Finding Cassidy

by Laura Langston

“You said it again.” More laughter.

  There was only one way to make sure Jason wasn’t my half-sibling. Through DNA testing.

  It was the only choice. I had to convince Jason.

  Pete and I were watching TV when Jason came in with the familiar green and gold Finnelli’s bag tucked under his arm.

  “Raspberry bombs!” Pete launched himself off the couch.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” Jason leaned over to kiss me.

  Half-brooother. Like, no thanks. I turned my head. His kiss landed somewhere near my ear. Jason frowned; I pointed at Pete.

  “Who cares?” He grabbed me, pulled me close. “It’s been days since I’ve seen you, never mind done this.” His mouth was warm and open, his lips coaxing. I responded instinctively, the way I always did, sliding under the bewitching Jason-spell. But then shame flooded me. Feeling squirmy, I pulled back and fought the urge to wipe my hand across my mouth.

  Thankfully, Pete demanded attention right then. He dragged Jason over to show him the collage we’d made.

  Somehow I managed to act normal for the next hour or so. We snuggled on the couch, ate bakery leftovers and watched a video with Pete. It was like old times, except usually Jason and I couldn’t wait to get Pete to bed. Instead I fed Pete as many raspberry bombs as I could, hoping the sugar would keep him too hopped up to sleep.

  Unfortunately, the kid was dead to the world by ten.

  By eleven, Jason and I ran out of small talk and he was, well, proving my point that parents were stupid if they thought keeping us out of the bedroom was going to stop us from having sex. Because Jason, clearly, didn’t care where he did it. As long as he did it.

  Sliding out from under his arm for about the twentieth time, I grabbed the remote and flicked madly from channel to channel. “Oh look, Mrs. Doubtfire. That was a great movie, don’cha think?”

  He slid his hand under my shirt. I jumped like he’d lit a match under there.

  He stared at me. “What is wrong with you?”

  I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I just have a lot on my mind, you know, with school and Frank and stuff.” And your dad, too. Our dad, maybe.

  “You need to relax.”

  Before he could touch me again, I jumped up and paced. Or at least I tried to. But Jason’s living room was small and cluttered, and after three or four passes in front of the coffee table I sat back down and hunched into the corner, as far as possible from Jason. “The thing is…” I cleared my throat. “The thing is…I know you don’t like talking about it, but something’s come up…about my real father…and it…it could change our relationship.”

  There. I’d said it. Sort of.

  Jason narrowed his eyes, but not before I caught the flicker of annoyance. “How?”

  How? If he was pissed off now, he’d be royally pissed in about thirty seconds. “Pete and I were talking about your father and—”

  “He started talking, or you started asking questions?”

  A flush crawled up my neck. “A bit of both, I guess. But Pete says you don’t remember meeting him.” I paused. “Did you ever meet him? Your real father?”

  Impatiently, Jason flicked his hair off his forehead. “What does this have to do with me and you? How is our relationship going to change?”

  He hadn’t answered my question. I took a deep breath. “What if…what if…we’re related or something?” It was like dropping a giant monster I’d been hauling around on my shoulders. The pressure on me was less, but it was out in the open now, where it could hurt both of us.

  “Pardon?”

  “What if…you know…what if you were conceived this…way, too. We look alike. What if we’re kind of like related or something?”

  His laugh startled me. “You’re kidding, right?”

  My silence was my answer. The amusement faded from his face. A muscle twitched in the back of his jaw. “That’s ridiculous,” he said flatly.

  I was finished with the subtle approach. The monster was in front of us—it was time to wrestle it to the ground. “No, it’s not. We look alike. People are always saying that. You were born in North Vancouver, which is close to the fertility clinic. You don’t remember your father. You don’t even have a picture of him. And you know what they say—it’s easy to be attracted to someone just like you.”

  “There’s no way we’re related. You think I’d want to jump my own sister’s bones? That’s disgusting!”

  “Ssssh.” Jason was practically yelling; I glanced nervously to the doorway, half expecting Pete to be there. I didn’t want him waking up and hearing this.

