by Robin Wells
“Could you give me her cell number?”
The request makes me wary. If Brooke wanted this man to have her number, she would have given it to him herself. “I’m sorry. I, uh, don’t feel at liberty to do that.”
“Okay.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me. Zack Bradley, Attorney at Law, I read. The firm’s address is downtown New Orleans.
“Would you please ask her to call me?” he asks.
I frown at the card. “Is Brooke involved in some kind of legal matter?”
“Not exactly.”
I realize I’m coming off as nosy, but I can’t seem to help it. “Are you trying to serve her with a summons or something? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but it’s weird that you came to her house, especially since you don’t seem to know her.”
He flashes that dimple again. “We connected online.”
“On a dating site?” Brooke and I looked a lot alike, so it’s not all that surprising that someone who’d only seen a photo of her might initially confuse us. What’s surprising is that Brooke would trawl the online dating pool without telling me—especially after her last experience. In the middle of dinner at Brennan’s, a couple had greeted her date and asked about his wife and children. Turned out the guy was married and looking for a little side action.
“Not a dating site.” He shifts his weight from one Nike-clad foot to the other, as if uneasy. “It was a site about her child.”
“Lily?”
“That’s her name?” His gaze intensifies.
The goose bumps on my arms shimmy down my legs.
Something strange and portentous is going on here. It reminds me of a night in Atlanta, when I was walking back to my car on a nearly deserted street and I became aware of footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man about half a block away. He started walking faster, gaining on me, and I broke into a run. I ducked into a convenience store, where I spent twenty minutes pretending I couldn’t decide which bottle of water to buy.
I feel the exact same sense of alarm now. I start to close the door. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”
“Wait.” He steps forward. He doesn’t put his foot in the door or reach for it or anything, but I jump backward as if he had. “Maybe you can help me after all. The online site I mentioned—it’s a donor registry.”
Donor. The word pours over me like a cooler full of ice. I suddenly realize why he looks familiar. His eyes are just like Lily’s. My heart batters wildly against my ribs.
“Lily tried to contact me,” he says. “I—I thought it would be best to talk to her mother first, but I couldn’t reach her by phone, so . . .” He holds out his arms, his palms up. “Here I am.”
My brain tries to absorb this information. This is Lily’s father. The father of . . . Oh my God in heaven! My hand reflexively covers my belly.
I know there are a million things I should be thinking about, but like a wet circuit board, my brain is shorting out. It takes all of my faculties to just address the actual words he said: Lily tried to contact me. “That’s—that’s impossible,” I stutter.
“What do you mean?”
“Lily’s three. She can’t read yet.”
He stares at me. “She’s just three? Then how . . . who . . . ?”
“It was me,” Miss Margaret says behind me. “I reached out to you on Lily’s behalf.”
CHAPTER NINE
Zack
HOLY CRAP—DOES everyone on that donor registry pretend to be someone else? First Jessica impersonates me, and now I discover that this elderly woman impersonated the child.
Not the child, I mentally correct—my child. My daughter. I have a three-year-old daughter named Lily! It’s one thing to know, hypothetically, that a child with your DNA might be walking around out there somewhere; it’s another thing altogether to learn the child’s gender, age, name, and address.
The older woman steps forward. She reminds me of Dame Judi Dench.
“I’m Margaret Moore. I’m Lily’s great-grandmother.” She holds out her hand.
“Zack Bradley,” I say as I shake it.
“I’m so pleased to meet you.” Her voice is gracious and composed, as if she were expecting me for dinner, but I feel her hand tremble.
“Is Lily in the house?” Part of me is dying to meet her, and another part—the lawyer part—is clanging a loud warning. After all, the child is only three; legally—not to mention morally—I need clearance from her mother before we make contact.
“No. She’s playing at a friend’s home.”
“Is she likely to come back before Brooke?”
“Um . . . no.” She puts her hand on her chest and looks away. “Quinn will go pick her up in a couple of hours.”
I look at the pretty blonde. She’s been silent and rigid ever since I mentioned I was a donor.
“Please come in.” Mrs. Moore sways a little bit. I notice that she’s clutching the doorway as if she’s holding it for support.
“All right,” I say. “Thanks.”
I follow the two women into a light-filled living room. Mrs. Moore motions me toward an armchair by the fireplace, then settles on the sofa. Quinn perches on the chair to my right, her face white, her mouth tight.
“How on earth did you find us?” Mrs. Moore asks. “As I recall, that registry only let me enter a phone number.”
I nod. “I called, but I couldn’t get an answer or leave a voice mail. Since it was a landline, it was easy to find out Brooke’s name and address.”
“Oh, mercy! I put down Brooke’s old phone number? What was I thinking? I meant to write in mine.” She makes a tsk-tsking sound and puts her hand on her chest again. “Well, there was so much going on at the time, it’s not surprising I got confused.”
Something is off about this whole situation. Why was she posting for Lily? “Is Brooke aware that you posted on the donor registry?”
“Um . . .” She glances quickly at Quinn, then looks at her lap. “Not exactly.”
