by Jasmine Walt
“But Alice, don’t you see? The girls have a right to know who they are . . . where they come from.” My dad reached across the table and covered her hands with his. “It’s just not fair to keep hiding it from them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Suddenly, the scene shifted—I was still in the dining room, but the table was our old, battered one. My mom and dad, who seemed to have lost a couple decades, still sat in relatively the same places.
“I just don’t know, Joe,” my mom said, shaking her head. “I think we should wait until they’re old enough to understand why we had to do it.”
My dad sighed. “I wish we wouldn’t ever need to have this conversation with our little girls. I just . . . okay, I guess a couple more years couldn’t hurt. But we will tell them eventually, Alice.”
Closing her eyes, my mom nodded.
In the blink of an eye, the scene shifted back to my mom and dad sitting at the new table, his hands covering hers.
“Alright, Joe . . . this weekend, I guess I’ll visit Lex and tell her. If she doesn’t take it well, I’ll just bring her back with me. But, if it’s too hard for her, then we’re not telling Jenny—she’s just not as, well . . . as strong.” When my mom glanced up at my dad, her eyes were as fierce as those of a lioness.
My dad scooted his chair back, stood, and walked around the table to her. As I followed him with my eyes, I noticed a flicker of movement just beyond the wide, arched doorway leading into the living room.
Lying in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d really been present during my parents’ conversations. A sense that a dream was more real than, well, just a dream was something I’d experienced before. But it had only happened when I’d awakened from a dream that was really a memory.
Once, when I was a freshman in high school, I forgot my locker combination. It happened near the beginning of the school year, but I’d already stashed a couple of books inside. After sharing a friend’s locker for more than half the year, I had a sudden need to get into mine—the library was going to send a bill home for the books I’d “lost” in my locker, and I really didn’t want to pay the fee to reset the combo. The day before the library fine was due, I went home, resolved to pay the reset fee the following morning. That night, I had a vivid dream. In it, I was sitting on my bed after the first day of school, going through my backpack. In my hand was the card displaying the elusive combination to my locker. When I woke from that dream, I hastily jotted down the locker combination, absolutely positive of its accuracy. Later that morning, I opened my locker for the first time in months, saving myself a hearty sum of money. That dream had felt the same as the one I just had: absolutely real.
But, so had the dream of Dr. Ramirez getting hit by a car, and that never actually happened. I couldn’t possibly have “remembered” the conversations between my parents in my dream because I hadn’t been there. It’s nothing, I told myself. I’m just being obsessive.
For the second time in two weeks, I laughed out loud. If I mentioned anything about my crazy dreams to my mom, all of her worried looks and concern over my mental stability would quickly give way to a leather couch in a psychiatrist’s office. No, thank you.
Regardless, I couldn’t ask my mom or dad if they’d had any conversations like the ones in my dream . . . for their sake. I was pretty sure I’d been making the past few weeks fairly hellish on them, and I wasn’t about to make it worse.
I eventually chalked up the dream to my overactive obsession with understanding who I was . . . where I came from . . . who my father was . . .
Gradually, like a dimmer switch lighting up my thoughts, I knew where I could get more information—from Grandma Suse. My indecisive mom discussed nearly everything with her mother. Tomorrow, I told myself, I’ll drive over to Grandma Suse’s house and hopefully get some much-needed answers.
4
Answers & Questions
When I cracked my eyes open, the glowing green numbers on the clock on the nightstand read 7:43. For the first time since I’d been home, my cheeks and pillow were dry of tears, and even with the odd dream earlier in the night, it had been the best night of sleep I’d had in weeks. Groaning, I stretched languorously and tossed the covers to the foot of the bed. I pulled on a sweatshirt and some socks, arranged my hair in a loose ponytail, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
The coffeemaker was my first stop. My delightfully over-prepared mom had already loaded the filter with fresh grounds and the machine with water, so I just had to push the start button and wait. My favorite mug, covered in cheesy, cartoony Egyptian images, was already set out on the counter beside two other, far more grown-up mugs.