  “Never mind ssssshhh. I’ll yell if I want to.” Jason stormed over and shut the living-room door. “Cass, this whole thing is turning you into a major nutcase. We are not related. My mother never would have done something like that.”

  My heart did a runaway dance at the twist of revulsion on his lips. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she…just wouldn’t.” It was his turn to search for words, to avoid my eyes. “It’s just not…not the thing normal people do. It’s…weird.”

  I struggled for breath. “Are you saying my parents are weird? I’m weird?”

  “No!” He reached for me but I shrank against the couch. “I mean, you’re acting weird and I wish you’d lighten up and put this out of your mind once in a while, but it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is it?”

  A thin line of pink appeared at the top of Jason’s cheekbones. “Your parents are rich, Cassidy. My mother doesn’t have a lot of money. Even if she’d wanted to, she’d never have paid for…that.”

  That. I was conceived because of that. The word had a certain flat bleakness to it.

  “But what if your dad did it?” I said. “What if he needed money and he was a donor and your mom didn’t even know?” It was a longshot, but my life had turned into one huge longshot. This could be another one.

  Jason opened his mouth to speak, but the phone rang then, splitting through the weighty, uncomfortable silence with its shrill rip. He picked up. It was his mother.

  I sat there for a minute listening to one side of the conversation, and then I fled.

  Jason wouldn’t even consider the possibility that we had the same father, but he hadn’t presented me with any proof otherwise. For my own peace of mind, I had to find it myself. I went into the main bathroom first, rummaging through the drawers and cupboards for a toothbrush or a comb. I wanted something with Jason’s hair or saliva on it. Sure, it wouldn’t be very fresh, but it would be something. Unfortunately, I found lots of things belonging to Pete and Mrs. Perdue, but nothing of Jason’s.

  Of course. His bathroom was in the basement.

  I tiptoed downstairs, hesitating only briefly at the threshold of Jason’s room. I’d promised not to go inside, but promises could be broken under extenuating circumstances.

  And these circumstances were more extenuating than anything I’d ever seen.

  I checked his pillow first, praying that Jason had shed a hair or two. No luck. Then I fled into the bathroom and reached for the first thing I could lay my hands on—his hairbrush.

  I stood there for a minute, staring down at it, seeing the strands of hair, some still with white follicles attached. One of them would tell me if Jason and I were half-siblings. Fingers shaking, I carefully plucked out three. Just as I realized I had no envelope to put them in, a voice thundered through the crack in the door.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Jason! The brush toppled, then clattered on the bathroom floor. “You scared me,” I managed to say. “I didn’t hear you.”

  He shoved the door all the way open and pointed to the strands of hair I clutched in my right hand. “What’s that?”

  “Your hair.” I slid past him. “I’m not supposed to be in here, remember?” Legs shaking, I walked up the stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room. Jason followed. Thoughts raced, gerbil-like, through my mind. What t
o tell him? How to explain? Facts or fiction? The truth or a tale?

  Jason didn’t sit. He leaned in the doorway all scowls and crossed arms. I needed something underneath me, some kind of support, because it was time to state my case. So I sat.

  “Our relationship has always been based on honesty, right?”

  He nodded.

  “The honest truth? I need to know if we’re related. I want to get DNA profiles done to be sure.”

  Jason’s scowl dissolved into a look of disbelief. “What the—”

  “If you’re willing to give me a cheek swab, that would be better. They’re about 95 per cent accurate. If not, I’ll use these.” I held up the three precious strands of hairs still gripped in my fist.

  “You’re serious?”

  It was my turn to nod.

  “You need live cells for DNA. There may not be any on there.”

  I attempted a joke. “Wanna loan me your whole brush?”

  Jason didn’t even crack a smile. He moved from the door, sat beside me on the couch. “We. Are. Not. Related.” I felt his breath with each word, emphatic puffs of air caressing my cheek. “Give it up, Cass.”

