The How & the Why

by Cynthia Hand

  I mean, Ted knew. I told Ted. Why wouldn’t Ted tell Dawson?

  For all of three seconds I felt like maybe there was another path for me. Maybe Dawson would have another idea about what to do. Maybe he’d want to keep you. Maybe there was a way to work it out. Maybe—

  “It’s not mine,” Dawson said then, and he hung up.

  Sooooooooo.

  Bad news, X. Your dad’s out. I mean, not your dad. Your sperm donor, like I said in the beginning. And it’s not like anything’s changed. But now I guess it’s official. No baby daddy.

  On to the good news, though.

  I know who your real daddy is. I picked him out. He’s an elementary school teacher. He’s also kind of crunchy—the Oregon hippie type, which makes sense, because he’s from Portland. He spent a few years volunteering for some organization like Greenpeace, but I don’t think it was Greenpeace. I can’t remember now. He was a national park ranger for a while. Then he got his teaching degree at Boise State, which is where he met your mom (I don’t know that story—but you probably do, don’t you?). Then he taught at some inner-city schools in the Los Angeles area for a couple years. He must have liked Idaho, though, because then they moved back and he started teaching at an elementary school. He has kind eyes. Green eyes. That’s the thing that I noticed first about him.

  I like him. I know I’d want him to be my dad.

  It wasn’t the dad, though, that got your parents into the YES pile. It was the mom. She owns a cake shop. She makes cupcakes for a living. I mean, could you ask for anything better than that? There was something so cool about her, like she’s Martha Stewart if Martha Stewart was warm and loving and sweet. I wanted to hug her. She looks like she’d give good hugs.

  So, I didn’t find any real cons to your new family. And trust me, I was being picky. But here are the pros:

  They aren’t super rich. But they’re not poor, either. They’re solidly middle, maybe upper middle, but regular people, you know? They can afford to give you what you need. But they don’t seem like they’d give you so much that you’d think money grows on trees. Or think that you were entitled to everything. Or misunderstand, the way my folks do, that money equals love.

  They know how to handle kids. The dad especially, right? I mean, he’s handling kids every day. By choice. He must know how to do it. He must be a boss at it. Elementary schools are like jungles, so this guy must be like Tarzan.

  And your mom can cook. I can almost smell the chocolate chip cookies. It makes me smile to imagine the kind of birthday cakes you’ll have.

  On the form they talked a lot about family—not just the family they want to have, but the family they do have. So you’re going to be surrounded by grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins and friends. You might be an only child, but you won’t be lonely.

  They’re solid, X. I loved the pictures they included in the file. There’s one that must have been a photo for a Christmas card or an engagement photo, where they are standing in a field in front of a fence, their arms around each other. They’re looking into each other’s eyes. And they’re laughing. And in the next photo, she’s feeding him a cupcake. Still laughing. And in the next one, they’re all dressed up in formal wear, and she’s pretending to choke him with his tie. Maybe not the best choice for a photo to send to the person who’s deciding whether or not to give you a baby, I’ll admit. But they’re funny. I could tell in the way they filled out the forms. I mean, not too funny, as this is supposed to be serious business, a transaction ending with a child, but I could tell they know how to laugh at themselves.

  You’re not going to be their fixer baby. Or their pet.

  I could feel their happiness.

  I can feel it in my uterus: you belong with them.

  So that’s the good news. That’s what I want to leave you with today.

  S

  30

  I get the call from the adoptedsearch.org representative the morning after I got the email. I’ve been up since like five, without really sleeping. Dad isn’t awake yet. I contemplated telling him, last night after I got home from rehearsal, but he was at the hospital anyway, and then I thought, I should wait. See if this is real. I remind myself that I already got a match on this site once, and it wasn’t me. It wasn’t her.

  When I see the strange area code come up, I get so nervous I feel light-headed. I can’t breathe properly. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of—that I might have actually located my birth mother, that she searched for me, too, that it’s happening and now we’re going to have to hurry and get her over to meet my mom, and what will that be like? I wonder—or that this must all be some kind of cruel joke the universe is playing on me.

  “Hello?” I can’t keep the tremble out of my voice.

  “Hello, is this Cassandra McMurtrey?”

  “This is her. I mean, this is she.”

  “My name is Jennifer Benway. I’m calling from adoptedsearch.org?”

  “Yes. I’ve been expecting your call.”

  “So as you know, yesterday there was a match to your profile. A perfect match.”

  “What does that mean,” I ask, “perfect?”

  “A woman who is currently searching for the infant she gave up for adoption eighteen years ago created a profile on the site. The details match yours perfectly. That’s what it means.”

  I struggle to remember the details I put on the website. Just my birthday and my place of birth, I think.

  Jennifer Benway clears her throat. “Now I need to gather some more information from you so that we can make sure that this is an actual match.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what hospital you were born in?” she asks.

  “St. Luke’s.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” That’s on the form my parents gave me.

  “And was your adoption private?” Jennifer Benway asks.

  “It was through the state.”

  “And do you know your birth mother’s age at the time of your birth?”

  “She was sixteen.”

