“How do I sound?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Like Clint Eastwood or a life-long smoker? I’ve heard both.”
“‘Go ahead,’” Milo said, giving Abby his best Clint Eastwood growl, “‘make my day.’”
“Funny you should say that. Did you listen to my voice mails?”
“No. I just saw that you called.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Yeah,” Milo said. “Why?”
“I think I found him.”
“What?”
“William Bardo. I think I found him. I played sick from school today so I could do a little sleuthing. The old thermometer on the lightbulb trick. Ever tried it?”
“No.”
“Neither had I. But it works. I gave myself a fever of a hundred and two. I burned my tongue. It still hurts, come to think of it…”
“Abby.”
“Yeah?”
“Keep going.”
“Right. Anyway, I’m home all morning, Googling away to no avail, and then I start cross referencing ‘William Bardo’ and ‘alumni’ with every college in the Twin Cities, one at a time, and let me tell you, there are a lot. There’s Augsburg College and Capella University and Saint Cloud State and North Central—”
“Abby.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re killing me.”
“You don’t appreciate that I’m building the dramatic tension to a climax?”
“No, I do not.”
“Right. William Harrison Bardo. Macalester College, class of 2000.”
“Macalester College,” Milo repeated.
“Yup. Right there in Saint Paul. Just a bike ride away from our cryolab. One-point-two miles. I Google Mapped it.”
Milo could feel his heart literally thumping in his chest. “Class of 2000. If he graduated when he was twenty-two, that means he was born around…”
“1978.”
“Right.” Milo took a breath. “Did you get his contact info?”
“Nope. Only alumni can log on to the database.”
“Crap.”
“I know.”
Silence for a second. Then Abby said, “What about Hollis?”
“What about her?”
“She lives in Saint Paul, right? Couldn’t she just walk into the Macalester alumni office and work her charm?”
“Ha,” Milo said.
“I’m serious.”
“You haven’t met Hollis.” Milo pictured Hollis with her barbell tongue and her eggbeater hair, smirking.
“Can you at least ask her?” Abby said.
“I can ask,” Milo said. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Give it the old college try.”
HOLLIS
Milo assumed she’d say no, and Hollis wasn’t about to disillusion him. She told him thanks for the invitation to play Watson to his Sherlock, but she had no intention of walking into the Macalester alumni office and asking for William Bardo’s address. Not now, not ever. Of course Milo tried to talk her into it.
“Please?” he said. “You live right there. If you don’t want to do it for you, do it for me.”
“You can do it for yourself,” Hollis said. “Presidents’ Day weekend.”
“That’s a national holiday. I doubt the alumni office will be open.”
“So come early.”
“I can’t,” Milo said. “Suzanne already bought the plane tickets.”
“Bummer,” Hollis said.
Her mother eavesdropped on the entire conversation, sitting at the kitchen table, chin in her hand like she was posing for a JC Penney portrait. After Hollis hung up, she had the nerve to say, “I think you should do it.” Then, “I think you should gather all the available information so that you can make an informed decision about whether or not you want to meet him. If you don’t want to go alone, I’m happy to go with you for moral support.”
Hollis willed her eyes not to roll. What was it with her mother? In the two days since Yvette had died, Leigh had been treating Hollis like someone who had suffered a trauma. Hovering in Hollis’s doorway, “checking in” to see if Hollis was hungry or thirsty or wanted to talk. Didn’t she know how weird she was acting? Didn’t she realize that she’d never acted this way before, not even when Pam died?
Pam, Hollis thought. Pam’s gift. The most generous person I have ever known.
The things her mother said to her when they were burying Yvette kept running through her head.
“If you don’t do it, I will.”
Hollis’s head snapped up. “What?”
“If you don’t go to the Macalester alumni office and ask about your biological father, I’m going to do it.”
Hollis stared at her mother. “Why?”
“To finish what Pam started. To put some questions to rest. For you. For Milo. And, frankly, for me.”
