Finding Cassidy

by Laura Langston

  I glared. “You’re an uninvited guest. Don’t push it. Besides, he’s not my father. That’s been established.”

  “I know—I heard.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “You know how stuff gets around school.”

  “So is that why you’re being nice to me all of a sudden? Because you feel bad?”

  “No.” She pulled her beret off, fiddled nervously with it. “But when you enrolled in environmental studies, I figured you were back to being the old Cassidy. I thought we could—I don’t know—start over or something.”

  “Well, we can’t start over, and I’m not the old Cassidy.” I wasn’t a new Cassidy, either. I didn’t know what kind of Cassidy I was.

  Quinn frowned. “Just how long are you going to hold onto this stupid grudge, anyway?”

  “As long as I want to.” With a vicious kick, I sent the newspaper under the bed.

  “Now, that’s mature.”

  She was really pissing me off. “I think you should go,” I said again.

  She still didn’t move. “Your parents were always so upfront.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe they kept it from you all these years.”

  At least she wasn’t disgusted or cracking jokes.

  “Remember grade three?” she asked.

  I hardly wanted to go down memory lane with Quinn. “What about it?” I asked warily.

  “You insisted you were adopted. Said you were related to some rich dude in Bavaria or Latvia or somewhere.” Quinn snickered. “For a while all you would eat was rye bread and sausage.”

  “Until Mom told me Latvians ate peas and sour porridge.” When Quinn rolled her eyes in remembrance, I had to grin. There was comfort in having history with a person.

  “That was your intuition talking,” she said softly. “You knew something wasn’t right.”

  Her compassion made me uncomfortable. I avoided her eyes.

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing.” I got up, put the worksheets on my desk, gathered up the photo albums.

  “You need to educate yourself. Network with people. Find some organizations. The government passed a reproductive technology bill a while back. There’s bound to be a ton of information out there.”

  That was Quinn—throwing herself at life. Only this was my life to handle my way. “I don’t want to get involved with any groups.” I stashed the albums in the closet and collected up my sizable display of Cassidy the Separate. “I don’t need a ton of information.” All I needed was one name. I put the cutouts in the closet beside the albums. “I should start my homework.” Turning around, I looked pointedly at the door.

  Quinn ignored me. “It probably is like being adopted,” she mused. “There will be records. Stuff on file. This isn’t the Dark Ages.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “But I haven’t told you about my plan to get around the egg-addling thing.”

  “Later.” I opened my bedroom door and stood beside it. “I have stuff to do.”

  With a tiny but unmistakable huff, Quinn rose. She slapped the beret on her head, belted her sweater and talked to herself as she headed for the door. “Thanks for bringing me that homework, Quinn. You’re welcome, Cassidy. It was my pleasure. See you tomorrow, Quinn. Sure, Cass.”

  I giggled in spite of myself. Now she not only looked like an elf on acid, she sounded like one. “Yeah, all of the above.” I shut the door behind her.

  Soon after Quinn left, I tried to tell Mom about the clinic, but she put me off. We’d talk tomorrow afternoon at the counsellor’s office, she told me. Now there was a treat to look forward to. But I couldn’t hold it against her. The phone was ringing off the hook about the newspaper article. Everybody was in a panic.

  Everybody except Frank.

  Eventually, he called the newspaper and told them everything. Well, not everything, but everything about Huntington’s. The fact that it was still in the early stages. His plans to run in the next election. The doctor’s prognosis that he had a number of good years left.

  Later that night, Little Mac went all motherly and told Frank that she didn’t think he should be running for election. Not with the disease and all.

  He finally turned to her and said, with more determination than I’d ever heard, “I’m going to die soon enough. And I’m going to do as much living as I can until then.”

  Clearly, I was the product of another, more cowardly man. Frank had more guts than I could ever hope to have.

  The next morning I woke to bright spring sunshine streaming through my bedroom window. It was the kind of day that used to make me bounce out of bed. But with the newspaper article and the phone call to Jason uppermost in my mind, I had to drag myself from under the covers and force myself to get to Circle Lake on time.

