Why had she not checked the other settings before she opted him into the database? Until that gaffe, she hadn’t thought of logging on as violating his privacy, only trying to disprove an erroneous claim he need not know about. But now, if this did find its way to him, she’d have some uncomfortable explaining to do.
Then again, so would he.
She tossed the pillow aside and grabbed her phone. No missed calls, no new texts, nothing but junk mail unopened in her in-box. She was not reassured.
Lucy trounced back into the room, wearing her most angelic poker face—and a pair of Hello Kitty underwear atop her head. “Fixed it, Mommy!”
Caroline yawned and sat up. The thing about morning people was, they always won. “How about pigtails today? I can pull them through the leg holes.”
“Mommy! I was joking!”
For all her resistance to the frenetic starts to her workdays, Caroline could say this: Their get-five-people-out-the-door-with-everything-they-need routine, or lack thereof, was distracting, whether you wanted it to be or not. This day, she threw herself into it, mediating arguments over toaster waffles and misplaced school library books with appreciation for small problems she could actually solve. Walt gave her a tight squeeze on his way out the door, mouthing, Call you later, but she didn’t meet his eyes to acknowledge the reason. It was easier—steadier—to be in her most natural, most capable state of busyness once she got going. She doodled notes in the girls’ lunch boxes and led Simon Says at the bus stop and lingered at Owen’s drop-off, chatting about an upcoming field trip for so long that she ended up volunteering to chaperone. When there was nothing left to do but go to work, she texted her boss an apology for running late—rarely a big deal, given how often she ran shows on evenings and weekends—and turned out of the preschool parking lot in the opposite direction.
She’d decided: She couldn’t face this day without getting a look at Dad. One look at his normal, unsuspecting, did not get the email self—that would reassure her. At least until they heard back from customer service and could decide if there was cause to pursue this at all.
And if he had gotten that big red exclamation point message? Well, let him bring it up—or not. If he seemed off, she’d know there might be something to this. Which would leave her … well, exactly where she stood.
Dad had retired early and reluctantly last year, after worsening high blood pressure flags provoked Mom’s threats to damn well give him a heart attack if he didn’t slow down. Their siblings had collectively died young, one cautionary tale after the next, and though Caroline’s parents were just creeping up on sixty, they’d spent conservatively and invested well. Why wait and risk never getting to enjoy retirement, especially with three grandbabies nearby? Now, Dad started every day with the lazy luxury formerly reserved for Sundays: reading the newspaper front to back while savoring three slow cups of coffee—though he’d crankily switched to decaf. He habitually rose as early as every other senior she knew, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Caroline never wondered where her aversion to her alarm clock came from.
Mom, who’d been a homemaker until Caroline left for college and then worked at a handbag outlet “just for fun”—fun being an obvious euphemism for “employee discount”—was the opposite, all get up and go, and collected comments that she didn’t look old enough to be a grandmother the way other people collected vinyl or coins. By now she’d be at one of her fitness classes, a rotation of yoga, water aerobics, and senior spinning. Dad poked fun at the latter title, bringing to mind the ridiculous image of oldsters getting dizzy on swivel desk chairs. But for all Caroline cared, Mom could be off turning cartwheels—as long as it meant she’d catch him alone.
She stopped at Busken Bakery for a half dozen of their heart-shaped, low-fat glazed doughnuts, which no amount of fruit-topped yogurt, egg white omelets, or eye-rolling could stop him from calling “the only edible heart-healthy breakfast in town.” Mom would frown upon this, but Caroline needed a ruse. Nothing would disarm him like fried dough.
She scarfed two of the pastries while she drove. She’d claim to be bringing leftovers. His house was only ten minutes out of the way—it was conceivable she’d detour just to treat him.
At least, she hoped so.
