by Nichole Van
“So you were abandoned at a hospital in the U.S.?” Chiara asked.
“Yeah. I was left at Shriners Hospital in Portland, Oregon.” I moved, resting my arm on the table.
“No way.” Tennyson smiled at me, canting my way. “That’s where we were born. Imagine that.”
“At Shriners even?” I could hear the incredulousness in my voice.
“Yeah. What a crazy—”
“How old are you?” Judith interrupted. Her eyes were a little wide and intense.
“Uhm, thirty-three.”
“Were you born on April eighth?”
It was my turn for wide eyes. “Yes. How did you know—”
“We share a birthday?” Tennyson laughed, turning to me. “We were born on the same day in the same hospital? That’s incredible.”
He reached for my hand across the table, snagging it in his before I could pull away. His actions read as instinctual, like he couldn’t help but reach for me.
Great. We were still going to play the hand-hold game.
Lovely.
He held my fingers tightly again, his face still happy and amazed. I tried to ignore all the feels his warm palm was sending up my arm.
Judith sat back with a loud huff. “Wow. This is just . . . wow. I had no idea.”
“What is it, Mom?” Tennyson asked. “I’m getting some serious shock from you.”
“Funny how you forget about an incident until something sparks your memory.” Judith looked at me a moment longer, her expression somewhat unnerving before she shifted her gaze, staring far off, lost in thought. “The night you triplets were born was a crazy one for the hospital. There was a super moon, and I guess big full moons like that cause women who are close to their due dates to go into labor. The hospital was a crush of new babies. Every room had a patient or two, and they even ran out of bassinets for the babies in the nursery.
“I remember it was a couple hours after giving birth to you boys. The nurses came in talking about a baby that had been found. She had been discovered in the hallway wrapped in filthy rags, the placenta still attached. Everyone was baffled at how the mom had managed to leave her without anyone noticing. But somehow, she did.”
Judith brought her eyes back to mine. “That baby was you. It had to be.”
I nodded, my throat tight. That was the story as I knew it.
I had never spoken with anyone who had been there that night. I had only heard the story backhand from my mother who had heard it from the social worker who had heard it from the hospital and so on.
Judith’s eyes dropped to my hand on the table, tucked tightly into Tennyson’s.
She blinked, as if remembering something. And then let out a small snort. “Give me a second. Let me check one thing.”
Judith stood and left the room.
We all looked at each other, baffled, stunned, surprised.
I laughed, breathy. “I’m having trouble getting my head around all this, honestly. I’ve never spoken with anyone else who was there that night.”
Tennyson squeezed my hand and then, almost as an afterthought, realized he was squeezing my hand, which meant he was holding my hand.
He looked down and frowned.
He dropped my hand and folded his arms across his chest.
His reaction seemed to say, ‘Ugh. How did this hand get in mine again? I thought I let that thing go a while ago.’
It was a confusing turn. Why was he so hot and cold? Cuddle me and then pull away? Hold my hand and then drop it?
It felt like he thought I was throwing myself at him and he didn’t like it.
Yeah, I know she’s a total hag. I hate having to date such a troll.
I bit my lip, pushing aside the memory.
So, past history had proven that this behavior wasn’t too unusual when it came to men and me. It had been almost comic in college to watch guys go out of their way to let me know that they had a girlfriend or that they weren’t interested in dating right now, only to suddenly change their tune once they discovered who my mom was.
But . . . Tennyson reached for me. I hadn’t reached for him. I had learned long ago to never initiate contact with a guy.
It was like he liked me in spite of himself. But that made no sense whatsoever.
In the past, a guy’s behavior would be the opposite—reluctance to initially touch me and then holding on for longer than necessary. I knew the whole game only too well.
I didn’t understand Tennyson D’Angelo at all. And the more I tried to sort through it, the more confused and sad I became. I covered my emotions by looking away and pretending to be absorbed in the pastoral painting above the fireplace.
A few minutes later, Judith returned, holding something, eyes wide.
“You okay, Mom?” Tennyson asked. “You’re sorta freaked out right now.”
She nodded. “You guys needed to see this. It was in my keepsake stuff.”
She motioned for Tennyson to cross to our side of the table. He took a seat next to me as Judith placed a photo on the table in front of us.
The image was of two tiny newborns lying asleep in a hospital bassinet, one with a blue wristband, the other with a pink. A boy and a girl.
A card was slotted above each baby. The one for the boy said, D’Angelo triplet #3. The girl said, Baby Jane Doe—the name on my original birth certificate.
The chill started at the base of my neck and zinged down my spine, scattering goosebumps as it went.
Tennyson let out a slow whistle. “Is this what I think it is, Mom?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s you and Olivia. It has to be.”
“What?” Chiara lurched to her feet and crossed to lean over my shoulder. “That’s crazy.”
Judith swallowed and then continued, “All the other bassinets were full, and they had already put Dante and Branwell together. But, Tennyson, you were on your own. And then they found this new little one. They asked if she could bunk with you, and of course I said yes. When Cesare went to check on you, he found you like this.”