Catching my reflection in the window above the sink, I raised my eyebrows. I’d been smiling . . . for no apparent reason. Maybe I really am still me, I thought with wonder.
To distract myself from too much pre-coffee psychological analysis, I decided to make a big, fancy breakfast for my parents. I still had about a half hour before they came downstairs for their oddly rigid morning routine—plenty of time to make a Christmas Eve breakfast feast. After filling my mug with coffee, a splash of milk, and a spoon of sugar, I gathered some necessary ingredients on the counter. I was going to whip up a scrumptious batch of French toast.
As I cooked, the sound of footsteps on the stairs forewarned me of my mom’s arrival. I turned from the stove to see her watching me from the doorway, smiling.
“Smells great, Lex,” she said cautiously. “What brought this on?” Translation: Why are you acting normal?
“Oh, I don’t know. Consider it a ‘thanks for putting up with me’ breakfast,” I replied, returning my attention to the bacon popping and crackling in a large frying pan.
Just as my dad entered the kitchen, I set a platter of food on the table. Joe Larson was a big man—a little over six feet tall and thicker around the middle than was probably healthy. His face had gained wrinkles and a certain middle-aged plumpness, but his crinkled eyes and easy smile still bespoke his gentle, friendly nature. His light brown hair was damp from his morning shower, and his face was freshly shaven. I smiled, thinking his morning routine hadn’t changed over the years.
Although he’d probably been attempting something resembling stealth, I caught the questioning look he aimed at my mom, as well as her answering grin. By the time I sat down across from him, my dad’s expression had changed to a self-satisfied smile that glowed with a silent “I told you so.” I refused to focus on the fact that, in the dream, he’d expressed confidence in my ability to handle the information about my paternity.
It’s not real! The thought was closely followed by another: I need to talk to Grandma.
“Mom?” I asked, drizzling syrup over my French toast.
She was chewing, so she only looked at me and mumbled, “Hmm?”
“Well, I know how you have a lot of cooking and whatnot to do today, so I was thinking I might do something to make it a little easier for you,” I said, my eyes wide in an attempt to look innocent.
“You want to help me cook?”
Forcing a smile, I replied, “Um . . . I’d love to when I get back. I was actually thinking I could go pick up Grandma for you. That way, you guys won’t have to leave at all. You won’t have to drive in the snow . . .”
My mom frowned slightly. “I don’t know, Lex. You aren’t on the insurance for our cars anymore. What if . . . ?”
Seeing my eager expression falter, my dad stepped in on a fatherly rescue mission. “Come on, Alice,” he said. “It’s not really that far, and Lex hasn’t seen Grandma Suse in a while. Let her go. I’ll help you cook while she’s gone . . . if you want . . .”
I gave my dad a huge, grateful grin before glancing at my mom, eyebrows raised in hope.
She blew out a breath. “Okay . . . but you have to promise to be careful.”
“Of course, Mom.”
Attempting to not appear in too much of a hurry, I excitedly told my dad everything I knew about the excavation—
which wasn’t very much—and the supervisory role I would be playing. My mom had already heard it all back in Seattle, but she didn’t seem to mind. Eventually, I finished my breakfast and offered to help with the dishes. After all, I’d created most of them.
“Don’t worry about it,” my dad told me. “Why don’t you just go get ready and then head over to Grandma Suse’s?”
Surprised, but not wanting to waste my escape route, I rushed out of the kitchen to prepare for the day. I got ready in record time.
Sitting in my mom’s parked, ruby-red sedan, I stared out the windshield at my grandma’s home. A true product of its time, the house was all bricks, winter-barren ivy, white trim, and huge windows, with a large arched porch that led to the front door. Its street was filled with other brick Tudors that looked just like it and yet were completely different at the same time, all remnants of the early 1900s.
