It was my touch.
And not in a pervy way. We had simply inhabited the same space for such a long time, my touch became one of those comforts of everyday life—a brush of the hand as I handed him a beer, a shoulder rub after a long day, a kiss on his arm as he held me while we stretched out on the couch, watching HGTV and dreaming about the new house we’d never have.
He missed my touch and I missed his.
I perfected the water temperature and drew Matt’s head back. He closed his eyes, thinking of . . . What? Happier days? It hurt to speculate, so I didn’t. Shampoo, conditioner, head massage. This was where it got a little dicey. Matt loved the feel of my fingers running over his scalp. It relaxed him . . . in all kinds of ways. It would be odd if I didn’t do it, so I’d begun to rush it after we’d separated, giving him the same businesslike attention I’d give Jenn with two n’s.
I ran the pads of my fingers over his scalp, pressing hard enough to cause slight discomfort.
Still, he groaned.
I’ll admit, it stirred something in me. How could it not? For ten years of my life, that sound was a precursor to other, more satisfying sounds. Helpless against a swirling mix of imagination and memory, I softened my touch.
“Ally!” Heather’s voice cut through my thoughts. She gave me that frog face again and mouthed, Stop it!
Swatting away the familiar feelings, I pressed harder, moving faster, trying to get it over with. I dumped conditioner on his head and rinsed it away.
Afterward, I guided Matt to my chair, though he probably could have found it blindfolded.
“Kylie had a sore throat this morning, and a headache,” I said as I grabbed a comb.
Matt stiffened. “And she’s in school?”
I ran the comb through his hair, still blond and thick, though Matt had recently turned forty. “I had mixed feelings, but I sent her. Haven’t gotten a call from the office yet, so it was probably the right decision.”
“Probably,” Matt said, and I could feel his shoulders loosen. “She needs to be in school or she can’t go to play practice, right?”
Kylie had scored the role of Veruca Salt in her school’s production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We were thrilled in front of her and terrified behind her back. What if she got sick on opening night? “That’s the director’s rule. Maybe the incentive helps her manage the pain?”
Matt sighed. “I hate that she has to manage anything.”
“I know. I keep telling myself she’ll be a stronger person in the long run.”
“She will. I tell myself the same thing.”
Matt was actually agreeing with me. I knew when an opportunity presented itself. “Have you changed your mind about helping me pay for Dr. Indigo? I really think she might be able to help.”
Matt thought for a moment. I’d like to say I was above subtle manipulation, but I started to massage the back of his neck and tops of his shoulders. He was full of knots.
“I can swing something,” he said. “But probably less than you’d like.”
“Anything is helpful. Thanks.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I feel guilty is all.”
I needed to change the subject before he changed his mind. “So, same cut as usual?”
“Shorter,” he said. “Cleaner and more businesslike.”
I laughed. Matt taught history and political science at the local high school. He’d been there so long I didn’t think anyone would mind if he showed up on campus with neon-green hair and a forehead tattoo. His usual look was that of a carelessly rumpled intellectual with a touch of absent-minded professor. “What’s with the conservative do?”
“I . . . I decided to try online dating,” he said, wiggling in the chair a bit.
My hand froze. “What? Why?”
He shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Because I need something to look forward to.”
I didn’t know what to do with that answer. I didn’t know what to do with this at all. And if I was being honest, I wanted to pass the dating hot potato into the future. Not the near one, but the one residing years and years ahead.
“So,” Matt continued, “I want to take some photos where I don’t look like a degenerate.”
“I usually give you a good cut,” I said, knowing I should keep my cool, but still unable to control my need to defend myself. “It’s tousled. A good look for you.”
“I just figured I should look like more of a grown-up,” he said flatly. “Even if I don’t always feel like one.”
Was that an acknowledgment of something? Weakness? Or was it bait for our argument du jour? If it was, I wasn’t going to take it. “Well, just be careful. Jenn says people misrepresent themselves on those dating sites all the time. It’s not like when we were doing Ecouples. The pool is much larger and more unpredictable.”
“I’m fully aware of that,” he snapped. “I generally have good judgment.”
