by Paula Kay
“And I won five thousand dollars.”
“Really, Isabella? How wonderful.”
She watched her mother walk back across the room to seat herself behind her desk, where she reached for the glasses that Isabella knew she preferred to use whenever she was reading something.
Isabella waited for her to finish, trying to distract herself with her phone and the text conversation she had going with Thomas.
Mom’s reading my short story now.
Good. About time. She’ll love it.
I dunno. Hope so. She might think it’s silly.
Iz. Stop it. You’re brilliant!
Don’t leave me. I need you. lol
Come to Europe with me. You know you want to! ;)
Meet you in an hour for lunch?
Sounds good. See ya!
She played with her phone for a few more minutes, not really paying attention to anything except her mother’s face as she watched her read the story. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she’d seen some sort of reaction. Maybe she’d just reached the part that had made Isabella cry just a little when she wrote it. Many of her stories lately had been more intense, and this one was not an exception.
After what seemed like way longer than the amount of time it would normally take her mother to read such a short piece, Isabella watched her put the papers down on her desk and rub her hands over her eyes before she looked over at her.
“Isabella, I can’t believe that you wrote that. Honey, it is really a beautiful, moving story.” Her mother walked back over to where Isabella still sat in her favorite chair to lean down and give her a big hug.
“Did you really like it? I mean, you wouldn’t lie to me—to spare my feelings or anything?”
“Not at all. Well, I wouldn’t tell you that I thought it stunk or anything, but obviously you already know that it doesn’t stink at all.” Her mother was teasing her, something that didn’t happen too often these days—something that Isabella loved.
They both looked at one another when they heard the front door opening.
“Honey?” her mom called out.
“Darling?” Her dad poked his head in the door ten seconds later.
They all laughed, and Isabella thought how great it was that her parents seemed to still be in love after all these years—no one could ever say that she’d not had good role models for what marriage should look like.
She admired her parent’s relationship. It wasn’t that they didn’t argue at all—she’d definitely witnessed her share of arguments over the years—but they always made up minutes later, it seemed, as if they each couldn’t bear the thought of the other feeling anything but good about their love.
Mostly, she loved the way that they teased one another.
“Honey, come here. Isabella has some news for you—and something for you to read.”
Her mom was grinning, and it was making Isabella feel better than she’d felt about their relationship in a long time. Something about it felt more real to her—that’s what she’d been wanting.
Her father was looking from her mother to Isabella while taking the short story that was being handed to him.
“What’s this? Go on, then. Tell me what’s up that has both of you looking like you’ve just discovered something amazing.”
“Well, I have, actually—and that’s this story that our daughter finally shared with me. Go on, tell him, Izzy.”
“Mom—the name.” But Isabella smiled as she said it. She didn’t mind as much in this moment. It felt somehow right for her mom to be calling her by her childhood nickname.
She turned her attention to her father. “So I wrote this short story for a contest. Mr. Reyes encouraged me to enter and—well, I won, actually.”
“It was a national contest and Isabella won first place,” her mother chimed in.
“And five thousand dollars, believe it or not, which got me to thinking—” She looked over at her dad. “Go ahead and read it first. If you want to, I mean.”
“I do want to. I’m going to.”
Isabella busied herself again with her phone while her mother went back over to her desk. Her dad finished reading quickly and she could feel his eyes on her while she typed a quick message to Thomas.
“That’s really great, Izzy. I’m proud of you, kiddo. Where did you learn to write like that?” He was teasing her, but it wasn’t a thought that she’d not had before herself. Neither of her parents was particularly fond of writing so it wasn’t something that they’d necessarily encouraged, although they were all avid readers.
“Mr. Reyes, I guess.” Isabella laughed. It wasn’t exactly true, but he had helped her to grow as a writer this past year. She was really grateful for that.
Her father came over to where Isabella sat and reached his hands toward her so that she’d take them with her own.
“Come here and let me hug you.”
Isabella obliged, letting her father pull her up from the chair and take her into his arms for a big bear hug.
“You’re gonna be amazing at Harvard, Isabella.”
She could see her mom looking over at them from across the room, nodding her head and smiling.
“Your mother and I are so proud of you.”
“Yes, we are,” her mom called out.
Her father squeezed her one last time and then headed out the door of the office.
Isabella walked over to stand next to her mom, feeling genuinely more content than she’d felt in a very long time.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Her mother had a funny look on her face as she turned toward her from behind her desk.
“For what, honey?”
“I dunno. Just for listening to me—for being happy for me.”
“Of course I’m happy for you. Your dad and I want nothing more than for you to be happy.”
