The Other F-Word
Page 7
HOLLIS
She was in the middle of a dream when Milo woke her the next morning. It was a pretty steamy dream. She was hooking up with Gunnar in the janitor’s closet at school. (They had actually done this once, in the middle of fifth-period lunch, and it had been rather thrilling.) Anyway, Gunnar had his hand up Hollis’s shirt and she had her hand on his zipper and they were making out like crazy among the mops and buckets when she heard, “Hey. Wake up.”
Hollis kept her eyes closed and ignored the voice.
“Come on. It’s ten o’clock.”
She tried to will herself back to sleep, back to the janitor’s closet, but a hand was on her arm, shaking it. She opened her eyes and there was Milo. Jeans. Sweatshirt. Rat’s nest hair. And there was Pete. Mournful eyes. Doggy breath.
Hollis closed her eyes and groaned. “Go away.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re leaving in two hours and we need to do something before you go.”
“What?”
“You know how we wrote back to Abby last night?”
Hollis opened one eye. “Yeah.”
“Now we have to write back to Noah.”
“What?”
Milo flashed her a grin. “You heard me.”
Hollis sat up. “We have a brother?”
“Actually, we have two brothers. Noah and Josh are twins.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. But Josh doesn’t want anything to do with this. Apparently, he’s really close with their dad, who couldn’t have kids of his own because he has low sperm motility, so he feels threatened by the whole donor thing. That’s the word Noah used—‘threatened.’ Noah’s not that close with their dad, but their mom, who’s the one who got our email, thinks it’s important for each of them to make their own decision. So they had some big family meeting and the upshot was … Noah wanted to contact us, but Josh didn’t.”
Hollis stared at Milo. “Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“Is this really happening?”
“This is really happening.”
“Because I feel like I’m on one of those TV shows.” Hollis was half serious when she flung her legs over the edge of the pullout couch and looked around the living room. “Am I being punked?”
“No,” Milo said. “But you might want to put on some pants.”
“Why?”
“JJ’s here.”
“What? Where?”
“Don’t get dressed on my account!” JJ called from somewhere outside the living room. “I don’t mind!”
Hollis shot Milo a look. “Seriously?”
Milo grinned. “He is who he is.”
* * *
From: MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org
To: 8007jq3wrhj267lp634@reply.DonorProgenyProject.org; AbsofSteel3 @sheboygancountryday.edu
Date: Sunday, January 3, at 10:27 AM
Subject: Noah, Abby. Abby, Noah.
Abby Fenn, 15 (Sheboygan, Wisconsin), meet Noah Resnick, 17 (Winnetka, Illinois). Noah, meet Abby. Hollis is flying home to MN this afternoon and she doesn’t have a DPP account, so to include her in any future emails, please cc HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org. Thanks!
—Milo and Hollis
From: NoahZark.Rez@techHSmail.com
To: MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org; AbsofSteel3 @sheboygancountryday.edu; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org
Date: Sunday, January 3, at 11:04 AM
Subject: Nice to meet you
Hey Milo, Hollis, and Abby. Showed my mom your email. She’s having a spaz. Ask them for pictures! I want to see what they look like! Is anyone else’s mom flipping out?
—Noah
From: AbsofSteel3@sheboygancountryday.edu
To: NoahZark.Rez@techHSmail.com; MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org
Date: Sunday, January 3, at 11:23 AM
Subject: Nice to meet you, too
My mom is unflappable. She’s a midwife who’s been wearing the same Birkenstocks since 1994, if that tells you anything. And my dad is a research scientist, so he’s being very cerebral and scientific about the whole thing. It’s my sister who’s all, “You’re going to break Dad’s heart. Our family will never be the same and it will all be your fault.” But then, Becca’s prone to drama on a daily basis. Does anyone else have siblings?
—Abby
From: NoahZark.Rez@techHSmail.com
To: AbsofSteel3@sheboygancountryday.edu; MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org
Date: Sunday, January 3, at 11:36 AM
Subject: One brother
I have a fraternal twin, Josh. As I told Milo and Hollis, he doesn’t want to make contact with any genetic siblings or with our donor. He thinks that would be a slap in the face to our dad. Abby, is your sister from #9677 too?
—Noah
From: AbsofSteel3@sheboygancountryday.edu
To: NoahZark.Rez@techHSmail.com; MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org
Date: Sunday, January 3, at 11:58 AM
Subject: Nope
Funny story. About 17 years ago, when my mom was trying to get pregnant, my dad was diagnosed with oligospermia, which basically means low sperm count. The odds of them conceiving a baby together were slim to nil, so they started looking into donor sperm. Enter #9677. My mom got pregnant with me, and then, two months after I was born, surprise! She found out she was pregnant again. Turns out my dad had a few swimmers after all. Becca is 11 months younger than I am. What’s weird is I’ve known her my whole life, and I think of her as my sister 100%, but we only share 50% of our DNA. You guys are just as related to me as she is.
—Abby
From: NoahZark.Rez@techHSmail.com
To: AbsofSteel3@sheboygancountryday.edu; MiloRobClark@brooklynIDS.org; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org
Date: Sunday, January 3, at 12:13 PM
Subject: Even weirder …
Josh and I are twins, we have the same biological parents and we’re growing up in the same house, and we are NOTHING alike. Riddle me that, Batman.