Oh, hell. Is the old gal here a little unhinged? My grandfather had had Alzheimer’s, but you wouldn’t have known it if you’d just met him. He might carry on a perfectly pleasant conversation about, say, the weather, then leave the room and return wearing nothing but his underwear.
“I really think I should talk to Brooke before this goes any further,” I say.
“I’m afraid you can’t do that.” The older woman’s face falls and sort of slumps in on itself. “Brooke is no longer with us.”
I’m about to ask, Where’d she go? but then I glance at Quinn. She’s looked stressed ever since I told her why I’m here, but now her eyes are radiating something else—something I recognize, but can’t immediately place. I’ve seen it on my sister’s face after my father . . .
It hits with sudden, surprising force: grief. These two women are in mourning.
“Good God. What happened?”
Mrs. Moore swallows and looks like she’s about to cry.
“Brooke had a brain aneurysm.” Quinn’s voice quavers. “It happened about six weeks ago.”
* * *
—
OF ALL THE situations I’d imagined walking into this morning, this wasn’t one of them. And I’d imagined a variety of scenarios.
I’d awakened with a hellacious hangover, a rotten taste in my mouth, and the remnants of a dream about my late father flapping in my brain like a tattered flag. I dreamed I’d failed some kind of test and disappointed him, and it left me sick in the depths of my soul.
The rotten taste remained after I brushed my teeth, and I realized that it wasn’t just too much booze on an empty stomach; it was the conversation with Jessica and the knowledge that I had a child out there looking for me.
I swallowed some ibuprofen and a tall glass of water. I’m sure I dreamed about my father be
cause he’s my moral arbiter. When I don’t know what to do, I’ll pretend my father is in the situation and imagine his reaction, because he was the most honest, upright man I’ve ever known. It’s a less holy but more relatable version of WWJD. Whatever the problem, Dad believed in facing it head on and taking responsible action. “Just do what you know is right,” he’d told me.
It was pretty clear to me what I needed to do in this situation, at least as far as the child was concerned. It wouldn’t be right to ignore an outreach request. Maybe the kid needed a kidney or bone marrow transplant or something. As soon as I received the contact information for my child—my child; the solid reality of that still rattled me—I’d call. I wouldn’t say who I was; I’d get his—or her—mother’s phone number, then talk to the mom. Maybe she didn’t know that the child—who’s likely to be a teenager—was trying to find me. Maybe she won’t want him or her making contact until age eighteen. Whatever the mother wanted, I’d follow her wishes.
I called in to my office that I’d be working remotely today—it’s a common practice at our law firm—then took my laptop to an uptown coffee shop. That’s where I’d been this morning when the donor registry emailed me the phone number. When I got no answer, a quick reverse search gave me Brooke’s name and address. It was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, so I’d simply headed on over, hoping to meet Brooke or get her cell number from whoever answered the door. I never dreamed she’d be dead.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say now.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Moore gives a small nod.
“So—is Lily living with her father?”
Mrs. Moore blinks. “You’re the father.”
I know this, but . . . wow. I sit there for a moment, wondering again about Mrs. Moore’s mental status. “I meant Brooke’s husband.” The moment I say it, I realize there are other options. “Or ex-husband. Or—or partner. Or ex-partner.”
“Oh, Brooke wasn’t married or coupled up. She was a single mother by choice.”
The hits just keep on coming. I don’t know why this surprises me; my thinking is probably colored by all of the fertility treatments that Jess and I have been through and by my own two-parent upbringing.
I lean forward. “So who’s Lily’s guardian?”
“I am,” Mrs. Moore says. “She lives with me in Alexandria now. It’s lucky you came by this weekend. We’re only in New Orleans for a few days.”
Mrs. Moore strikes me as too old to care for a toddler. Wait—is a three-year-old still a toddler? There’s so much I don’t know about kids. “Do you have other family in Alexandria?”
“Other family?”
“A daughter or son or granddaughter or someone who can help you with Lily.”
She shakes her head. “Lily and I are each other’s only family.”
“You have me.” Quinn shifts toward the edge of her chair. “I’m like family.”
“Yes, dear, but you aren’t. Not real family. That’s why I reached out to Lily’s father.”
Quinn’s lips part. I’m sure my jaw drops as well. An awkward pause hulks over the room, punctuated by the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.
“Oh, my—I’m sorry, Quinn, dear. That didn’t come out right at all,” Margaret says. She touches her chest again. Her upper lip is perspiring. “I’m very fond of you, you know that. You’ve been nothing but splendid, and I know you adore Lily and Lily adores you. It’s just that, well—blood is thicker than water, and since Lily still has a living parent, I thought it was important to get him in the picture.”
Another round of uncomfortable silence hunches over us.
“Oh, goodness.” Mrs. Moore struggles to her feet. I stand, too, ready to help her. “I’m forgetting all my manners. Let me get you some iced tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Actually, I’m anything but fine. What does in the picture mean?
“Nonsense. Never in my life have I failed to offer hospitality. My mother used to say, ‘It’s rude not to offer, and rude to refuse.’ So what would you like? Coffee, tea, or water?”