  Walking into the nature house with two minutes to spare, I saw Prissy sitting alone in the back row. Prepared to confront her, I headed back, only to be waylaid by Quinn.

  “Oh good, you’re early.” This morning she looked like an oversized bumblebee: black Goth coat, yellow sweater and fuzzy black and white scarf. She plopped into a chair and pulled me down beside her. “I went online last night and got some great stuff for you.” She pulled an envelope from the folds of her billowing coat and presented it to me with a flourish.

  That’s when I noticed her fingerless gloves. Purple. “Do you try to dress weird, or do you just have a knack for it?”

  “I base my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.” She grabbed the envelope back, removed a few sheets, shoved them at me. “Did you know there’s a site in the States that sells sperm from Ivy League donors? Guaranteed brains before birth. Is that weird or what? And there are way more sites devoted to parents and donors than to offspring, which is also weird.”

  “Sssssh! You don’t have to tell the world.” Even if the world already knew, I didn’t want to remind them. I slid down in my seat.

  Quinn lowered her voice, but only a notch. “The world needs to know this, Cass. Donor offspring are practically ignored. People are walking around not knowing their medical history and stuff. It’s disgustingly unfair, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” I muttered. And I didn’t ask her to do a search for me, either. I didn’t want to know stuff. I just wanted to know him.

  But Quinn was on a roll. “I found two sites with great potential. One that tells you everything you need to know about finding your donor. And this one“—she tapped the top page—”is an amazing message board and chat room. You need to go there. People are giving each other tips, Cass. Sharing info.”

  Quinn matched Jason in being bossy-stubborn. “I’ve got friends I can share with. I don’t need a chat room.”

  “Yeah?” She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t see your friends crowding around to help you.”

  I shoved the papers back at her. “Here. Take them.”

  “They’re yours,” she said stiffly. “If you’re not interested, recycle them.” She squared her shoulders, turned away.

  I guess I could have said thanks. Thanks for not minding your own damn business. Thanks for pointing out how useless my friends are.

  Mr. Edwards walked into the room, followed by two middle-aged people wearing khaki pants, sensible loafers and navy blue windbreakers with university crests.

  “Who are they?” I hissed to Quinn’s back.

  She didn’t turn around. “Scientists from U Vic.” Her voice was cold enough to freeze the sun.

  I found out their names soon enough—Ms. Prefontaine and Mr. Bradley. Since Jonathan and I had missed yesterday’s session on egg addling, they would catch us up. Jonathan was assigned to Ms. Prefontaine, who was short and round, lively and animated. I was assigned to Mr. Bradley, who was tall and thin with sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

  As we followed them outside, Mr. Bradley barely cracked a smile. Great, I thought as we walked through the cool morning air to the lakefront. Just my luck to get stuck with Mr. Serious.
r />   “Denise and I thought we’d take a few minutes to go over this morning’s procedure,” he said. “What it is, why we’re doing it, that kind of thing.” He gave us each a handout.

  Feeling chilly, I zipped up my coat and began to read. “Managing Resident Canada Geese.” I skimmed the statistics and glanced only briefly at the section called “Nuisance Factor” before skipping to the final section, called “Control Options.” A number of control methods have been used with some success in both the United States and Canada. These include extended hunting hours, border-collie control, landscape alterations, bird removal, egg addling and euthanasia.

  When we were finished reading, Ms. Prefontaine said, “It’s important to remember that one pair of geese can produce five to twelve goslings a year.”

  Mr. Bradley nodded. “They can pretty much over-run a place in a few seasons.” He gestured to the marsh nearby. “Like they’ve done here.”

  Something about this guy was familiar, I decided as I watched his hand move through the air. Maybe he’d been on TV talking about the geese or something.

  “Circle Lake has too much marshland for border-collie control,” he continued, “and we’re not prepared to go as far as euthanasia. So we’ve adopted egg addling as our method of control.”

  “What’s egg addling?” Jonathan asked.