—Noah
The emailing started in the morning and continued through lunch, through the packing of bags. JJ carried Hollis and Leigh’s suitcase out of the living room and was now standing in the front hall, chomping on a Twizzler, while Milo read aloud from Noah’s latest email. “‘Riddle me that, Batman.’” Milo looked up from his phone. “A comic book fan?”
“Or a writer of fan fiction,” Hollis said.
“Or one of those guys who paints his face green and throws on some tights,” JJ said, “and goes to one of those … whaddayacallems.”
“Comic-Con?” Hollis said.
“Right.”
JJ was grinning, but now, as Milo’s moms strode through the doorway and began bustling Hollis and Leigh outside to the waiting cab, his expression suddenly turned serious. “Hey,” he said, grabbing Hollis’s elbow as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
“What?”
“Let me have your phone real quick.”
“Why?”
“So I can put in my number.”
“Why would I want your number?”
“In case you can’t sleep one night and the urge to call me becomes overwhelming.”
“I sleep like a baby,” she lied.
“You never know,” he said. “There could be an earthquake. Or a tsunami…”
“In Minnesota?”
“Stranger things have happened.” JJ held out his freakishly large hand. “Come on.”
Hollis sighed. She reached into her coat pocket. She gave Jonah Jedediah Rabinowitz her phone.
“If you prefer,” he said, punching away with his thumbs, “you can think of this as a bowling hotline. Twenty-four-hour assistance. Next time you’re out with your girlfriends, playing a little ten-pin, and you need help with your technique … call me.”
“Ha,” Hollis said, trying to snort but not quite pulling it off. She was smiling. JJ was funny, dammit. She
didn’t want him to be funny. And she didn’t want him to be cute, either. She didn’t want him to have big, brown Labrador-retriever eyes or floppy blond hair or ridiculously warm fingers brushing the inside of her wrist as he handed back her phone.
“You won’t regret this, Hollis Darby.”
Hollis rolled her eyes and walked over to the taxi, where everyone was waiting.
“What was that?” Milo whispered.
“Nothing.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Beg away.”
“He likes you,” Milo said.
“Shut up. He does not.”
“Want to know what he said?”
“No.”
“He said if he ever has a daughter he wants her to turn out like you. Smart and feisty.”
“He did not say that.”
“I swear to God,” Milo said. “Also, you have great gams.”
Hollis raised her eyebrows. “Gams?”
“Legs.”
“I know what they are,” Hollis said, irritated, “but who under the age of ninety uses the word gams?”
“JJ Rabinowitz.”
Hollis glanced over her shoulder. JJ was standing twenty feet away, saluting the cab like a soldier.
“Look at him,” Milo said.
“Whatever.”
Hollis’s cheeks were so hot she thought they might burst into flames. She was both relieved and sorry when Frankie announced that they needed to say goodbye or Hollis and Leigh would miss their flight.
Now came the hugging. Hollis was not a big hugger. With the exception of saying good night to her mother and making out with Gunnar Mott in the janitor’s closet, she barely touched anyone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d received multiple hugs. Pam’s funeral, probably. All those women from the Family Equality Council, where Pam used to volunteer. And the line cooks from Pam’s restaurant. Everyone coming at Hollis en masse, shoving casseroles in her face, patting her head, squeezing the breath out of her just like Suzanne was doing now.
“It was so good to see you, sweetheart,” Suzanne said, stepping back as she released Hollis.
“So good,” Frankie said, moving in for a turn.
“Thanks,” Hollis said, nodding like a bobblehead.
“Hey,” Milo said, leaning in to give Hollis a quick squeeze and release. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“Join the group email when you get home.”
“I will.”
“Who knows,” Milo said, “maybe by the time you land we’ll have another sibling.”
“Maybe.”
Milo grinned and Hollis nodded, and it was fine for a few seconds, but then it got weird again. Because really, when Hollis thought about it, even though she and Milo were 50 percent related and had just spent two-plus days together, it wasn’t like they knew each other. They were still basically strangers. And what was weirder than two strangers hugging on the street?
Answer: Hollis’s mother suddenly suggesting that, if Milo and his moms didn’t have plans for Presidents’ Day weekend, they should fly to Saint Paul and spend a few days at Hollis’s house.
“We’ll take you on a tour of the Twin Cities,” Leigh said brightly. “We’ll show you all our favorite haunts.”
And before you could say “Mall of America,” Milo said, “I’m in.”
* * *
Hollis and her mother were almost to the airport. Noah’s emails had petered out, but Abby’s were still going strong.
“She wants to be a writer,” Hollis said, looking up from her phone. “A memoirist.”
Leigh, who was sitting in the front of the taxi, turned around. “Really?”
“The next Augusten Burroughs.”
“Who?”
“You know—that author with the bizarre childhood? Who went to live with his mother’s psychiatrist?”