“Yeah, you did. Past tense.”
“Just because you disagree with me about dating doesn’t make me wrong to do it.”
We stopped talking as I got to cutting his hair. But Matt’s discomfort grew, his wiggling intensified. If he wasn’t careful, I’d accidentally snip off his ear, Van Gogh–style.
“Ally,” he finally said, “I’m going to list my status as divorced, okay? I mean, I think a lot of women might have problems with dating someone who is separated. And, it’s only a matter of legalities until it’s the absolute truth, right?”
My heart instantly contracted. “We’re not divorced. Lying doesn’t sit well with me.” I swapped out my scissors for an electric razor and ran it along the back of Matt’s neck.
The stylist-client relationship required mutual trust. I’d built a career on it. It was kind of ridiculous to think my clients might spot Matt’s profile online, but what if someone did? They all knew we weren’t divorced. “I can’t stop you from doing what you want,” I said, “but I won’t lie if someone asks. I don’t mind bending the truth a little bit, but breaking it? No. I’m not a liar.”
“It’s a white lie, and not a big deal.”
“Lying is usually one of the bigger deals.”
I brushed the hairs from Matt’s neck and shoulders, taking my time, wishing someone could whisk me away from this conversation. I didn’t want Matt to date anyone. The thought of him touching someone else made me want to scream. And the thought of him telling his story—our story—to some sympathetic woman was really too much to handle. I still thought of our experience as ours. We knew details about each other, so many details. That particular intimacy still existed, and I couldn’t pretend that it didn’t. But maybe that was my issue instead of his.
“Done,” I said. “You look like an earnest, young congressional aide. Or a phys ed teacher from 1954. You’ll attract Miss America, no problem.”
“Come on, Al,” Matt said, standing up. He was a tall man, much taller than me. He bent his knees until we were eye level so he could meet my eyes when he talked to me, like he did when we were first dating. “This isn’t something I necessarily want. It’s just something I decided to do. Loneliness is a bitch, and I need a nice woman to slap it around for a bit.”
“I would refrain from using that analogy around women you want to date. It’s not the best.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
He left a mediocre tip.
When I got home that night, Mom and Kylie had finished dinner and were glued to an episode of The Great British Baking Show. Mom held Kylie tightly against her, Kylie’s small head flush against her chest. My mom was a good woman, but not a demonstrative one. A problem solver, not a hugger.
“What’s wrong?” I said, unable to keep the fear from my voice.
Kylie glanced at me and burst into tears.
“She’s all right,” my mom said, voice steady.
I hadn’t mastered her ability to remain calm. “Are you okay? What happened?” I drew my daughter to me, and she sobbed into my shoulder.
> “It hurts,” she said. “It hurts so much.”
“What hurts?” I asked, mind reeling. “Kylie, what hurts?”
“Everything. Every part of my body including my soul.”
Ah. The insistent hyperbole of preteen melodrama. It wasn’t something medical. I gently pushed her away from me so I could look at her face. “Can you explain?”
“I missed a day of school last week, and two days the week before,” Kylie said, hiccupping softly. “Mrs. Loftus said I needed to step down and let Lola take Veruca. Lola, Mom. She’s the one who rubbed a hot pepper on Marly’s ChapStick. She’s the star now. And I’m an Oompa-Loompa. I’ll be orange. With green hair.”
“What?” The anger I’d felt earlier resurfaced, red and hot and not exactly rational. “But you’re going to be a fantastic Veruca Salt. I’m going to the school tomorrow. I’ll march right up to that Mrs. Loftus and make her give you the part back. This is absolutely not fair. When I’m finished with her—”
“Ally.” There was a warning in my mom’s voice.
“Mom.”
My mother put one hand on Kylie’s shoulder. “Tell her the whole story, kiddo.”
Kylie broke eye contact, staring at a photograph of my grandparents hanging next to the television. “I couldn’t remember my lines today. My head was bothering me too much. And, well, Mrs. Loftus kind of had a point. I haven’t had as much practice as the other kids, and we don’t have a lot of rehearsal time left.”
“And?” my mom said, her voice gentle.
