. I’m losing too much weight.”
Lauren’s face registers a moment’s shock then she rearranges her features into a smile. “Of course. Real pudding it is. Anything for my sweet girl. I’ll be back in an hour. Sleep some, and tonight, we’ll watch a movie.”
“Okay.”
She waits until she sees Lauren’s Lexus sweep out of the drive, then quietly edges into the master bedroom. Lauren’s strong allusion in the car—unfair things have happened to me, too—might have something to do with the letter. Mindy gets the sense she still doesn’t know the whole truth about her birth.
Her dad isn’t here yet; she’ll hear the door beep when he gets home.
The letter isn’t in the drawer. It’s been hidden away. Where might her mother keep it?
Mindy searches the remaining drawers, the closet, the bed, and finds nothing. The office is off-limits. Besides, her dad will need to hang there to take his call. Where else? Where does no one go, not even the maid?
The attic—but there’s no chance of her making it up there with her crutches. Her mom doesn’t like it either, it’s cold and dark, and Mindy remembers Lauren complaining about how creepy it is once.
What if...
Back to the dresser. She pulls it from the wall—it slides easily,
felt pads on the feet so as not to scratch the wood flooring—and is rewarded. There is a manila envelope taped to the back, in between the supports.
Mindy’s heart is racing.
She puts the dresser back and takes the envelope to her room, and into the bathroom. She takes a book with her, too, as cover. She closes and locks the door.
She sits at her dressing table, thankful for the soft chair, and opens the envelope. There are several letters inside. All handwritten, all old and soft. They are in chronological order—and she realizes the letters are a correspondence, between this Liesel person and someone named V. Why would her mother have these?
She glances through them, confused, then starts to read.
January 1994
Dear V,
I got the tattoo! Can you believe it? It hurt so much, but just like you said, the hurt was a good kind of hurt. Of course, my mom saw the bandage and insisted I tell her why there was a butterfly outlined in blood on it. I showed her, and she promptly freaked out. She insisted I have it removed, made an appointment at this fancy dermatologist, but I said no way. Stood up for myself, like you always tell me to. She’s still acting like I committed some sort of heinous crime, like she caught me plunging a knife in someone’s throat. You should have seen her face, it really was priceless. I mean, you’d think I pierced my nipples or some such horror. She swore not to let me out of the house for months, and not to let me get my license. I told her should she lock me inside her dank, dreary mausoleum of a house, I would promptly slit my wrists and lie down on her precious Aubusson carpet to bleed out. (It’s the pretty silver and pink one I told you about.) Heh, she didn’t like that image, broke down in tears, apologized. Like I care what she thinks. She then took me for my learner’s permit. I passed! I’m one step closer to freedom.
So I am now the proud owner of a tattoo that looks just like yours, (we’re twinsies for real!) and a learner’s permit that allows me to drive with a sanctioned adult in the car.
Tear Me Apart Page 15