Apparently she’s not going to take no for an answer. “Um . . . just water, please.”
“I’ll get it, Miss Margaret,” Quinn says, rising from her armchair.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.” She flaps her wrist. “This is my house now, and I insist on doing the honors. You stay here and keep Mr.—Bradford, was it?”
“Bradley,” I supply.
“Mr. Bradley. Quinn, dear, you stay here and keep Mr. Bradley company. What can I bring you, dear?”
Quinn reluctantly sits back down. “Um . . . just water, too. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I watch the older woman shuffle out of the room, then look at Quinn and sit back down. “I’m so sorry about Brooke.”
“Thank you,” she says stiffly.
“You and Lily are close, I take it?”
“Very. I’m her godmother and the backup guardian.” She lowers her voice. “Brooke was going to change her will to make me guardian after Miss Margaret’s next birthday, but she passed before . . .” Her voice breaks. She puts her hand over her mouth for a moment.
She has one of those expressive faces where every emotion shows. My heart goes out to her.
She swallows and takes her hand away. “Anyway, yes, I’m very close to Lily.” She gives a wry smile. “And you might not know it from what she just said, but I’m close to Miss Margaret, too.”
“She seems sort of frail.”
Quinn’s forehead creases. “She’s not at her best today. She’s in great shape for her age, but it’s been really hard on her, losing Brooke. Being back in Brooke’s home and going through all of her things to put the house on the market is taking a toll on her.”
“She’s selling this place?”
Quinn nods. “Movers are coming later today to pack up the contents of the closets and drawers. We’ve taken down all the photos to depersonalize the place so prospective buyers can envision . . .”
A thud sounds in the kitchen, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass. We both jump to our feet.
“Miss Margaret!” Quinn’s eyes are wide and alarmed.
I race to the kitchen to find the elderly woman lying on the floor, facedown, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Shards of glass glisten near her right hand. A step stool stands in front of an open upper cabinet.
“Oh, my God!” Quinn gasps.
I kneel on the hardwood floor beside the too-still woman and check for a pulse. I can’t find one. “We need to turn her over to see if she’s breathing.”
Quinn holds Miss Margaret’s head as I carefully flip her over. Her face is white, her lips grayish blue. She looks completely lifeless.
“Call nine-one-one,” I say. “I’ll start CPR.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jessica
THE DAY AFTER I jeopardize my marriage, I wake up in my childhood bedroom in a suburb of Seattle. What is it about being back in your parents’ house that makes you feel like you’re thirteen years old again? In my case, it might be because the room is a time capsule.
I turn my gaze from the frilly dotted swiss curtains to the faux French-provincial vanity. Jeez, the room could be rented out as a vintage movie set. Everything in it, from the floral border on the wall to the matching curtains and matching sheets, is dusky blue and dusty rose—color-challenged pastels that always look dirty, grayed over like a foggy day, or both. Not the best decor choice for a cloudy climate, but I suppose it was the very height of chic in the eighties.
It doesn’t help that my mother has kept the room as a shrine to my school-age triumphs. There on the white dresser is the horseback-riding trophy I won when I was eight, as well as the trophies my piano teacher gave me for being her most prepared student. The spelling bee award I won in sixth grade hangs on th
e wall, next to honor roll certificates, National Honor Society plaques, and awards for junior and senior high math competitions. On the far wall are homecoming, prom, sorority, and graduation photos.
I sit up and push my hair from my eyes. My little sister, Erin, swears I deliberately tried to make her look bad by being the perfect daughter. I wasn’t perfect, of course, but I sure tried my hardest to be. I still do. Back then, it seemed to be what my parents expected, and I never wanted to disappoint them. Now I don’t want to disappoint myself. I’ve read this is a trait shared by many eldest children.
I’ve got another eldest-child trait that no one, my sister included, really knows about: no matter how well I do, I always secretly feel like I’m not good enough.
My gaze scans the framed photos on top of the dresser and zooms in on a shot of Zack and me at our wedding. Guilt grabs me like something from a nature documentary—hawk talons around a rabbit, maybe. I reach for my phone, hoping to see a message from Zack. Nothing.
Good morning from Seattle, I text. I am so, so sorry about everything. I love you and want to talk.
Zack is usually very prompt about replying when he’s not tied up in meetings. I get up and take a quick shower in the Jack and Jill bathroom that adjoins my room with my sister’s. By the time I’ve dried off, done my hair, and put on a little makeup, he’s sent a text:
Glad you made it there safely. Not ready to talk yet. I’ll call later.
Anxiety digs another claw into my stomach. It’s not exactly the warm fuzzies I was hoping for, but at least he responded. Maybe he’s not ready to talk because he’s busy.
Or maybe he’s still mad.
I throw on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a scarf, and a long sweater, then head downstairs in search of caffeine. My mom is in the kitchen, which is covered in fruit-themed wallpaper. My sister, Erin, is there, too. She and her husband live a few streets over with their two children, now aged eleven and fourteen.