Kylie frowned. “They bought all the candy for the play, and Mrs. Loftus can’t guarantee that it’s peanut-free. She’s worried because Veruca has to eat some of the chocolate. She doesn’t want me anywhere near it.”
I slumped with my back against the couch, the truth taking the fire out of me. It was all so unfair. Poor Kylie. Adults build fortress-like defenses against disappointment. Kids barely have the tools to construct a chain-link fence.
“Can I buy different chocolate?” I said weakly.
“They had special chocolate bars made,” Kylie said. “So I don’t think so.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
“Yeah,” Kylie said, defeated. “I’m sorry too.”
The three of us settled in to watch mild-mannered British people attempt to construct pastries worthy of the Queen. A few consistently succeeded, but most failed here and there. The allure of the show came from how creative they were in fixing their mistakes. One really young woman tried to frost her cake before it cooled, and the top turned into a muddy goo. She had a reserved, Brit-style teary-eyed meltdown, and then ended up slicing two inches off the bottom, adding that layer to the top, and covering the whole thing in chocolate ganache. A flash of genius.
Problems were solved by taking action. Worry never solved problems. Neither did fear. When the show finished, I took Kylie’s hand. “Come with me.”
After a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a big glass of water, I took her into the bathroom.
“Here,” I said. “Drink this.”
Kylie gulped the water down without question. I tried not to think about why she was so agreeable, but it was difficult not to. She constantly heard, Drink this. Eat this. Take this supplement or pill or tincture. She took everything, hoping each time that she was ingesting a miracle.
“Okay,” she said. “What now?”
“Therapy. In just a second.” I dashed off to the front hall and grabbed a package from the top of the mail stack. The box was light, so light for all the potential secrets it contained. I ignored the voice that told me sometimes secrets are better off staying hidden.
I ripped open the packaging, glanced at the instructions, and handed the specimen vial to Kylie.
She turned it over in her palm. “What do I do with this?”
“Have you ever heard the phrase spitting mad?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It means you’re so mad, you could spit. I felt that way a whole bunch of times today. I didn’t spit on anyone, but I think I would have felt better if I had.”
“Wait. You want me to spit?” The corner of Kylie’s mouth turned up. “This is the DNA test, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” I said, ignoring the tug of guilt when I thought of my mom in the next room. “You’ve got to fill this vial, so you might as well get some aggression out while doing it.” I leaned over the sink. “One of my clients frustrated me earlier.” I spat into the drain. “That’s for you, Jenn with two n’s!”
“Mom!”
“It feels good. What made you angry today?”
Kylie thought for a moment. “Lola. She kept laughing with her friends when she got the better part.”
I pointed to the vial. “Spit.”
Kylie drew some spit in her mouth, but paused.
“This is for Lola,” I said. “Spit!”
She did, and broke into a grin. “I’m sort of mad at Mrs. Loftus too.”
“Spit!”
She did. Again and again. For the boy who broke her pencil in social studies class. For the gym teacher who yelled at her to speed up her PACER test. For the math teacher who gave a pop quiz on a Monday morning.
The vial was half-full.
“I don’t know what else I have,” Kylie said.
“Yes, you do.”
“What?”
“How about peanut allergies?”
Kylie nodded. “To peanut allergies!” Spit. “To headaches!” Spit. “To itchy skin!” Spit. “To sore joints!” Spit. “To doctors!” Spit.
“Keep going,” I said, but there was a lump in my throat, and it came out a whisper.
“To . . .”
“To what, honey?”
“To . . . this life,” Kylie said, and filled the vial.
Then we sealed it up, filled out the forms, and, with shaking hands, I sent all of her anger off the next morning.
CHAPTER 3
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Ms. Kylie Anderson,
Thank you for using Your Past Is a Present! Your DNA results are now available. Since you’ve signed up for “Share My Chromosomes!” you can easily connect with members who share one or more segments of your DNA. Have fun exploring your family tree! Remember—be sure to load your file into the HealthPredictor* for medical information specific to your results.
Kylie—your past is a present! Open it and explore the unique mystery of you!
*Your Past Is a Present provides raw data, but does not take responsibility for any outcome, health or otherwise.