She paused for a moment and Isabella almost looked away because of the intensity that she saw in her mom’s eyes. She wasn’t sure that it was something that she’d seen there before, and it made her slightly uncomfortable.
“Izzy—Isabella, you do know that, don’t you?”
Isabella nodded.
I should talk to her now—really talk to her.
She felt her heart beating faster. “Yeah, I do, Mom.”
And then the moment passed as her mom got up from her desk.
“Iz, would you please fix that thing in my e-mail program—what you were telling me about the other day. I can’t seem to find the setting.”
Isabella’s mom was pretty hopeless when it came to anything technical. She was always asking Isabella to look at one thing or another on her computer—which Isabella could normally sort in about two minutes.
“Sure, I’ll look at it right now.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to grab something to eat. Do you want a snack?”
“No, thanks. I’m meeting Thomas in a little while for lunch.”
Her mom left the room and Isabella situated herself in front of the computer, feeling pleased with herself for being able to help her mom out.
Chapter 7
It took Isabella all of about three minutes to sort out the e-mail issue for her mom. Feeling quite satisfied with herself, she hit the button to get back to the home screen of the program as she got up from the seat—except she must have accidentally hit something else, because now the entire screen was filled with an e-mail. She was sitting back down to close out the e-mail and get her mom’s program back to normal when something in the e-mail caught her eye.
She read the first sentence and brought her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming out as her eyes quickly scanned the page, her heart feeling like it was going to beat right out of her chest.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dawson,
My name is Douglas Jackson and I’m contacting you on behalf of Arianna Sinclair, the birth mother of a little girl that I believe is your daughter.
I don’t mean to cause any problems or angst within your family. I’m
writing with the tragic news of Arianna’s passing and to let you know that she has left a sizable inheritance in the form of a trust fund to your daughter.
It was not Arianna’s intention to cause any grief to your family. Please know this. I only promised her that I would do my best to honor her wishes as they relate to her biological daughter.
Please contact me at the number below so that we can discuss the trust fund and any questions you might have.
Sincerely,
Douglas Jackson
She reread the e-mail a second time and then a third.
She couldn’t think—couldn’t move. She looked at the date of the e-mail as it all suddenly registered. Her mother had received this e-mail years ago—eleven years ago.
Isabella’s birth mother had been dead for eleven years.
Her sobs were sudden and furious. She put her head down into her hands, her body shaking, tears streaming down her face as the full knowledge of what she’d just read hit her.
She would never know her birth mother.
“Did you fix it, Isa—”
Her mother rushed over to where Isabella sat behind the desk sobbing uncontrollably into her hands.
“Izzy, what is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”
Isabella felt her mom’s hand, trying to push her hair aside from her face. She reached her hand up to push the hand away, filled with a rage that shocked her.
“How could you?”
The question hung in the air, begging for an answer that would never satisfy the enraged girl—not in this moment, anyway.
Isabella looked at her mother standing in front of her, her face now pale as her eyes darted from the computer screen to her daughter’s face—a look of sheer terror as she realized what Isabella had seen.
“Oh, honey. God, I’m so sorry. Isabella, let me talk to you.” She reached out again to touch Isabella on the shoulder.
Isabella rose to her feet, brushing the tears away with her hand, glaring at her mother as she walked past her toward the door. She didn’t want to talk to her mother. She didn’t even want to look at her mother. She turned from just the other side of the door to see her mother crumpled on the floor, seemingly overtaken with her own grief about a daughter who hated her in that moment.
For one second, she thought about going to her.
Then Isabella turned and walked away.
She couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. She’d bolted up the stairs to her bedroom to quickly throw on her running clothes and shoes. She grabbed her keys, phone, and earbuds all in one swoop from the top of her dresser, and was back downstairs and out the front door in all of three minutes. It was just long enough for her mother to call her dad back into the office. She tried to block out everything, but when she’d come back downstairs she’d seen him kneeling by her mother on the floor. And right before she slammed the door, she heard him call out her name.
She set off at a good pace right away, wishing she’d thought to bring some tissues with her, because it wasn’t going to be long before that ugly cry overtook her—it was a rare occurrence for Isabella, but when she did have a good cry, it was often during a run. It seemed to be an excellent outlet for letting out emotions. Ms. Carlson had told her that too, when they’d talked about possible coping methods for Isabella’s anxiety.
It was just a matter of moments before she was wiping tears and snot across the arm of her t-shirt. She didn’t care. Not really. She didn’t care about anything right now except for the fact that her real mother was dead. Oh, she knew better than to refer to Arianna as her “real mother”; it wasn’t politically correct, and all of the experts would call the woman back at the house—the woman who had kept the truth from her for so many years—her real mother. But Isabella was the most angry that she’d ever been at her mother—and the most hurt. For once she wasn’t considering her mother’s feelings at all. This wasn’t about her mother. This was about Isabella and what had been taken from her all those years ago.