  “Simply put, birth control for birds.” His blue eyes twinkled. Maybe Mr. Serious wasn’t so serious after all. “There are three possible methods: Shaking, oiling or piercing. You can shake the eggs, pierce the eggs or oil them, but oiling is about as foolproof as you can get.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jonathan said. “Do you rub the eggs with oil, or what?”

  “Exactly!” enthused Ms. Prefontaine. “The oil prevents oxygen from getting in to allow egg development. But the mother doesn’t realize anything’s wrong, so she sits there all season waiting for the eggs to hatch. It’s quite wonderful, because if we removed the eggs, the mother would lay more. With this procedure, she doesn’t.” A wide smile stretched across her face. “And the eggs that are left are rendered non-viable.”

  Yuck. That poor mother bird, sitting patiently waiting for her goslings to be born. It didn’t seem fair. Quinn was right. Egg addling sucked. “So basically, we’re talking abortion for geese.”

  Her green eyes widened. She was momentarily speechless. “Not abortion. No!” She recovered quickly. “It is a method of birth control, yes. But it’s simply a procedure to render them non-viable.”

  I felt Jonathan and Mr. Bradley studying me, but I kept my eyes on Ms. Prefontaine. “I guess it’s all a matter of which words you choose to describe the procedure.”

  “And it’s not something we’re here to discuss.” Her smile was gone. “If you’re uncomfortable, perhaps bring it up in your ethics or philosophy class.”

  “I will,” I said coolly. “Because the whole idea is disgusting.” I’d also talk to Quinn and find out about her plan.

  There was an awkward pause, and then Mr. Bradley said, “Perhaps you and I can discuss it as we walk to the nest.” A slight frown creased his forehead. “These are issues many of us struggle with, too,” he admitted quietly.

  Clearly his compassion made Ms. Prefontaine (a.k.a. The One with Murderous Intentions) uncomfortable. “Yes, well, that’s true for some people.” She cleared her throat and outlined the morning routine.

  Five minutes later, she and Jonathan headed west while Mr. Bradley and I took the chip path to the east.

  “You can call me Tom.” He was a tall guy with long legs. It was going to be a brisk walk.

  “Okay…Tom.” Some of the younger teachers let us call them by their first names, but not the older ones. And this guy had to be Frank’s age.

  “So, why are you taking this course?” he asked.

  ’Cause I want that trip to Costa Rica.

  “Lots of reasons.” I fumbled around for an appropriate answer. “I like nature. Birds especially.”

  “What’s your favourite bird?”

  I frowned. Favourite bird? Herons? Eagles? Hummingbirds? It was too hard to pick just one. “Probably the one I’m chasing down,” I admitted. “I’m a birder. Right now I’m after a scarlet macaw and a quetzal.”

  “You’ll have to travel south to find them.”

  South to Costa Rica. “I know. So far, I’ve seen 628 different species in five countries. On two continents,” I added proudly.

  He glanced at me. “So you’re a spotter, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  A patch of nettle hung low over the path. He held it back so I could pass. “Spotters collect numbers, ticks on a sheet. Birders tend to go deeper. Care more.”

  He made collecting numbers sound superficial. “I like seeing the birds, too,” I replied defensively. “What I do isn’t a bad thing.” It was way better than oiling eggs to kill baby birds.

  “I didn’t say it was. Spotting’s okay, I suppose. As long as you practise good environmental stewardship. Trouble is, some spotters don’t. They litter, they trample nests, they scare birds. Not only that, they miss the point entirely. They’re after the thrill of the number, not the joy of the bird itself.”

  As I tried to figure out where I fit into that equation, he slowed and pointed. “The nest isn’t far now.” Crouching down, he peered through the bushes. “See the male? Standing sentinel watch?”

  I bent down. The male stood about two metres away, tall and proud, black beak glinting in the sun, picture perfect.

  “Spectacular, isn’t he?” Tom whispered.

  I nodded. “And he’s so still.”

  We exchanged smiles. I was struck again by that odd feeling of familiarity.