  “Excellent.” She sounds excited. I must be giving her the right answers. I feel like I’m passing the most important pop quiz in history. “Do you have any additional information that could be helpful?”

  “Yeah.” I rummage in my desk drawer for the worn, yellowed envelope. “I have the form of non-identifying information.”

  “That’s great. We should be able to confirm everything with that. Would you mind scanning those papers and emailing them to me? Then I’ll check it against the information we have from the birth mother and call you back later today.”

  That’s it? She’ll call back? “Okay.”

  “Great. I’ll call soon.”

  “Wait,” I say before she can hang up. “But the other stuff I told you, that I was born at St. Luke’s, that I was adopted through the state—does that information match?”

  “Yes,” she says, and I can almost hear her smiling. “It does. We have to cover all the bases, but it’s likely that this woman is your birth mother. It’s very exciting. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah.” I’m light-headed again. “Thanks.”

  I scan the forms and email them right away. Then I wait for Dad to wake up.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks the moment he comes into the kitchen and sees my face. “Your mom? Did the hospital call? I’ll get dressed.”

  “It’s not Mom. It’s something else.” I tell him everything that’s transpired in the past twelve hours, and then I start to pace back and forth across the kitchen. “Do you think I should tell Mom? She said she wants to meet my birth mother. I should tell her, right?”

  He sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and blinks a lot before he says, “Not until you know for sure.”

  “Right. This might not even be my birth mother,” I say lightly.

  “I don’t know. How many sixteen-year-olds do you suppose had a baby girl at St. Luke’s on the same day you were born?” Dad says
. “It sounds like you, Boo.”

  That’s what I’ve been thinking since the phone call. It must be me. It’s a perfect match. How could it not be?

  Dad sets down his coffee and scratches his chin. “But we should wait. I don’t know how your mom will react. She’s so fragile right now. I don’t want her to get overly excited.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “I think you’re right. We’ll wait until we’re sure.”

  He stares out the window at the falling snow.

  “Dad?” I ask him. “Are you okay? I know you hated the idea.”

  He snaps out of it. “Yes. If it’s what you want, I’m okay. Yes.”

  “I love you.” I stretch out my arms. I’m in this hyper mood all of a sudden. “This much.”

  He stretches out his arms, too, that are so much longer than mine. “But I love you this much.”

  “It’s not a competition, Dad,” I remind him.

  “But if it were, I’d totally win. I’ve got much longer arms. Want to hear a dad joke?”

  “No.”

  “You’re American when you go into the bathroom, and you’re American when you come out, but do you know what you are when you’re in there?”

  “Dad, stop.”

  “European.”

  I bust out laughing. I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it. “That’s awful.”

  “I know,” he says, grinning. “Want to hear a joke about a piece of paper? Never mind. It’s tearable.”

  My phone rings. We both freeze mid-laugh. I pick up my phone and check the number.

  “It’s her,” I say.

  “Sit down,” Dad suggests, and I do. I answer the phone.

  “Hello?” There’s that quiver in my voice again.

  “Cassandra?”

  “That’s me.”

  “This is Jennifer Benway from adoptedsearch.org.”

  “I know. Hi.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but . . .” She sighs. “I’m afraid this isn’t your birth mother after all. I’ve been going over the details, both yours and the other profile’s, and they don’t line up.”

  All the air goes out of my lungs. “What? But how could—”

  “This woman has brown eyes,” Jennifer Benway says. “And she’s tall: five eleven, not five three like what’s recorded on your form. And this woman was the youngest child of four. I think she might have attended the same school that your birth mother did, which also served as a home for pregnant young ladies, but this is not your birth mother, Cassandra.”

  “Oh” is all I can think to say.

  “I’m so sorry,” says Jennifer Benway.

  Dad’s watching me. I try to keep my face neutral.

  “We’ll keep your profile open, of course,” she rambles on. “There could be a match out there anytime. And I’ll talk to this woman and see if there’s anything she can add that might help your search.”

  “Okay.” I’m spacing now. Numb.

  “I’ll let you know,” she says, and hangs up.

  I put my phone on the table and stare at it. After a while I look at my dad. It wakes me up a little, seeing the sorrow in his eyes. He wants to protect me from this, I think, but he doesn’t know how.

  I swallow. “It’s not her,” I tell him, attempting to keep my voice casual like it doesn’t matter, but it wavers slightly.

  “Oh, honey,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Let’s not tell Mom,” I say. “Let’s never tell her.”

  31

  I have a dress rehearsal that night. I try to put the last twenty-four hours out of my mind, act like it didn’t happen, but it really is starting to feel like the universe is playing a cruel joke on me. That’s the worst part of this whole adoption thing: this sense of helplessness. Someone else has been making these decisions for me my entire life. Who my parents would be. How much I’d be allowed to know about the circumstances of my birth. It’s all completely outside of my control.

  I gaze down the long dressing room table at Nyla. I haven’t even started on my highlights and shadows yet, but Nyla’s got her costume on already, her Cinderella rags, her hair tied up. She’s ready. She looks focused. I sigh.

