by Dante Medema
I have already sent out my GeneQuest kit, with DNA swab, and their lab should be sending my results any day now. Instead of relying on Bea’s results, which I’m told can differ even between siblings, I have taken initiative to make this project my very own.
Sincerely,
Cordelia
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: K. Jones ([email protected])
Subject: senior project partners FTW
Cordelia! What up?!
Funny. I got my email from Ms. Nadeer that we’re partners. I was trying to find your email address and came across some of our old chats from way back in the day. Mostly dumb stuff, but I found one from the end of 8th grade—old school. Remember when we went on the field trip to the zoo and got lost near the wolf exhibit and I convinced you they open the enclosure at night? The look on your face when they started howling. Good times.
Pretty cool we got paired up as partners for our projects. Should we meet up tomorrow after school and talk? I can come over if that works. Figure out how we can help each other?
Kodi
Ps. My mom says hi.
Pps. Wait—this is still your email, right?
To: K. Jones ([email protected])
From: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
Subject: Re: senior project partners FTW
Hey new number, who dis?
Kidding. I’ll rock the Cordelia Bedelia email until I die. Same with my treasured copy of Amelia Bedelia in hard print.
First of all, I’m glad you have fond memories of that day, but I legit thought I was going to die. Let’s start with the fact that you said if we were exposed to man-eating wolves, you would survive because you could run faster. Not cool. At all.
It’s kinda crazy to think back to then. Before high school. I can’t believe we used to walk home together every day, and now I can’t remember the last time we talked. I miss hanging out in your parents’ backyard, roasting marshmallows and telling scary stories. Your dad always told the best ones.
But yeah, it’s awesome we’re partners. Tomorrow sounds good!
Cordelia Bedelia.
Ps. Tell your mom I said hi back.
It’s late
when Mom comes in,
and I have just enough time
to close my laptop.
She drops laundry on my bed,
then drapes her hand
on my shoulder.
“Why don’t you like Kodiak?”
I ask.
Mom softens,
threading her fingers through
the ends
of my too-curly hair.
“It’s not that I don’t like him,”
she says.
“But I wouldn’t be a good parent
if I didn’t try to prevent you
from making the same mistakes
as your mother.”
When I don’t try to argue
she leaves me alone,
and I fire my email back up
hoping
praying
he’s already written back.
Sometimes I wonder what mistakes
she sees in herself
that she’s afraid to see in me.
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: GeneQuest ([email protected])
We have your results!
Click here to see where you come from!
Deep down, I know what it will say.
I’m not so different.
Them
and
me.
Deep down I know
I’m looking for confirmation
that
there
is
a
reason
I
don’t
fit.
My Results
61.1% British & Irish
22.2% French & German
13.8% Broadly Northwestern European
1.4% Southern European
1.1% Broadly European
0.3% Nigerian
0.1% Broadly Western Asian & North African
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: GeneQuest ([email protected])
You have new
GeneQuest relatives!
Click here to connect to your DNA family!
(If you can’t see relatives, make sure you’ve got “search function” set to ON in settings)
GeneQuest
Start connecting with your family!
Name
Relationship
Jack Bisset
Father
Father’s side. 50% DNA shared.
99.9% accurate
It doesn’t matter that others are listed.
an uncle—25% shared DNA
a grandmother—25% shared DNA
a cousin—12.5% shared DNA
I can’t see past Father.
Jack Bisset—50% shared DNA.
As if this is common knowledge
that somewhere a man lives
who genetically
is my father.
I can’t stop staring outside
to a light snow
inching up my windowsill,
creating a blanket between me
and the world.
I slide down in my bed
hugging a pillow
and repeating over and over and over and over again.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
I was right. I. Am. Adopted.
Sana-Friend ♥
Me: I’m freaking out.
Sana: Too much Taco Bell?
Me too friend.
Me. Too.
Me: No, this is serious.
I just got the GeneQuest results.
Sana: Is it cancer?
Me: I’m sending a screenshot of my DNA relatives. Hold on.