Judith touched the photo. I was cuddled into Baby Tennyson, my face turned into his shoulder. For his part, Baby Tennyson had worked a hand free of his swaddling, resting it on my shoulder.
The image was Anne Geddes adorable.
“There you were, a comforting hand on the foundling girl,” Judith whispered. “Your father took a photo of it because it was so cute, he said he couldn’t resist.”
Tennyson touched the photo, tracing my small body. I leaned forward, studying it. This was the earliest photo I had of myself. My parents had adopted me a few weeks later.
My brain short-circuited. I couldn’t really comprehend this abrupt twist of understanding.
Tennyson had been there from the very beginning. There was no way this was anything other than it seemed. The photo was clearly old and original.
The sense of connection I felt with Tennyson suddenly made more sense. Had my tiny self bonded with him somehow? The first person to pull me close and care for me? Did my pheromones simply recognize his? Did we pinky-promise as newborns to always be together? Could we pinky-promise now to always be together?
“This can’t be coincidence.” Chiara’s voice interrupted my musing.
“What do you mean?” Tennyson tore his eyes from the photo.
“Olivia being born the same time and place as you boys, then resting with you in your hospital bassinet. She sees the scars and the daemon. You can’t sense her emotions. She’s part gypsy. It’s too much to be coincidence. Some part of all of this has to be causal.”
I wanted to deny her claim, to point out that it was crazy.
But Chiara was right.
It was too much to chalk up to random chance.
Perhaps I wasn’t merely a peripheral player in the D’Angelo curse.
Perhaps I was an integral part of it.
TWENTY TWO
Tennyson
My mind reeled with the revelations of the day.
First
the gypsies and my vision.
Then the knowledge that Olivia was of gypsy descent herself and absolutely intertwined with our GUTs somehow.
I wondered if my father had known when he took that photo. Had he seen even then that Olivia was tied up in our D’Angelo issues? And how was she linked to us?
Jack was right: the more we delved, the more questions we found. But there were answers, too. We were making forward progress, no matter how slow.
I just hoped we were moving fast enough.
I was free falling into mad love with her. My attraction to her was a wild, feral thing that clawed at me, leaving my insides lacerated and bloody in its attempts to fight free to her.
Did my subconscious know her? Did it remember holding the tiny orphan in the hospital? Why else was I constantly reaching for her?
I may or may not have been brooding again.
But just keeping my hands to myself seemed a Herculean task.
I fell asleep that night promising myself I would keep my distance.
My dreams were full of her.
All the visions from earlier blending into one.
Olivia and I laughing, her falling into my arms. Waking up next to her on the couch, giggling together.
In every scene, I loved her with desperate passion. She was mine and I was hers and we were never going to be parted.
But then I would lean in to kiss her mouth, and it would happen.
Over and over.
One brush of her soft lips and the world would crack. Something vital shattering within the D’Angelo curse. Time and again, Olivia was wrenched from my arms and sucked into the shadow world, dying in a pool of vivid red blood.
The scene played on a loop, repeatedly throwing me out of sleep in adrenaline-soaked sweat.
I finally took a heavy sedative just to silence the mental noise.
I woke the next morning to texts from my siblings:
Branwell: Talk to me. What’s going on with Olivia? I’m concerned about you.
Dante: Thinking about you.
Chiara: Tenn, you okay?
Of course.
I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, shaking my head. I loved that they loved me, but I was so tired of being the broken one.
I replied that I was fine and would call them later.
One thing was clear, however.
I needed to address the issue with Olivia.
No more mixed signals. The touching and inadvertent couch-cuddling needed to stop. I didn’t miss the confusion in her eyes when I abruptly pulled away.
I couldn’t talk to her about my vision of her death. The risk was too great.
Zach’s gurgling gasps as his lungs filled with his own blood.
‘Why did you tell me? Why couldn’t you keep your damn mouth shut—’
The only truly secure choice was to maintain my distance. That was the guaranteed route to keeping Olivia safe.
I loved her enough to put her before my stupid needs. I could protect her from myself.
Olivia was already up before me, seated in the kitchen, frowning at her phone.
The October weather had turned dreary. Rain pattered against the window.
The modern kitchen had been formed out of the nineteenth century billiards room, so it featured a heavy, masculine beamed ceiling overhead. But outside of that, three sides of the room sparkled in chrome, marble and white—stainless steel appliances, marble floor and countertops, white old-world cabinetry and oversized farmhouse sink. An enormous island stood in the middle.
The fourth wall of the room was comprised of paned, floor-to-ceiling windows and french doors which opened onto the large terrace that stretched along the back of the villa. A long farmhouse table sat in front of the windows, overstuffed chairs and couches tucked under it. My mom loved using plush furniture as dining chairs.
Olivia was seated in a deep club chair at one end of the table, tapping her phone, the crusts of half-eaten toast before her. Despite the rain drumming against the windows, my day always brightened when I saw her.