She ran a few more blocks to the edge of the park, where she liked to stretch or sit and write in her journal sometimes. Everything had been so busy lately that it had been a while since she’d done either of those things. Now she almost wished that she had thought to bring her journal. Even though her mixed-up crazy feelings seemed more than justified in this instance, her mind automatically went to Ms. Carlson and what she’d have Isabella do right now to cope with everything.
Isabella had already had to throw up once, off into the bushes by the side of the path she’d been running on—that had happened almost as soon as she’d left her front door. It was all those anxious knots in her stomach. Now she tried to remember some breathing exercises, and her tears lessened and her mind went a little numb.
Thomas! She’d forgotten all about their lunch meeting. She looked at the time on her phone as she pulled his number up, realizing that she was fifteen minutes late—also finally seeing the numerous missed texts that had been coming in during the past few minutes.
“Hey, where are you? It’s not like you to stand me up.”
Isabella burst into tears.
“Hey, Iz—what’s wrong?”
Thomas sounded instantly worried, and Isabella loved him for it. She took a deep breath in through her nose, willing herself to speak.
“Isabella? You’re starting to scare me a little bit. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay. No, I’m not okay.” She started crying into the phone. “I’m in the park. Can you come here, please?”
“Yes, of course. Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She clicked off the phone and allowed herself to cry.
Chapter 8
Thomas sat on the bench next to her and hugged her close. Isabella had thought she was done crying, but now her tears came again, almost as steady as the first time she’d cried that day.
“Iz, what’s going on? Why are you sitting here crying?”
She lifted her head up off his chest to sit back on the bench and look at him. She swiped her hand across her face and willed the tears to stop for long enough so that she could tell Thomas everything that she’d found out—everything that had just rocked her world to its core.
After she’d told him, they sat quietly, her hand in his as he squeezed it gently. Thomas was very steady and somber next to her, something that Isabella wasn’t used to seeing with her carefree best friend who was always trying to make her laugh. But Thomas knew that this wasn’t a time for laughter. Isabella felt that sitting next to him after she’d told him everything.
“God, Iz. I’m really sorry.”
She looked over at him as new tears started. “What am I supposed to do with this information? I mean it’s too late now.”
Thomas reached up to put his hand on her back, rubbing it in small circles. Isabella almost laughed despite the seriousness of the moment because it was so unlike Thomas to be so gentle.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Thomas was always very sweet with her and had been very protective over the years. He really was like the big brother that Isabella had never had. She did smile, because in the moment, she appreciated their friendship so much. What would she do without him?
“What is it too late for? I mean, I kinda understand what you’re saying—to read that about your mother must have been so shocking for you. But what are you thinking when you’re saying that it’s too late?”
“I can never have the chance to meet my mother—my birth mother.” She felt slightly irritated for having to explain herself, but she was aware enough to start to understand where Thomas was going with the questions.
“Right. I understand that. But is that why you’re so angry with your mom—with your parents?”
Isabella thought about the question for a few seconds. She definitely was feeling anger toward her parents—that much was sure.
“Well, don’t you think that they should have told me this information? I mean, okay, I do understand that I was only a kid w
hen they found out, but after all this time?”
“But would that have changed anything? I guess I can kinda see your parents’ point in not volunteering it.”
“Right. For sure, when I was seven, but what about later? It’s not as if the topic came up often, but I know there were moments—small conversations and questions that I’d asked. They should’ve told me, so I—so I—”
Isabella looked at Thomas and wasn’t sure how to continue with what she was saying.
“So that you wouldn’t have the hope,” Thomas finished for her and then pulled her to his chest again as Isabella cried.
She leaned her head back to look at him. “Exactly. And I did have hope. I really did, Thomas. That one day I’d meet my birth mother and all of these missing pieces of who I am would come together like a puzzle—that maybe she’d think I was pretty amazing just as I am—without Harvard, without any of that. Maybe she’d just think I was great because I was like her in some way. I guess I thought that by some small miracle, I’d meet her one day and we’d be friends. But now that’s never gonna happen—I can’t believe I’m never gonna have that chance.”
Thomas hugged her to him. “I know. That really sucks. I’m so sorry, Izzy.”
They sat on the bench for several minutes in silence, Isabella trying to get her head around the letter and all of the questions that were now darting into her mind. She did have questions. She had a lot of questions.
Finally she sat back, feeling something shift inside her just a bit.
“I should contact him. I mean, why wouldn’t I? This guy Douglas. I assume that he knew my mother. Of course he did.”