Hollis shook her head in disbelief. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it does,” her mother said.
“How?”
“A part of your father was a part of me for nine months.”
Hollis made a face. “Gross.”
“Gross or not, it’s true. You are my daughter because of this man. And I deserve to know the full story of where my daughter came from.”
“Well,” Hollis said, “what if I don’t want to know the full story of where I came from?”
“Then I will respect your wishes.”
“And not go?”
“No.” Her mother shook her head. “I’ll still go. I’ll just keep the information to myself.”
“But you’ll tell Milo.”
“Yes. I will tell Milo.”
* * *
Her mother won. It pissed Hollis off to be so blatantly reverse psychologized, but there was no way she was letting her mother walk into the Macalester alumni office alone and ask for information about her biological father.
Father. The word was like a foreign language. Gibberish. Gobbledygook. It didn’t even seem real. Even when she texted Milo and Abby and Noah to tell them that she’d changed her mind, she was actually going to do it, none of this seemed real. Not her mother making pancakes for her on a Friday morning. Or calling Hollis’s school to say that Hollis would not be in today because she had an “appointment.” Or telling her to “dress sharp.”
Just on principle, Hollis put on her rattiest jeans, a gray thermal shirt with a rip in the elbow, her shit-kicker boots, and her skullcap.
“Is that the impression you want to make?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Hollis said.
Leigh, on the other hand, looked like she was about to show a million-dollar house. Coiffed, mascaraed, wearing a bottle-green pantsuit Hollis had never seen before. Her mother knew this was overkill, right? Hollis imagined the impression they were making as they walked across the quad of the Macalester campus. Granite countertop mother, derelict daughter.
There were students everywhere. Scuffing through the frosty grass. Smoking. Laughing. Lost in conversation. Some of them were dressed a lot more strangely than Hollis was, she realized. A girl in a purple cape. A boy with dreadlocks and a tuxedo T-shirt. Someday, Hollis would be one of them. Someday, she would leave her mother and go off to some crunchy liberal arts school like this, where nobody cared what part of your body you pierced or whether or not you shaved your armpits. Where there were political rallies and sit-ins and Frisbee golf and late-night pizza and everyone could hook up without judgment. Maybe she would even go here, Hollis mused. Macalester College, home of her sperm donor. But no, she quickly corrected herself. Hell no. That would be weird.
“Sixty-two Macalester Street,” Leigh murmured, glancing at the map in her hand. “Admissions … Financial Aid … Alumni Office.”
Suddenly, here they were, walking up the stairs. Opening the door. Approaching the front desk. A woman looked up at them. Short-cropped dark hair, funky glasses, orange corduroy blazer. The name tag on her lapel read Tania Kosiewi
cz, Alumni Relations.
“May I help you?”
Tania Kosiewicz, Alumni Relations, seemed nice enough, but Hollis couldn’t respond. She felt rooted to the spot, like a mouse caught in a glue trap.
Hollis’s mother had no such problem. “I certainly hope so,” she said smoothly, stepping forward and holding out her hand. “Hi. I’m Leigh Darby, and this is my daughter, Hollis.”
“Tania Kosiewicz.”
Handshake, handshake.
Hollis hoped her facial expression didn’t convey her desire to evaporate into thin air.
“We’re here to get some contact information for a former student named William Bardo,” Hollis’s mother said. “He graduated in 2000.”
“Are you an alum?” Tania Kosiewicz asked.
“No.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t release any information about our alumni to nonalumni. For privacy reasons. I’m sure you understand.”
Right, Hollis thought, perfectly understandable. Let’s go.
“I’d like to show you something,” Hollis’s mother said, reaching into her handbag. She pulled out a manila folder. She placed it on the desk in front of Tania Kosiewicz. “My daughter was conceived fifteen years ago using donor sperm from a cryobank right here in Saint Paul. We know that her donor’s name is William Bardo and that he was a college student at the time he donated. Based on his date of birth and a little Internet research, we think that William Bardo, Macalester Class of 2000, is our guy.”