After a few contemplative moments, I abandoned the warmth of the car and crunched across the de-iced driveway and pathway that spanned the front yard. I walked through Grandma Suse’s unlocked front door, shut it loudly to let her know someone was there, and hung my coat and mittens on the antique coatrack set off to one side in the narrow entryway. The house wasn’t small—it held enough bedrooms that each of Grandma Suse’s three children had grown up with their own room—but it had been built before the “bigger is always better” ideal truly took over. Throughout the house, the floor was a dark hardwood, and the rooms were smaller, the hallways narrower, and the doors just a little bit shorter than those in a modern home.
Making my way down the hallway toward the family room, I could hear the quiet chatter of the TV. “Hi, Grandma,” I chirped, poking my head around the doorway into the cozy room.
Susan Ivanov, otherwise known as Grandma Suse, was lounging in her favorite blue suede armchair with a fuzzy yellow blanket draped over her legs. Her hair was perfectly arranged in a gray halo and her sparkly red and green sweater screamed Christmas!
“Lex?” she asked, evidently surprised that I wasn’t my mom, who she’d expected to pick her up. Before she could stand, I rushed over to hug her. Tiny bells jingled on her sleeves as she wrapped arms that were more frail than I remembered around me.
“Well, this is a surprise! What are you doing here, honey? Not that I mind . . .”
Her bright, hazel eyes stayed locked on me as I flopped into an oversized, brown leather chair a few feet from hers. It had been my late grandpa’s chair and was by far my favorite place to lounge in the entire house.
“I convinced Mom to let me pick you up. She had so much stuff to do and I haven’t seen you in, I don’t know, a year . . . so I thought, you know . . .” I shrugged.
Grandma Suse watched me as I spoke, her eyes keen. “Oh, and how are you, honey? Your mom said she told you about your dad—said you’ve been having a tough time. Sweetheart, is there anything I can do?” she asked, radiating grandmotherly warmth.
I hesitated, a little surprised at her directness. “I don’t know, Grandma. I guess . . . I just wish there was a way for me to know who my real father is.”
“Honey, Joe Larson will always be your real father. Whether or not you share his genes, he’s still a part of who you are. Nothing will change that,” she said, her eyes glittering with moisture.
I clenched my jaw as the crushing weight of a handful of emotions momentarily overwhelmed me. In my heart, I knew Grandma Suse was right—my dad really was my dad. He’d always been there to pick me up when I fell, and he’d fostered my love of both history and reading. He’d helped shape me into the person I’d become. In every way that mattered, he was my dad, but I didn’t feel the same assuredness in my own identity. I didn’t feel like I was still his little girl . . . still me. Part of me was lost, and I didn’t know where—or how—to find it again.
I sighed. “You know what I mean . . . I’m not trying to replace Dad. I just want to know who my biological father is because, you know, what if some freaky disease runs in his family and I don’t know to watch out for it?” I’d voiced a reason, but not the reason for my curiosity. What I really wanted to know was what kind of a person he was. I wanted to know if I was like him, even the tiniest bit. I wanted to know something . . . anything.
“Well, sweetheart . . . I don’t know who he is. The clinic your parents used was very careful about keeping that information confidential.” She suddenly looked frustrated. “They said it was ‘to protect the donor.’”
An idea formed in my head—what if the information was confidential then, but isn’t anymore? “I don’t suppose you know the name of the clinic, do you?” I asked.
She paused before answering. “Maybe.”
“Will you please tell me, Grandma? Please? Nothing has ever been so important to me,” I pleaded, desperate.
Grandma Suse held my eyes for a moment, wariness adding new creases to her wrinkled face. “It was in Seattle,” she finally said. “But I don’t know if it’s still there. If I remember right—which really would be amazing—it was called Emerald City Fertility.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Thank you so so much, Grandma!” Emerald City Fertility, I repeated silently. I quickly made a note in my iPhone. With my history of random acts of forgetfulness, not writing it down somewhere was far too risky.
“Do your parents know you’re looking into this?” Grandma Suse asked, her eyes sharp behind her thick, rosy-rimmed glasses.