Sana: Holy. Fuck.
Me: I know.
Sana: That can’t be real. No. Are you kidding?
Me: I almost wish I was. But it makes sense, right?
Oh my god.
The other day she said something about not wanting me to repeat her mistakes.
What if she didn’t mean her. But, like, a BIRTH mom?
Sana: Did you ask your parents about it?
Me: I can’t. Remember when Bea decided to switch majors?
Dad shut down and stopped talking to people.
Mom started doing CrossFit.
And that wasn’t nearly as big as this.
I can’t breathe right now.
My heart is going to fall out of my chest.
Sana: Okay, stop. I’m coming over.
Me: No.
I can’t be here.
I’ll come to you.
I can’t tell if I need
to wipe snow from
my frosty windshield
or tears from my eyes.
There’s no way to tell except
blinking and wiping.
It’s not going away.
That thing that makes it
so I can’t see straight.
The snow.
The tears.
The pain.
My best friend lives in a double-wide trailer.
My parents talk about her mom
in that bad way people do when they
don’t understand something.
Sana yells when she’s mad.
Swear words are part of her,
like breathing.
And she pushes buttons
and parties
and smokes weed sometimes.
She doesn’t follow any rules
except her own.
We shouldn’t work.
But Sana champions everything
I do.
She listens to my poems before
I let anyone else see them.
She leans over my notebook
and whispers,
“It’s so good.”
That trailer she lives in
sometimes feels
more like home
than my own.
And her mom,
who my parents don’t understand,
works two jobs
and makes me feel like I belong.
Sana is my friend.
My defender.
My person.
When Sana tells me,
“It’ll be okay.
It’s not okay right now,
but it will be.”
I want to believe her.
But this morning
Jack did not exist to me.
And now he’s taken up space in my heart
so gargantuan I think
there might not be room left for me
anymore.
He’s going to grow so big,
my chest will split open,
and my guts and soul
will spill out right in front of Sana.
Then I bet she won’t tell me,
“It’s okay.”
Sana turns on my favorite songs,
and we use her neighbor’s Wi-Fi
to internet stalk the stranger I share half my DNA with.
But he’s even a stranger to the internet,
a single matched result,
with a private Facebook.
His profile picture is my only clue
to who he is.
A man with a guitar cradled in his lap.
Shaggy auburn hair, eyes closed,
and a tattoo of a woman
with devil horns
on his collarbone.
Somewhere there is a world
where I grew up sitting on his lap,
tracing my fingers along
the strings of that guitar,
and finding myself in
the father I don’t know.
Giggling because the mother
I don’t know
is making a funny face so I’ll
smile
for the picture she’s taking.
Maybe she’s got dark curls like me.
And writes poems
getting lost in thoughts
imagining people
she’ll never know
and places
she’ll never go.
To: Bea Koenig ([email protected])
From: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
Subject: I miss my sister.
Hey,
I know I haven’t emailed in a while, but I miss you. How’s school?
I’ve been working on my senior project. Got my GeneQuest results back today, actually.
Feeling a little down. A little misplaced. Any chance we can get a Skype date in soon?
Love,
Cordelia
When I was little, I wondered
what made me different from my family.
I couldn’t understand
why none of them
needed to say something
a million times
in their heart
before they spoke
it with their tongue.
Why Mom and Bea never seem to cry
at movies I feel in my soul.
Or why Bea and Iris have the same
sense of humor. Their jokes
a connective tissue
and I’m the one struggling
to think of anything to add.
And why is Dad gentler with me
than my sisters?
Why I’ve always felt lonely
sitting with them at the dinner table.
Like maybe this wasn’t ever supposed to be my life.
I know they feel it too.
The way they look behind my back at each other
when I say something that is too much.
Or feel things harder than they do.
Maybe it’s that they don’t understand me,
but it might also be because they know.
Deep down, they know.
They know
Beatrice
and
Iris
belong.