The morning was dreary, gray clouds sagging with the threat of rain, and the porch light still glowed as she eased the minivan into the driveway. Same old house as always. With same old Dad inside—surely. Probably combing the dining and entertainment sections by now, looking for some new restaurant or show Mom might like. He was so good at that sort of thing, the mere thought of it made her feel disloyal for giving this question any thought at all, test results be damned. He’d loved his Hannah from the day they met, married her straight out of college, and never looked back. Not like Caroline and Walt, who’d traversed the same spheres for years before taking interest in each other. The doughnuts suddenly seemed more preemptive apology than excuse.
She was halfway up the front walk when she caught sight of it: the Enquirer, in its plastic weather sleeve, leaning between the front door and the stoop. Usually, no faster could the courier toss it than Dad would be out here, waving thanks. Unease tickled the nape of her neck, but she fought the urge to turn on her heels. One small detail out of the ordinary did not mean her fears about the New Match! were being realized. The lack of sleep was clouding her thinking, swinging her suspicions willy-nilly. Two steps ago, she’d been brimming with confidence.
She grabbed the paper with her free hand, pressed the doorbell, and waited.
And waited.
No answer.
She rang again, wondering for the first time if a rogue email was the least of her worries. What if her intuition was firing for a different reason? One or both parents sick? Hurt? Could they have been robbed? She’d seen that news story about seniors as easy targets. She tried the knocker, three times, each thud of brass on brass carrying the metallic echo of mounting panic.
She was about to knock again when the door flung open, and she felt before she saw the whoosh of anger behind it. Mom glared at her through puffy eyes in a face hardened with determination, a boxer bruised to the point of staggering but adrenaline-ready for the clang signaling another round. As she registered Caroline, her relief was obvious—this was not the bell she’d thought it was—and her rage diminished to exhaustion, pale and drawn.
The older Caroline had gotten, the more she’d begun to resemble Mom outwardly, if not inwardly. She’d always kept her unruly locks longer than Mom’s dyed-to-her-natural-color bob, lest she look too much like the matriarch. But now their mannerisms had become alike, the no-nonsense way they moved about the kitchen, the unconscious habit of talking with their hands. They even grew to share physical oddities—the same mixed astigmatism, one meridian of each eye farsighted and the other near-, the same slight bunions on their left feet, the same random flare-ups of dermatitis. Now, as she took in the woman standing barefoot in her nightgown on the flowered doormat, all Caroline could think was that she didn’t look like herself at all. Which was to say she didn’t look like Caroline, either. She looked like a stranger.
“Mom?” The house was dark behind this shadowboxer version of her mother. Maybe Caroline had woken them—maybe they were sick, the kind where all you wanted was sleep. “You okay?” Mom sniffed, and Caroline almost believed she was about to invite her in, laugh whatever this was away. But she didn’t smile, didn’t speak. Instead, she seemed to shrink inward, like Owen at the end of a tantrum.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Not here.” Monotone, she eyed the newspaper and doughnuts with disgust. “Those for him?”
Caroline nodded, once—the bare minimum, as Mom’s expression made it plain this was the wrong answer. “I had some left over, from a—a meeting. But finders keepers, if you’re here alone…” She held them out, a peace offering, but Mom didn’t move. “Where’d he go?”
Mom opened her mouth as if to give some pat response, but her expression caught t
here, a scratched track on an old record—and what came out was part cry and part laugh, the twisted combination of a roar to back off and a whimper to pull her close.
“Mom, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
This was a woman whose wifely restraint was legendary in Caroline’s circle. A child of messy divorce from an era when divorce still meant scandal, Hannah Shively let it be known she had solemnly vowed never to argue in front of her child. Thus, if she had something constructive to say to her husband, she’d whisper it into his ear. So infallible was her approach that the teenage Maureen and Caroline had perfected a hilariously believable SNL-style skit of the couple communicating this way even when they were alone. Rare disagreements that escalated peaked at a cold shoulder, never a confrontation, until harmony was restored, things presumably resolved offstage.