  “We need to scare him away,” Tom explained. “Then we’ll have about ten minutes to do the egg addling.”

  I watched for a minute, then I said, “I can’t believe you want to kill them off.”

  “Not kill them off. They aren’t developed birds. We just need to bring them under control.”

  Under control. I snorted loudly.

  The male’s head turned sharply in our direction. Beady black eyes scanned the underbrush.

  “Ooops.” I swore under my breath. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. It’s time to move, anyway. Get the umbrella ready. When I stand, follow me. We’ll rush him.”

  The male honked and rose with a hiss. His wingspan was huge—four, maybe five feet across. Screeching and spitting with displeasure, he flapped his wings madly, stirring the air dangerously close to my head. I was glad I had the umbrella for protection. Finally, with one last ornery honk of protest, he flew off.

  “Come on.” Tom walked quickly through the marsh. “We don’t have much time.”

  The female had her back to us. She sat like a round, regal queen on her feathered throne. “I can’t do this.”

  I braced myself for a flicker of disgust, or even an argument, but all Tom did was nod and say, “Watch out. When she lifts off, she might go toward you.”

  Surprisingly, the female put up less of a fight than the male. A honk, a hiss, a giant flap of wings and she was gone. Tom motioned me forward. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but at least come and watch,” he said.

  The nest was smaller than I expected, the eggs bigger. There were six of them, and they looked like super-sized breakfast eggs. Same colour, same shape, only massive.

  Tom unzipped his knapsack, began laying things on the ground. Then he reached down and gingerly lifted an egg from the nest. “Here.” He handed it to me. “Hold this.”

  I cradled it carefully in my palms. “It’s warm!” The only shells I’d ever handled were empty ones, or ones that I planned to crack and scramble. I’d never held one with this much weightiness to it, this kind of promise. Tom opened the bottle of oil. “This isn’t fair,” I said. “The geese don’t even get a choice.”

  He put the bottle back down. “We have to do something.” His blue eyes reflected a curious mix of firm resolve
and sadness.

  My fingers curled protectively around the smoothness of the egg. “What you’re doing is wrong. Tampering with nature like this.”

  “People do it all the time. Women wear makeup. Couples practise birth control. That’s tampering with nature.”

  “That doesn’t hurt anyone!”

  “Fair enough.” He nodded. “But sometimes tampering with nature is the right and honourable thing to do. Now, it’ll go a lot faster if you hold each egg while I oil them.” He paused. “Will you?”

  “I guess.” He was giving me a choice, and I liked him for that. “But I don’t want you to think I agree with this, because I don’t.”

  He flashed brilliant white teeth. “And I don’t want you to think I don’t respect your opinion, because I do.” He upended the bottle of oil and let some of it seep onto a white cloth. Then, with slow, methodical strokes, he coated the egg nestled between my palms. I stared at his fingers. They were long and slim, with weird, knobby knuckles. Just like mine.

  “The trick is a light coating,” he said. “Too much and it’ll soil the feathers on the mother bird.”

  “Right,” I responded absently. How many people had fingers like that? I’d never seen another set in my life.

  He gestured for me to put the egg down and grab another.

  I tried not to look at his fingers as he worked on egg number two, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. They were drawn there with single-minded purpose, the way some guys just couldn’t help staring at my breasts. What were the odds that he would have the same freaky knobby knuckles as me? Could it be a coincidence?

  I didn’t believe in coincidences.

  “Are you double-jointed?” My voice came out all quavery, but Tom didn’t appear to notice.

  “Yeah.” He gestured for another egg. “You?”

  I swallowed. “Yeah.” His head was bent over egg number three. Oh God, it wasn’t possible. Was it? He had long legs. I had long legs. He was dirty blond. I was light blond. He seemed familiar.

  It couldn’t be that easy.

  When he looked up and gestured for the fourth egg, I stared hard into his eyes. They were blue. Blue-green, to be exact. Mine turned blue-green by the end of the summer, after months in the sun. Did that count? Oh God, oh God, I had to know. “So.” Good start, Cass.