Jasmine stared at Rachel, studying her. Their eyes met and Rachel’s heart warmed. Gone was her anger over Rachel’s snooping; gone was the usual attitude, Jasmine simply looked concerned—like a concerned big sister.
That thought snapped Rachel back to reality.
“Sorry about that in there,” she said, pointing down the hallway to the bathroom. “I just . . . I was . . . um . . .” She took a deep breath. This was no time for games, shenanigans, or smart remarks—she had to shoot straight. Rachel had tried her best to mature over the years and while Jasmine had a way of bringing out the worst in her, now was not the time. “Look, Jasmine, I need to talk to you. Woman to woman.”
“No,” Jasmine said, slowly, as if she was still concerned about Rachel, “you need to talk to a doctor because you’re acting real strange—snooping around my house, throwing up, and talking crazy.”
“I’m not talking crazy.”
“Umm, yeah, you are.” Jasmine folded her arms across her chest. “Talking about I could be your sister. What does that even mean? I’m barely your friend.”
Rachel managed a half smile. It wasn’t often that Jasmine acknowledged they were friends. As much as they fought, Rachel had her moments when she really enjoyed being around Jasmine. The bickering was just who they were. They taunted each other, called each other names, argued incessantly, but when either of their backs were against the wall, they stepped up for each other. When Rachel had gotten caught up in a murder investigation in Chicago, Jasmine had been right there by her side the whole time. When Mary had tried to regain custody of Lewis, her biological child who Rachel had adopted, Jasmine had stepped in to help Rachel keep it together. And while they could get ugly with each other, they wouldn’t stand for someone else doing it. It was like they were . . . sisters.
“Rachel, why are you just staring at me?” Jasmine snapped, the edge back in her voice. “You are creeping me out. Now, you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
“Can I have that water?”
“We don’t have any more,” Jasmine said, glaring at her.
“Please?” Rachel said. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”
Jasmine blew a frustrated breath then said, “Fine,” before spinning and stomping out of the room.
Rachel sat, gathering her thoughts, trying to come up with the perfect words. A part of her wanted to get up and run, pretend she’d never been here, or come up with some excuse; but now her curiosity was piqued just like her father’s had been. On the plane ride here, Lester had been supportive of her mission, encouraging her and telling her she was doing the right thing by going to get answers. In fact, he’d wanted to come with her, but Rachel wanted to do this alone. So, she’d left Lester in the hotel room.
Now she needed to do what she’d come to do.
“Here,” Jasmine said, walking back in and handing Rachel a green bottle.
“Umm, Perrier?” Rachel said, taking the bottle and examining it. “Seriously? You don’t have any Aquafina or something?”
“I just grabbed a bottle of water.”
“But this stuff is nasty.”
“Rachel,” Jasmine said, her voice stern like she was somebody’s mama.
“Okay, okay,” Rachel said, unscrewing the top. “I’ll drink your bougie water.” She took a long gulp and grimaced at the fizzy taste. “Ugh, this stuff is disgusting.”
“Rachel, if you don’t—”
“Fine.” Rachel set the bottle down, then motioned to the wingback chair across from her. “Have a seat, please.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
Rachel fought back her snappy retort and simply said, “Okay, but I think you’ll want to sit for this.” Another deep breath, then she blurted out the words. “I think you may be my sister. My half sister.”
Jasmine narrowed her eyes in Rachel’s direction, then managed a terse laugh. “Really, Rachel? That’s not even funny.”
Rachel looked at Jasmine, her eyes relaying just how serious she was. “And I’m not laughing. Your mother is Doris Young from Alabama, correct?”
The smile disappeared from Jasmine’s face and she slid down into the seat she’d previously declined.
Rachel continued. “I know this sounds crazy—shoot, I swore my dad was crazy when he told me. But my dad, well, he thinks . . . he thinks your Doris was his Doris. His girlfriend, his first love.”
“Well, your dad is mistaken,” Jasmine said matter-of-factly.
“That’s the same thing I said,” Rachel replied. “But he’s adamant.”
“No disrespect, but maybe your father is getting dementia or something.”
Any other time, that comment would’ve pissed Rachel off, but since it had been Rachel’s initial thought as well, she gave Jasmine a pass.
“I mean, I’ve met your dad,” Jasmine continued. “Remember, in Los Angeles at the American Baptist Convention? Surely he would’ve said something then.”
“But you only met him briefly,” Rachel said. It was Lester who had initially pointed that out, at the same time reminding Rachel that her father had been exhausted from traveling, so he wasn’t fully focused in Los Angeles. He’d even left the election results meeting early because he wasn’t feeling well, so his contact with Jasmine had been minimal. “It wasn’t until my dad started watching our reality show that he got a really good look at you. He watched it over and over and I never understood why. Until he finally told me. He said you looked so much like his first love. Doris.”
Silence briefly filled the room, then Jasmine said, “So, I look like someone your father used to know.”
Rachel reached into her purse and pulled out the tattered photo she’d swiped from her father’s house. She held it out in Jasmine’s direction.
Jasmine froze at the sight of the photo. “W-why do you have a picture of my mother?” She snatched the picture and studied it. “Where did you steal this from?”