The question took me by surprise. In my haste to dig up answers, I hadn’t considered the possibility that Grandma Suse might tell my parents about my sleuthing. I bit my bottom lip as my stomach grumbled.
“I didn’t think so,” Grandma Suse said with a frown. “Well, maybe it’s best if we just keep this between you, me, and the lamppost for now, dear.” She rose and shuffled across the several feet separating us to pat my knee, then said, “Let me go finish getting my things together and we can be on our way. I’ll be quick as a bunny.”
“Take your time, Grandma,” I said, grateful she would keep my inquisitive secret . . . at least for a little while.
Suddenly exhausted, I rested my head against the back of the cushy leather chair. Years ago, when Grandma Suse’s mobility had dwindled to the point that going up and down the stairs was akin to playing Russian roulette, my mom and I had moved her into the single downstairs bedroom. Currently, I could hear my grandma’s soft voice as she puttered around in her room, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to register her words.
My grandma was sitting on the left arm of the same chair where I’d fallen asleep. She looked younger than I’d ever seen her. A very handsome man sat in the chair, his hand resting on Grandma Suse’s lower back. With his dirty blond hair and strong, chiseled features, he was easily recognizable from photographs—my grandpa. On the couch opposite my grandparents sat my mom and dad, holding hands. Judging by my mom’s hairstyle, I figured she was around twenty-five years old. Before she had kids . . . before she had me.
From my position in the doorway between the family room and the hallway to the front door, I observed their conversation, watching . . . listening. Everything about the room was wrong. Where are all the knickknacks? And the pictures on the walls didn’t belong in my grandma’s house—they were supposed to be at my parents’ house. In fact, the painting hanging on the wall above my grandparents’ heads—of a dusky, sunlit forest—was currently in my old bedroom.
An unfamiliar male voice interrupted my confused examination of the room. Strong and clear, it was faintly accented with Italian. It belonged to my grandpa. “I asked around,” he said. “I think I found a good place for you kids to go. The doctor is very reliable. I know another family he helped.”
At hearing his voice, my confusion tripled. I’d never heard anything about him being from Italy, and I never would have guessed based on his appearance; he was so fair. In fact, I was pretty sure my mom had told me his ancestors fought in the American Revolution.
“We’re ready to try
anything, Dad,” my mom said, and beside her, my dad nodded. “So, where’s this place?”
“It’s called Emerald City Fertility in Seattle. It’s run by a Dr. James Lee. He is one of the best in his field.”
“Do you know if they’re accepting new patients?” my dad asked.
My grandpa glanced down sheepishly before meeting my parents’ eyes. “Well . . . yes. In fact, I may have already set up an appointment for you.” He rushed his next words. “I know you were planning on spending the afternoon here, but I thought you’d want to meet the doctor as soon as possible. They’re expecting you in about four hours, so . . .”
“Oh! Um . . . thanks?” My mom said, giggling nervously. “I guess we should hit the road.”
My parents quickly said their goodbyes and departed, slamming the front door in their excitement. After they were gone, Grandma Suse twisted on the arm of the chair to gaze down at my grandpa.
“Are you sure this is safe, Alex?” she asked, more than a hint of anxiety straining her voice. “You know what could happen if he . . .” She trailed off, pressing her lips into a thin line.
“I’ve seen all of the possibilities, Suse. He won’t interfere in this generation. The child will be fine. It will be normal,” he assured her.
What the hell does any of that mean? This generation? Interfere? He, who? Normal?
“He’s right, Susan,” a man said from the living room’s other doorway, the one leading to the dining room. “We’ve kept the two lines separate for more than four thousand years. Nothing he’s tried has worked so far, and that’s not going to change in the next twenty-five years. The prophecy will be invalidated and all will be right.”
My confusion increased with every additional word. What does he mean by “prophecy”? And there’s that “he” again. I abruptly realized there was something familiar about the hidden man’s voice. Slowly, I crossed the room toward it, toward him, but something stopped me . . . someone. Long, golden-brown fingers were gripping my shoulder.