Tania Kosiewicz’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Are you serious?”
“As you can see from this document”—Leigh opened the folder and tapped the contents with her finger—“he registered as willing-to-be-known, which means that he is open to contact from his donor offspring.” She flipped to the next page. “Here is his signature, and here is the seal of notarization.”
Holy crap, Hollis thought, staring at her mother. Forget real estate. She should have been a lawyer.
“I’m sorry,” Tania Kosiewicz said. And she looked like she actually meant it. “That’s amazing. It really is. But I still can’t release any contact information to nonalumni.”
“Are you sure?” Hollis’s mother asked. She tipped her head to the side and smiled. “There’s nothing you can do for us?”
Wait—was she flirting? Hollis had never seen her mother flirt before. It was bizarre.
“Well…,” Tania Kosiewicz said. She was smiling now, too. There was a little gap between her front teeth. “Let me see what I can do.”
She stood up. Jeans. It was nice to have a job where you could wear jeans, Hollis thought.
When Tania Kosiewicz walked away, into some back room, Hollis turned to her mother. “You just used your feminine wiles.”
Her mother blushed. “Maybe a little.”
“Go, Mom.”
“Well. Let’s see if it works.”
A few minutes later, Tania Kosiewicz returned with something in her hand. “I really can’t give you any information, but you’re welcome to look at this yearbook from the Class of 2000. At least then you can see his picture and…” She glanced at Hollis. “You know … see if there’s any resemblance.” She held out the yearbook.
“Thanks,” Hollis said.
“You’re welcome.” She gestured around the room. “Take a seat wherever.”
Hollis and her mother walked over to a couch by a window. Red with blue cushions. Softer than it looked. Hollis sat with the yearbook in her lap. She could feel her pulse quicken. Her hands were moist. God, Hollis hated that word. Moist. It was almost as bad as lozenge.
“Are you okay?” her mother said.
“I’m nervous,” Hollis confessed. Which was stupid. It was just a book. She’d never been nervous to open a book in her life.
“Me too.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” her mother said. “I feel like I might throw up.”
Hollis shot her a look. “Don’t.”
“I won’t. I just feel like I’m going to.”
“Whatever.” Hollis opened the yearbook. “It’s only a picture. It’s probably not even him.”
She started flipping through random pages. Art History Club … Bio Club … Mac Activists for Choice … Parents Weekend … Fall Sports. He could be anywhere—any one of these guys in their backward baseball caps and Macalester sweatshirts, hamming it up for the camera, virtually indistinguishable from one another. Mac Players … Mac Protestants … Mac Salsa … Senior Class Portraits.
Hollis stopped. Names swam in front of her face. Lori Aemon. Kenneth Abbott. Elisabeth Acciello.
“They’re alphabetical,” her mother murmured.
“I know.”
“You’re only a page or two away.”
“I know. God. Could you stop breathing down my neck?”
“Sorry.”
Her mother was apologizing when Hollis was the one being a jerk. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. All she could do was turn the page. Marcus Adsuar … Gavin Allibrandi. And turn the page again. Kelly Archer … Arianna Atkinson. And again. Rebecca Baker … William Bardo.
Bam.
Hollis sucked in a breath and it caught in the back of her throat. For a second she literally forgot how to breathe. In her peripheral vision she saw her mother’s hand fly to her mouth.
Dark, curly hair sprouting out in all directions. Thick brows. Crooked grin. Even without the words printed beneath the picture—B.A. English Literature—there was no denying it.
Hollis wanted to deny it, of course she did. Because what was she supposed to do now? There was the obvious: she could take a photo of his photo and text it to Milo, Abby, and Noah, but her body seemed not to respond to this idea. Her hands seemed unable to move to her pocket to take out her phone.
“He’s handsome,” her mother murmured beside her. “I knew he would be handsome.”