While I’m
the outlier
the piece that doesn’t fit.
the one who shares nothing
but name.
The child
stuck in the middle
of a family
who would have
been just as complete
without her.
I’ve known.
I’ve been waiting for
the other shoe
to drop.
Now that it has,
I want to glue
my shoes
to my feet.
Turns out dinner isn’t always the same.
When you know a secret,
everything feels like a gesture
a nod
a clue.
Iris is in trouble, see
it doesn’t happen very often.
But when it does it’s
hashtag unfair
and Mom and Dad are
hashtag overreacting.
Dad says,
“No legacy is so rich as honesty,”
and I laugh, not because he’s funny
but because no one
knows
I know the legacy of truth
is a lie.
I am a lie.
So I say,
“Ignorance is the curse of God;
knowledge is the wing
wherewith we fly to heaven.”
And he’s proud, slapping his leg
and laughing.
“Exactly!” he shouts,
and points at Iris.
“Take lessons from Cordelia.”
At the very end of the table
Mom cradles her lifeline wine.
Her smile is empty, studying me
like she also wants to know
which parts of me come
from other people.
To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])
From: Bea Koenig ([email protected])
Subject: Re: I miss my sister.
School is fine. I’m hoping to finish this semester with all As and maybe stay on for summer so I can finish up school on time. Switching majors is a pain—try not to do that. Who knew that a degree in Women’s Studies is about as valuable as a degree in English (no offense!)?
I’m glad you’re working on your project. But I’m confused about the ancestry part. Mom said you were doing something with poetry. Do you need me to send you my GeneQuest results?
Also, what has you feeling “misplaced,” or is this just a typical overly-dramatic-Cordelia moment? Honestly, babe, you’ve got to stop being so sensitive or you’re never going to survive college.
Trust me, things will be different when you get to Columbia. You won’t care about the little things you worry about now. Maybe a Skype date next week? Soooooo busy.
Love always,
Bea
Kodiak tells me about his project
like a little sea otter.
Bobbing his head up and down,
breaking it apart like it’s an urchin
full of juicy meat,
tender and fulfilling.
“A modern retelling of Tlingit stories.”
He’s so excited
I almost forget last year happened.
I tell him how mine feels like seaweed,
tangling my toes
and keeping me down.
When he asks, “How can I help?”
I try not to let the pinprick of tears
stain the first time we’ve talked
&n
bsp; really talked
in years.
“Don’t cry.”
His hand rises between us,
palm upturned.
He’s an eagle again.
Open.
Secrets.
They are as intimate as going palm to palm.
My hand slips into his,
and it’s calloused and soft at the same time.
Fingers intertwined,
his eyes staring into mine like they might swallow
what is left of me.
“I’m here if you need to talk.”
At night,
when Iris texts her friends from her room
and Dad lies slumped over in an armchair
while Mom sleeps in their bed,
I study our family photos.
I look for the wave in my brown hair
and the same nose my sisters have.
I look through old photo albums in the library.
Thumbing through pictures,
vacations to Disneyland,
day trips to Seward,
nights in Alyeska
where we picked blueberries
and ate them until our fingers
were stained purple.
I find a picture of my mother,
belly fat and full of baby.
She’s smiling at the camera
but her eyes are sad.
Bea hangs from her leg
with pigtails and a T-shirt that says,
I’m 3!
3.
The same age she was when I was born.
There’s lurch in my stomach,
a pit
staining my heart instead of my fingers.
The question bigger now.
How?
What if I’m not adopted?
What if the answer to the question
makes it worse?
Makes the puzzle
unsolvable.
Unimaginable.
What if I’m the history
she doesn’t want me to repeat?
Best Mama
Me: Mom, can I ask you a question?
Mom: Sure.
Me: Maybe I’m not adopted.
But would you tell me if I was, like, from a sperm donor or something?
Mom: Cordelia, I don’t have time for this.
I have 3 showings this afternoon.
You’re not adopted.
I didn’t use a sperm donor.
Do your homework.
We can talk later.