“It’s between your father and I.” With that, Mom seemed to remember whom she was talking to, but that wasn’t enough to stop the tears from spilling over. They streaked frustration down her cheeks, and she swiped at them as Caroline stood slack-jawed, clinging to an unlikely hope that the timing of this fallout was a coincidence.
Because what if what she was witnessing was the wake of the email alert—already? This was at least partially Caroline’s fault for triggering it.
“You had an argument?” she prodded, her own voice quivering.
“A spat.” Mom cleared her throat, but the tears kept coming. “I’m only tired. I was up all night—you know I get emotional when I’m tired.…”
But why on earth would he have shared it with Mom right away, without even verifying its validity? Unless he already knew.…
Not possible. Dad wasn’t perfect, but he was no deadbeat.
“Doesn’t look like a spat.”
That put her tears on pause. Mom took a moment to compose herself and when she spoke again, she was firm. “You should go. Thanks for the breakfast. It’s just not a good time.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“You certainly can.”
“Let me come in and make you some coffee.”
“You’re expected at work.”
She rocked the box of doughnuts side to side. “Aren’t you the one who taught me we get free passes on calories every time a guy acts like a jerk?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Caroline.” It was telling, that she didn’t chastise her daughter’s word choice, and Caroline blanched. “And even if I did, you know how I feel about couples who drag their kids—”
“For Pete’s sake, Mom. It’s too late to scar me like that, okay?”
“It would scar me.”
She had her there. Caroline shrugged. “Don’t talk to me, then. Just let me make coffee.”
“I don’t even want coffee,” she muttered, losing steam.
“Liar.” The woman ran on the stuff, her one true vice, morning, noon, and night.
With a heavy sigh, she turned and headed up the stairs, leaving Caroline in the doorway. “Let me put some clothes on.”
“Take your time.” Caroline shut the door behind her. Now that she was inside, coming here seemed an even worse idea than it had obviously been from the start. She flipped on the overhead light and blinked into the sudden brightness. In her childhood, this entryway had been shabby chic, with well-worn hardwood and rose-patterned wallpaper, but now gleaming white tile and fresh paint reflected the new LED light to an artificial effect. Mom had fretted that the house should be ready for resale, lest Fred’s health decline to the point where a condo without upkeep made better sense. She never complained that in the interim, the renovations meant living in a space that didn’t suit her.
In the eat-in kitchen, Caroline placed the doughnuts in the center of the farmhouse table and opened the box invitingly. Yesterday’s dregs remained in the coffeepot, and she cleaned the carafe and filter, then filled the brewer to capacity. As the percolator putted and hissed in the empty room, she set out mugs and small plates and rifled through the pantry in search of napkins. Anxiety twisted her gut as she strained for the sounds of Mom’s return. She no longer knew what would be worse: leaving here without knowing what had gone on, or finding out.
There were no napkins to be found, and the paper towel holder sat empty. Extras were usually shelved in the garage. She crossed to the far end of the galley and pulled open the door.
Her hand flew to her throat. There, standing in the dim light, was Dad. Through the open bay behind him, his old Buick was parked next to her van.
“Dad! You scared me.”
He shifted from one foot to the other, and she got the feeling she’d caught him debating whether to come in after all. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s these new garage doors. Eerily silent, aren’t they?”
“What are you—I mean—”
“I saw your Honda. I had a feeling …
“That coffee does smell good,” Mom called behind her. Caroline turned to find her bent over the doughnuts, looking marginally better: She’d washed her face, pulled her hair into a neat nub of a ponytail, and traded her nightgown for a fitted velour jogging suit. She swiped a pastry and took a swift bite.
“Heart-healthy, my ass,” she said, half-smiling. Then she looked past Caroline and stopped mid-chew.
“I asked you to leave.” Instantly, the strain returned to her voice, the tears again a breath away.
Dad looked stricken but held his ground. “Hannah, listen to me.”
“I’ve listened enough!”