Yeah. I was a complete goner.
Focus, man. Look but don’t touch. That’s all you gotta do.
She had twisted her hair into a sort of loose, messy bun with curls escaping here and there to frame her face. Her face was in profile, clearly outlining the slope of her nose and firm point of her chin.
I now knew that laugh lines popped at the edges of her mouth when she smiled. That she sometimes snorted when she laughed and chewed her cheek when she was puzzled.
I wanted to know every little thing about her, every thought in her head, every wish in her soul—
Stop.
No obsessing.
She finally lifted her head, sensing my presence.
“Everything okay,” I asked, motioning toward her phone with my chin.
“Meh.” She set the phone down with a disgusted sigh. “Just Michael going on and on with details. He wants me in the States right now to prep for Mom’s ‘big announcement.’” She air-quoted the word. “It’s like the worst-kept secret in the history of American politics.”
No need to ask what the big announcement would be. Everyone already assumed that Senator Hawking would be declaring her bid to run for President.
I crossed the room and pulled out a chair beside Olivia, sitting down. As usual, my hands ached to reach for her. Instead, I sternly clasped them in front of me on the table, fingers laced together.
No more subconscious physical contact. I would protect her from myself.
“Do you need to be there to help?” I had been reluctant to ask anything about her family. I was desperate to know everything about her, but I didn’t want Olivia to think I was prying.
“No. Michael doesn’t need my help.” She made a cute, exasperated noise. “He’s just being weird . . .”
Or playing jealous ex-boyfriend whose face I wanted to pound into a bloody pulp.
I wanted to know how her relationship with him had gone down. I wanted the play-by-play in excruciating teenage-fangirl-crush level of detail.
But I wisely didn’t say that.
Her phone binged again.
Olivia made another adorable growly sound as she glanced at it. She read the message and then flipped her phone face down on the table.
“I get that my mother wants me there. But there are still twelve days between now and the announcement. I don’t need to be home until two days beforehand at the earliest. All they have to do is dress me, show me where to stand and tell me when to smile. I simply want to go, get through it without completely humiliating myself, and return here to continue our research.”
She lapsed into silence, chewing on her cheek.
As usual, her unknown emotions called to me. The quiet simplicity of just being with her.
I tightened the grip on my hands laced together. No touching. I could do this.
“Yeah,” I replied, “and if you’re only gone three or four days, you probably wouldn’t miss much here. To be honest, our research goes for months or even years with little new information, and then we hit a week, like this one, where we learn a ton in a short period of time.”
More silence met my comment.
What was she feeling right now? Why did she appear so frustrated over the thought of going home? The few short days she would be gone truly didn’t matter much.
And then it hit me, all her little comments.
Katrina, my communications coach, said . . .
My weird, oddball brain needs more of a buffer . . .
Get through it without completely humiliating myself . . .
Oh, Olivia.
Anima mia.
“You’re worried about your performance with the media at home,” I said. “It will be a bit of a circus, lots of questions—”
Olivia snorted and looked away for a second, staring out the window.
Quiet stillness hung in the room. Rain pattered against the window.
I waited her out. I would always wait for this wom
an.
She finally turned back to me, her normal effervescence dimmed. “It’s a never-ending nightmare. I’m guaranteed to say or do something catastrophically bad. Usually, the daughter of a politician wouldn’t matter that much, but where there’s already such a strong history of weird behavior with me, it’s something the media really hones in on. My mental health issues and public gaffs are just part of my mom’s media crisis management plan, unfortunately—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No. Their fears are well-founded.” She shrugged. “I’m a disaster in front of a camera. I freeze. I say stupid things. Michael and my mom want me to do a week of intensive work with Katrina before the big announcement. A refresher course—”
“Why go at all then?”
“If I don’t go, then every reporter is like, ‘Where is Olivia?’ and ‘Has she finally had a complete mental breakdown?’ blah, blah. My mom has enough to worry about without having to field questions about my mental stability—”
“Because of the reports of you as a teenager?”
“Among other things. I can’t win. Every decision I make will likely end in disaster. All I can do is minimize the time I’m in front of everyone.”
How could I not have known this about her? That my Olivia struggled to communicate with the media? It seemed so incredibly obvious now.
Oh, that’s right—I couldn’t feel her emotions and I was horrific at reading body language, so I had no way of knowing.
But I still should have put all the clues together.
My heart hurt. Physically, painfully ached in my chest. My throat clogged. I desperately wanted to comfort her. Wrap her in my arms and tell her everything would be okay. I would fight her demons, quite literally perhaps.
I swallowed.
Don’t reach for her.
Don’t comfort her.
Protect her from your own nightmarish self.
My knuckles were white where my hands rested on the table—the strain of not reaching for her.
“I’d like to spend today not thinking about my mom and the media chaos waiting for me at home. Does that make me a bad person?” Olivia shot me a look through her eyelashes.