  My phone buzzes. A text.

  From Nyla.

  Nyla: What’s the matter?

  I glance over again. She’s looking at her phone, not me.

  Me: How do you know something’s the matter?

  Nyla: I know you. Is Mama Cat okay? Do you need to go? I can drive you.

  Reading that feels good, because she still cares, obviously.

  Me: My mom’s fine. I mean, not fine, really. But it’s not about my mom.

  Nyla: Oh. Whew.

  Me: But thanks.

  Nyla: What is it about, then?

  I bite my lip. Nyla and me, we’re broken, our friendship fractured, and it’s my fault, and she’s being nice—maybe she wants to fix it even—but our relationship can’t always be about my drama and her trying to make me feel better.

  I have to have something to give her, too. Something I owe her.

  I stare down at my phone. I mean, I did tell her I was sorry right after it happened, and again later, but both times it was a generic apology, the “I didn’t mean to say something that hurt you” kind of apology, which didn’t ring true, of course, because I did mean to hurt her that day. I understand that now. So it was really a non-apology that I gave her.

  Now my thumbs peck out the words I should have said.

  Me: What I said that day about them giving you the scholarship—it was racist, and it was wrong of me to say that, and I’m sorry. You got the scholarship because you are the most singularly talented actor I know. Period. You deserve that scholarship. I was upset because I wanted it, too, and I was only thinking about my own issues, but that’s no excuse. I know that. I’ve been so ashamed since then. I am disappointed in myself. I didn’t think I had that in me, to say something like that, to anybody, ever. Ever, ever. Especially to you. I know it must have hurt you so much to have that kind of thing come from me, when I’m supposed to be the one who’s got your back. I’m so sorry, Nyles.

  I send the text and then watch her out of the corner of my eye as she reads it. She bows her head for a minute, then gives a little weird laugh that I don’t know how to interpret, then sits up again and lifts her phone. I see the ellipses that mean she’s writing something back.

  But then it stops. Then nothing.

  She doesn’t look over at me. She’s staring at her phone.

  I’m flooded with shame all over again. God, I’m such a coward. I should have said all this in person. It’s so gutless, sending it in a text.

  Me: I should have told you this weeks ago.

  Nyla:

  Me: I miss you.

  Nyla:

  Me: I love you. You’re my best best friend in the whole world. You know that, right?

  Nyla:

  Me: But I’ll understand if you can never forgive me.

  Nyla:

  Me: I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.

  Nyla: Shut up a minute, will you? I’m trying to compose a response and you keep texting me.

  Me:

  Nyla: I accept your apology.

  Me:

  Nyla: It did hurt my feelings.

  Me:

  Nyla: But I miss you, too. I love you, too. You were having an epically crappy day that day. So I’ll give you a pass.

  Me:

  Nyla: This one time.

  Me: There won’t be a next time. I promise.

  She pushes back from her chair and comes to stand next to me.

  “Can I sit here for a minute?” she asks Alice, who’s putting on her makeup in the next seat. “I have to have a word or two with Cass.”

  Alice smiles radiantly like she knows we’re making up finally, gathers her stuff, and moves to Nyla’s place down the table.

  Nyla sits.

  “Thank you for apologizing,” she says. “I t
hink we can get past it now.”

  “Okay.” I look at her all teary and then laugh.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I want to hug you, but I don’t want to mess up your hair.”

  She laughs, too, pats her updo. “You think the world is ready for a black Cinderella?”

  “Doesn’t Brandy get to claim black Cinderella, though?” I point out. Nyla and I only watched that movie fifteen thousand times when we were younger.

  Nyla nods solemnly. “Yes. Brandy will always and forever be black Cinderella. But you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “And you’re going to be the best Cinderella, period, that this town has ever seen.” I hope she can tell I mean it.

  She hugs me. “So,” she says when she pulls back. “What’s the matter? What’s got your face like that?”

  I don’t want to get into it now.

  “Come sleep over at my house, after the show,” I say. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

  We’re snuggled up under a blanket on my couch about four hours later, eating popcorn by the handful, watching but not really watching the Disney version of Into the Woods, and I tell Nyla everything. I tell her about today’s false alarm with the less-than-perfect match. The whiplash of the whole experience. The weird little ache it filled me with, like really bad heartburn.

  “Wow,” she says when I’m done talking. “That’s intense.”

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s all so . . . complicated.”

  “Look up complicated in the dictionary,” I sigh. “That’s me. My life was high drama even before I was born.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Nyla asks.

  “I don’t think there’s anything else to do. I applied to get the letter, but I haven’t heard anything. I filled out that waiver. Same story. I did the internet thing, and I think we can both agree that turned out badly.” I choke back a laugh. “I even searched the high school yearbooks, didn’t I, Ny? I think I’ve done it all.” Tears spring to my eyes, and I laugh again. “And I keep freaking crying. I don’t get why. I’m not sorry I was adopted. I’m not sad about it. I’m not yearning to reconnect with my biological parents. I’m not trying to find a family—I have my grandma and my grandparents on my dad’s side and Uncle Pete and . . . you.”