Leigh shook her head.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hollis said, looking down at Abby’s email. “Listen … ‘I guess I want to find my donor not just because I’m curious, but because I need something to write about. Something real. Something raw and heart wrenching and deeply personal. Because how am I ever going to get into NYU, followed by the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, by writing about a 16-year-old honors student and her nice middle-class family living in Sheboygan, Wisconsin? No one would read past the first sentence. They would die of boredom. My life is like a pair of khaki pants, clean and pressed with a crease down the middle. If I want to be the next Augusten Burroughs, I need rips and stains, cigarette burns and blood splatters.’” Hollis laughed, a deep, staccato “Ha!”
“Blood splatters?” Leigh said faintly. “Talk about disturbing…”
“She’s being metaphorical, Mom. God.”
It bugged Hollis that her mother didn’t appreciate literature—that her idea of reading was Bon Appétit, the cooking magazine Pam used to subscribe to, and that Hollis’s mother continued to renew every year even though she didn’t cook. Did she even know what a metaphor was? Did she think that when Thoreau wrote “I wanted to suck out all the marrow of life” he was literally chewing on a bone? Had she even read Walden?
Our donor was an English major. The words sprang into Hollis’s head without her bidding. Milo had dropped that little nugget on her the day she arrived—when they were up in his room, talking about books. “Our donor was an English major.” Followed by, “Our donor is lactose intolerant,” and “Our donor can juggle.” Milo had shared these bits of trivia casually, as though mentioning a celebrity he’d read about in Us Weekly. He stopped sharing when Hollis told him to stop. She didn’t want to know anything about their donor. She didn’t give a crap that Milo had memorized the “personal profile” for #9677. Hollis’s mother had a copy, too, and Hollis never wanted to see it. Her mother could burn it for all she cared. And yet … Our donor was an English major. This was the news crawl ticking across the screen in Hollis’s mind as she stared at her mother.
“I know what a metaphor is,” Leigh said, looking wounded.
Hollis felt like a jerk. She never meant to hurt her mother; it just happened. She wasn’t even sure what was bugging her. This weekend had been fine. Better than fine, even. Maybe it was all the hugging. Maybe it was finding three new siblings in less than twenty-four hours. Maybe it was too much too soon.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Hollis blurted. Their cab was jockeying for position among the other cabs outside JFK, triple-parking in front of the American Airlines terminal.
“What’s that?” Leigh said, but she wasn’t responding to Hollis’s question. She was thanking the driver. She handed him a bunch of bills. She and Hollis stepped out of the cab and retrieved their suitcase.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Hollis repeated as they walked through the double doors to the ticket counter.
“Ask you what?” her mother said.
“About Presidents’ Day weekend. You just went ahead and invited Milo and his moms without even asking.”
“I thought you had a good time this weekend.”
“I did.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. Pale blond. So light they were almost nonexistent.
“But what if I had plans for Presidents’ Day weekend? Did you even think about that?”
“Do you?”
“No. But I could have.”
Her mother wheeled her suitcase forward in line. “I’m sorry. I should have consulted you first. It’s just…” She fiddled with the zipper on her purse. “This weekend was really … it’s the first time I can remember that I felt…” She hesitated, took a breath. “Pam and I used to have people over all the time when you were little. Do you remember?”
“No.”
“Pammy loved a full house. She loved laughter and chaos and kids tearing around and everyone eating her food. She wanted us to have that house, you know? Where everyone was welcome.”
Hollis stood quietly, bracing for impact.
“But that’s not even my p
oint.” Hollis’s mother shook her head. She fixed Hollis with her eyes. “My point is … it’s okay to be scared.”
“Scared,” Hollis repeated. “And what am I scared of exactly?”
“Scared of letting people in. Scared of getting close to anyone you might actually start to care about. Milo, Frankie, Suzanne. Your new half siblings. It’s a lot to cope with at once.”
Hollis smirked. “Okay, Doctor Phil.”
“I’m not just talking about you,” her mother said, ignoring Hollis’s sarcasm. “I’m talking about me, too.”
Ahead of Hollis in line were two shaggy-haired boys with headphones on, plugged into their devices. Zapping aliens, racing through the Mushroom Kingdom, Minecrafting their way into oblivion. Even though she hated video games, Hollis would give anything to be one of those boys right now, just for a few minutes, to disappear into one of their worlds where everything was logical and methodical and no one was trying to climb inside her head.
“Holl,” her mother said after a bit, and Hollis realized she’d been spacing out.
“What?”
“I said it’s okay to be scared. It’s a natural part of the grief process. It’s actually very healthy to—”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“It’s been seven years. I am not grieving.”
“There’s no statute of limitations on grief.”
“You should put that on a T-shirt.”
Her mother smiled. “Maybe I will.”
“Mom.”
“Yeah?”
Hollis hesitated, not sure what she wanted to say until it came out of her mouth. “Can we stop talking about this?”
Her mother’s eyes were soft and just a little sad. “Yes. We can.”
MILO
It was JJ’s idea. JJ—who on Sunday night had called Milo to see if Hollis had made it home safely (she had) and to see if there were any new emails from Abby and Noah (there were). Now, on Thursday morning, it was JJ’s idea to turn it into a research project.