Caroline slunk backward, but no matter how she angled herself, she remained caught in the middle. Literally.
“Why is she here?” he asked calmly, tossing his head in Caroline’s direction as he filled the doorway.
“She brought your beloved doughnuts.”
He faced his daughter. “Is that all?”
“Don’t bring her into this!” Mom was verging again on hysteria.
“I saw the van,” he shot back, “and had a bad feeling. That she might have also gotten…” His words trailed off, and then both pairs of eyes were on her. She swallowed hard.
“An email?” she ventured.
Mom burst into tears.
* * *
“I saw it first,” Mom whispered, tossing an accusatory look at her spouse. “If I hadn’t, who knows if he ever would have shown me.”
“We still don’t know there’s anything to show, Hannah.” He was matching his wife’s exhaustion point for point, but without the anger to fuel it, he just looked older than usual. They’d formed an awkward triangle at the kitchen table, though no one had made a move to fill the mugs. The heart-shaped doughnuts mocked them from the box. He turned to Caroline. “We saw it at the same damn time. When it came into my phone, she was on the computer. She puts in for these sweepstakes. Uses my email address so she can enter twice.”
“You need to go into the in-box for that?” Caroline asked. Stalling, really.
Mom looked defensive. “You do if you want extra entries for sharing, liking their social media—”
“You never told me you were doing all that,” he interrupted. “No wonder I’m flooded with irrelevant ads.”
“Somebody’s got to win,” she snapped. “Might as well be me.”
“Or Dad,” Caroline added.
“Same thing.” At that, Mom buried her face in her hands and started to cry again.
Dad cleared his throat, turning to Caroline. “So you got this same—notification?”
This did not seem the time to admit she’d had a hand in sending the thing. “Not until I logged on. What I got was a note from her. Sela.” It was odd to see two people wince so fiercely at such a musical name. A sea, followed by a song. Across the table, Mom dropped her hands and stared. “I can show you…”
They shook their heads in unison.
She focused on Dad. “Is there any chance this could be true?”
He looked away. “I’d need to know more.”
“I have it all here in her email. Her mother’s name, where
she lives—” She stopped, realizing what he’d said. “If you need to know more, the answer is yes. There’s a chance.”
In the silence that followed, her cell phone began to croon at full volume with Walt’s ringtone: “It Had to Be You.” He’d programmed it as an inside joke. She yanked it from her pocket and silenced it mid-note.
“Be that as it may,” Dad said, “it’s premature to be discussing the details.” So much for Walt’s theory of an easy explanation.
Mom laughed mirthlessly. “Guess retirement has made you a little rusty on spinning the data.”
A text pinged in, and Caroline glanced at the screen nestled in her palm.
Got through by phone. They’re “confident” in familial matches, but they can’t be used in court, etc. So, not exactly official.
“I don’t think Sela would agree,” she said flatly. It seemed mean to say her name again, seeing how it stung them—Mom especially. But what else was she supposed to call her?
“How did she get your email address?” he asked, as if it mattered. Her phone pinged again.
A 25% DNA match indicates grandchild/grandparent, aunt/niece, or half sibling. They estimated relationship based on your ages.
“It’s public on our corporate website.” Another ping.
You can always retest, blah blah blah. No discount for those retesting “because of something they didn’t want to hear.”
Smug bastards.
“Your public awaits?” Dad looked critically at her phone.
“Sorry.” She placed it screen down on the table. “Walt called the company, to see if it could be a mistake.”
“And?”
“Unlikely.”
Mom’s head dropped, while Dad looked on with such anguish Caroline didn’t know how to stay.
“Can you give us a day, sweetheart?” He was asking his daughter, but his eyes didn’t leave his wife. “Give us a day to talk this out, and then we’ll decide where to go from here.”
“You two take a day.” Mom’s voice had returned to a whisper. “When I asked you to leave, Fred, I did not mean to drive around the block.”
A Million Reasons Why Page 3