Was he? Hollis couldn’t tell. His hair was ridiculous. It looked like one of those ’70s disco wigs. But then Hollis’s own hair often looked like a ’70s disco wig.
“You have the same eyebrows,” her mother said.
Hollis nodded.
“And the same jawline.”
Hollis pursed her lips and nodded again.
“‘B.A. English Literature,’” her mother read aloud. “‘Jazz Ensemble. Ultimate Frisbee Club’ … I’ve never played Ultimate Frisbee. Have you?”
Hollis shrugged. “Once. In gym.”
“And didn’t you say Noah was musical?”
“He plays the trombone.”
“Huh,” her mother said softly.
Yes, Hollis knew what she was huh-ing about: all these little things adding up.
“What’s Chanter?” her mother said.
Hollis shrugged.
“Chanter is the literary magazine.” Tania Kosiewicz suddenly materialized in front of them. “How’s it going?” she asked. “Are you having any luck?”
Hollis’s mother gently removed the yearbook from Hollis’s lap and flipped it around for Tania Kosiewicz to see.
“This guy?”
Hollis’s mother nodded.
Tania Kosiewicz looked from the picture to Hollis, back to the picture, and then slowly back to Hollis. “Wow.”
Hollis gnawed on her lower lip.
“That’s remarkable.”
“Isn’t it?” Hollis’s mother said.
Huh. Wow. Remarkable.
“Excuse me,” Hollis said abruptly. She had to get off this couch, away from this moment. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Down the hall.” Tania Kosiewicz pointed. “Second door on the left.”
“Thanks,” Hollis said.
She sprang from the couch, miraculously able to move again, and practically ran across the room. What was she doing? She didn’t even have to pee. She just stood at the bathroom sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Was her chin always this square? Was her hair really this curly? Hollis turned on the faucet and splashed her face.
The water felt cool against her flushed cheeks. She splashed herself again. Then, without really thinking, she wet her hands and smoothed down her curls. Wet and smooth. Wet and smooth. But who was she kidding? Her hair had a mind of its own. It refused to submit.
Hollis dried her face with her shirt. She walked back to the couch where her mother was sitting. Leigh’s eyes flitted from Hollis’s damp hair to her damp shirt, but she didn’t comment. She just smiled. “I took some photos.”
“Photos,” Hollis said.
Leigh held up her phone. “His senior portrait and the clubs he was in. Jazz Ensemble. The literary magazine. That way you can take a look at them later. I can text them to you and you can share them.”
Hollis nodded.
“Here you go.” Tania Kosiewicz suddenly materialized again. Hollis noticed that she was wearing sneakers. Chuck Taylor high-tops. “My card.” She held out something small and white.
“Let me give you mine, too,” Hollis’s mother said, reaching into her purse and rifling around. “In case you’re ever looking for a house … or know someone looking for a house … or looking to sell…” She sounded flustered.
Hollis watched this exchange of business cards. Having never been a lesbian and never seen her mother go on a date, she wasn’t exactly qualified to identify whether Tania Kosiewicz, Alumni Relations, was gay or straight, nor was she qualified to interpret the look that passed between Tania Kosiewicz and her mother. But something was happening. That much was clear.
“Thank you, Ms. Kosiewicz,” Leigh said. “For all your help.”
“Please. Call me Tania.”
“Tania.” Her mother nodded. “Okay … Hollis?” Her mother was looking at her.
“Yeah?”
Leigh widened her eyes.
“Oh,” Hollis said. She jerked her chin at Tania Kosiewicz. “Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome, Hollis. Good luck with your search.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
“That’s okay.”
“I hope that … when the time comes for you to visit colleges … you’ll take a look at Macalester. It’s a great school.”
“Oh. Uh-huh.”
“I’d be happy to show you around.”
“Okay,” Hollis said again.
Her mother smiled. Tania Kosiewicz smiled. And that was that.
The Other F-Word Page 11