“This isn’t the Oscars,” Heather said. “You can peek inside the envelope before you announce the results to an audience.”
I poured her another cup of coffee. “I think we should wait for Kylie. My mom went to pick her up.”
“Okay, Miss Avoidance. Aren’t you curious, even a little bit?” Heather said, tying her thin, pale hair into a topknot. “I would be.”
Curious wasn’t the right word. Maybe terrified? Or nauseated? Or so apprehensive I might run into the backyard and bury my laptop in the garden. I’d never let curiosity grab me by the throat before, not to this extent. Sure, I wondered about my origins plenty of times. Who wouldn’t? But my mom had always made it clear that I was a Stefancyk—I was her daughter. Blood was made irrelevant by devotion. The people who put me into the world cut their ties to me, and Sophie Stefancyk grabbed on to the fraying thread, wove it into something strong, and tethered me to her life. I was someone else’s for a mere twelve months. And that time, so brief as to never make an imprint on my tiny little person, really didn’t matter.
Until it did. A couple of taps on my keyboard could reveal very specific information about the people responsible for me being in the world, and for the first time, I felt I had a right to know who they were. My tribe. I knew, looking in the mirror at my dark eyes and olive skin, that I wasn’t Polish. I was Sophie’s, that’s for sure, but was I entitled to have parts
of me that were mine?
I’d only casually mentioned the DNA test to my mom, presenting it as part of the overall strategy to help Kylie. Still, she glanced away, hiding the shock I’d seen burst in her eyes, and muttered something incomprehensible to acknowledge I’d said something. I quickly changed the subject. Sophie Stefancyk was of the generation that felt adoption was nothing to be ashamed of, but should still happen quietly and in secret, never to be spoken of again. I had scant details of how she’d come to be my mother, and I learned those not from her, but from the man who helped her do it, my adoptive father. It had been during one of my rare phone calls with Jim, and even that was an accidental, offhand remark that got me asking him questions.
“Hell if I know why she doesn’t discuss it,” Jim said, talking to me from his condo in Scottsdale. I think I was in high school at the time.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he continued. “She got drunk one night at the bar and asked if I’d help her out. We’d been dating awhile at that point, so I did. It was hard for a woman alone to adopt a kid, and your ma really wanted a baby. I admired her a lot back then, still do. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, you know she means it. I wasn’t planning on getting married, but I had nothing going on, so I thought, why not? This was the early ’80s we’re talking about. Different times. Soph and I lasted longer than I thought we would, and a lot of that had to do with you. Never saw such a cute baby, and you slept real good too.”
My teenage heart had swelled with pride at the thought of being a good baby, that I didn’t cause Sophie any trouble. That was how I saw adoption, that I owed my mom a debt I couldn’t possibly ever pay in full. She never made me feel that way, but sometimes the strongest feelings form in those empty pockets of air lodged between facts and assumptions.
What I didn’t feel badly about was my adoptive father’s lack of presence in my life, but again, that was my mother’s doing. “He just wasn’t cut out for it,” she’d said. “Some people just aren’t. It’s not anyone’s fault, and definitely not yours.” My dad had been a detective for the Chicago Police Department. When he was on the job, Dad worked nights and spent his mornings at Stef’s Tavern, trying to decompress with a bottle of Bud and my mom’s famous cheeseburgers. I was the result of flirtation and boredom on his part, and a shrewd observation on my mother’s. She wanted to adopt, and she needed a husband to do so. He stuck around for the first five years of my life, and though she never said so outright, they fell into what could be called love. Like she said, though, he wasn’t built for that kind of family life. After he left, Mom raised me, and he sort of supervised from afar, his Irish Catholic family already too populated to include me. We got an unimpressive check in the mail once a month. Sometimes, he’d write Happy Birthday or Merry Christmas on the memo line. That was pretty much it. After he put his thirty years in, he moved to Arizona with his girlfriend. I barely noticed. I was a Stefancyk, not a Cavanaugh, and it was mostly through an unexplainable sense of duty that I called him twice a year to tell him about the granddaughter he’d only met once, and the life his sort of daughter had made without him.
The Other Family Page 3