  That was my guy. Bossy-stubborn. “I need to know for sure.”

  “Oh, man.” He dropped his head into his hands.

  “If I’m acting weird, Jase, it’s because my whole world has gone weird.” Tears pushed against my eyelids. I flapped my hands madly in front of my face to stop them from falling. They stayed. But Jason’s hair didn’t. The blond strands fluttered to the floor, disappearing into the beige carpet.

  It didn’t matter anymore. If he didn’t get this, nothing mattered.

  “When I’m with you I feel like I have to choose between pretending everything’s the way it’s always been and telling you the truth.”

  He lifted his head. His blue eyes—eyes so like mine—were shadowed. Hurt. “You can always tell me the truth,” he said softly.

  “No, I can’t. You don’t want to know. You want things the way they used to be. But I’m not that Cassidy anymore.” I stared at him, hoping I’d see a glimmer of acceptance or a little understanding. I saw neither.

  “I look at total strangers and wonder if that’s him. I feel half-empty because there’s a part of me that’s blank. You want to go on like everything’s the same, but it isn’t. I can’t sleep with you again. Not until I know for sure we’re not related.” He grimaced but I wouldn’t shut up. “You think it doesn’t happen, but it does. Not only that, if my real father has some kind of disease and I get pregnant, I could pass it on.”

  His face went rigid. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “It could.”

  Frustration sparked in his eyes. “I just don’t get this.”

  How could he be my guy if he didn’t? He couldn’t be. “I know.” My tears started to fall. “And I can’t be with you until I get things sorted out. Until I figure out who I am.” Blindly, I reached under the coffee table until I felt the familiar straps of my bag. I stood.

  He gazed up blankly, an incomprehensible look on his face. “You’re…breaking up with me?”

  I wiped my cheek. Nodded.

  “But…but what about the prom?”

  Was that all I was to him. A date? “You’ll figure it out.” My throat was so tight I felt like I was being strangled. I walked to the door. I had to get out of his house. Get in the car. Get away.

  He followed me, his voice fast and urgent. “But Cass…I—you can’t—”

  I opened the door and clutched at the railing so I wouldn’t stumble on the stairs. Jason called after me. “But what about Pete? You’re supposed to babysit Pete tomorrow. I have a practice, remember?”

  That’s when the gusher started. Now I was a babysitter? “Bring Pete over,” I said through my tears. “I’ll watch him.” Somehow I got down the stairs and into the car. Somehow I managed to drive. Somehow I kept breathing even though I wanted to die.

  FIFTEEN

  Woodpeckers peck about as much as 20 times a second. They have bubbles in their skulls that suck up all that pain from throwing theirselves at trees.

  Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

  I went home and lit candles.

  I filled the room with them—tall and thin, short and fat, floaters, hangers, anything I could find. Their yellow glow soothed me and softened the edges of the task at hand.

  I had two more albums left. Only this time I didn’t just take myself out of my life, I took the life out of myself.

  I cut myself out of each and every picture, like I had before. But then I meticulously removed my head. One sharp little snip and I was a series of faceless, headless forms. Headless bodies marched along my desk, on my bureau, high on my shelves. Heads—smiling, happy, thrilled-with-life heads—floated on my bed.

  Cassidy the Separate was now Cassidy the Separate, Anonymous, Obsessive, Melodramatic, Headless Wonder.

  Take that, Jason Perdue.

  I stared into space for a very long time, until most of the candles gutted themselves out. Until night was almost gutted out. Then I peeled off my clothes and slid slowly between the sheets, being ever so careful not to disturb the Headless Wonder that was me.

  “Dear Lord, Cassidy, what have you done?” Mom’s horrified words pulled me from my sleep-blurred state. I heard the vague rustle of blinds, then a bright shaft of morning light hit my face.

  A little-boy voice chirped, “Hey, Cassidy, are you still sleeping?”

  It was Pete. I shot up in bed; a confetti of heads rolled onto the rug. “Get him out of here,” I hissed to Mom. Murmuring something about French toast, she hustled Pete out the door. I peered at the clock. It was after ten. Normally I was an early riser. But normally I was in bed way before 4 a.m. And on normal nights, I didn’t break up with my boyfriend, either.

  I threw on last night’s clothes and quickly gathered up heads, bodies and bits of candle wax from various surfaces. Body parts went in the drawer; wax went in the garbage.

  Mom stared a lot but said nothing significant for the better part of the day. I had Pete to look after, and then Jason to avoid when he came to pick him up. Faking a bathroom emergency, I told Frank to say my goodbyes. And then there were more goodbyes after that. Big Mac and Little Mac had an afternoon flight back to Montana. I thought we’d all drive them to the airport, but when Frank said he was going to rest and Mom said she would take them, I opted to stay home. The last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a car with my mother. She would trap me soon enough.

  She did.

  “Go get them,” she said when she came home. Her lips thinned at my look of wide-eyed innocence. “You know what I mean. I’ll get your father. We need to talk.”

  I pulled out two of my best heads. Wide, happy grins, long, shining hair. For kicks I matched them with the wrong bodies. I put the sun-visor beach head with a snowsuit body, and the goofy, let’s-have-laughs face with a prim, white suit.

  I was a freak on the inside. May as well be one on the outside, too.

  Mom practically vibrated with displeasure as she pointed out the images on the coffee table to Frank. He studied them, looked up at me and said, “Quite the juxtaposition,” before sitting down in his recliner.

  “Is that all you can say?” Mom demanded. She ripped the pins out of her French twist and impatiently shook out her long, black hair. “Frank, her entire room was covered with images. She must have gone through five or six albums.”

  “Sixteen,” I said softly.

  “That’s every single album you have.” Mom looked horrified. “Frank?”

  “What am I supposed to say?” He spread his hands in front of him. I tried not to notice how much they shook. “Cassidy’s upset. She has every right to be. But put it in perspective, Grace. Would you rather she cut herself up?”

  Mom’s hand flew to her throat. She turned to me. “Dear God, Cassidy, are you suicidal?”

  I thought for a minute. I was already half-dead. More like three-quarters if
I let myself think about the breakup with Jason—which is why I had to make myself focus on the one quarter that still walked and talked and breathed. The one quarter that still searched for the key to the puzzle of me.

  “Cassidy, please!” Mom interrupted my train of thought. “Tell me. Are you feeling suicidal?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Frank studied me. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Mom twirled a chunk of hair; a tiny frown puckered the skin between her eyebrows. “I’ll call Ms. Martin,” she said absently, “get our next appointment moved up.” Then she focused on Frank. “There’s something Cassidy wants to tell you.”

  I plopped my feet on the coffee table. My snowsuit self went sliding; the sun-visor head smiled brightly up at me. Two other sets of eyes—the Fake and the Snake—studied me expectantly. “You can tell him,” I mumbled.

  Taking a breath, Mom said, “Cassidy wants to see what she can find out about her biological father. The counsellor thinks it might be a good idea.”

  I should have known better than to expect much of a reaction from Frank. Unwrapping a piece of gum, he listened calmly while Mom outlined our visit to Ms. Martin, her plan to call the clinic, my need to know. When she was finished, he said, “I think that’s a fine idea.” The sweet smell of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit wafted through the air.

  “You do?” Mom and I spoke simultaneously.

  “At the very least, Cassidy should have some medical history. It always struck me as ludicrous that there was nothing.”

  “You never told me that,” Mom interjected.

  “I never told you lots of things,” Frank retorted, “because it hurt too much to talk about them.”

  They stared at each other, shutting me out. The old familiar feeling of being wallpaper threatened to swamp me. But as I watched the emotions play out between them, as I watched shame and tension and despair flit over Frank’s face, the feeling dissipated. Clearly, there were deep cracks in the Frank and Grace show—cracks I’d never seen before. I knew then that they hadn’t shut me out because they didn’t love me. They’d shut me out because they did.