“Turn it over,” Rachel said. “I can tell you what it says because I’ve read it a thousand times.” Jasmine turned the picture over as Rachel recited the words she’d committed to memory. “To Simon, forever my love. Doris.”
More silence. Rachel gave Jasmine a moment to stew in her disbelief before she said, “We can solve this—either confirm it or shut it down.”
“How?”
“By going on Maury,” Rachel replied and Jasmine’s head shot up.
“I’m kidding, trying to lighten the mood.” She scooted toward the edge of the sofa. “Jasmine, this is a shocker for both of us. And my dad wants nothing more than to know the truth. He says not only do you look like your mother, but you also bear a striking resemblance to his grandmother. He did the math and he’s convinced you’re his.”
“I’m my father’s child.” Jasmine’s tone was firm, like this wasn’t even open for discussion. “Even if your father knew my mother, I come from Charles Cox.”
“I hope that is the case, and I hope my father is wrong,” Rachel replied. “But there is only one way to know for sure. I brought some of my father’s hair.” She pulled a small baggie out of her purse. Inside the bag was a hairbrush. “I already called a testing facility in Manhattan and they can do it. I just need your DNA and we can settle this once and for all.” When Jasmine didn’t reply, Rachel added, “I mean, I want to know. I can deal with being your friend, but can you imagine if we were really sisters?” She laughed. Jasmine didn’t. And the look on her face told Rachel that Jasmine was still in shock. It wasn’t until that moment that Rachel realized this was bigger than just knowing whether the two of them were related. For Jasmine, finding out Simon Jackson was her father would mean that her life as she knew it had been built on a lie.
Now, Rachel knew, they didn’t have a choice. They had to find out the truth.
Chapter
7
Jasmine
No!
That was the only word that filled Jasmine’s mind.
No!
It reverberated straight through
to her soul.
No!
That’s what she’d told Rachel when she’d kept talking about some stupid paternity test to prove some ridiculous theory about the two of them being sisters.
No was what she’d kept saying to Rachel, right before she told her to get out of her apartment and never come back.
And then no was what she’d just told Hosea after he’d come home and she’d blurted out Rachel’s absurd story.
“Sisters!” Hosea said. He laughed . . . at first. But then he watched her pacing back and forth in front of him, her heavy steps leaving imprints in the plush carpet.
It was her glare that made his smile fade fast. “Sisters?” he repeated.
“No!” And then she repeated the word again when Hosea just sat on the sofa, pensive, his hands folded beneath his chin as if he were giving credence to such a thing.
“No! She’s not my sister! Stop thinking that!”
“It sounds insane,” Hosea said. “But why would Rachel come here and say that?”
“Because she’s batshit crazy. And she takes jokes too far.”
Hosea shook his head and then he was the one who said no. “She wouldn’t come all the way to New York to tell a joke. There’s got to be more to this.”
Jasmine whipped her head from side to side. And with every part of her body, she was still saying no when Hosea stood from the sofa and wrapped his arms around her.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said as if she needed comfort.
But she didn’t need him to tell her it was going to be all right, because there was nothing wrong. The only wrong thing in her life was Rachel—and the fact that she’d let that woman inside her apartment. She should’ve just left her standing in the hall when Mae Frances slammed the door in her face.
“So what are you going to do about this?” Hosea asked.
“About what?”
“About what Rachel said.”
“What do you want me to do? Have her committed to some mental hospital?” She plopped down onto the couch. “Her sanity is her husband’s problem, not mine.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. I’m just asking, are you going to check out what she said? Are you going to talk to Rachel some more? Maybe talk to her father?”
Jasmine stared at her husband as if he’d just sprouted two heads. Then she moved to the edge of the sofa, and with hard eyes she glared at Hosea. “Listen to what you’re saying.” She paused. “Are you really saying that my father is not my father?” And with just her stance, she gave him a warning.
“Of course I’m not saying that . . .”
“Well then, there’s no need for me to talk to Rachel, or her father. There’s no need for me to talk to anyone.”
Doubt was etched all over Hosea’s face. “I don’t think Rachel would lie about this.”
“She was born a liar. She’d lie about the day of the week if there was something in it for her.”
“Maybe she has some of the facts wrong, maybe something is confused, but lying about being your sister? Why would she do that?”
“It’s either a lie or she’s trying to punk me. Either way, I’m not playing along.”
“But suppose . . .”
Jasmine jumped up and blew out an exasperated breath. “Don’t you get it? She made this up to get to me.” She held up her hand, stopping him from interrupting her. “Think about all the things she’s done to me in the past.” Jasmine counted on her fingers. “She hired that stripper to embarrass us at the American Baptist Coalition Conference when you were running for president, then she kidnapped Jacquie . . .”
“She didn’t . . .”
Jasmine spoke over his words. “She showed up to Oprah’s show and locked me in that room.” She shook her head. “This is just another middle school trick from a woman who never progressed mentally out of the sixth grade. And I’m not going to play into it. I’m going to ignore her and if she ever has the audacity to come around me again, I’m going to give her such a beating that . . .”
“Jasmine!”
“What?”
“If you don’t believe Rachel, fine. Ignore her. But all this other talk . . .”
She waved her hand. “Okay, maybe I won’t beat her down.”
Hosea gave her a half smile. “That’s my darlin’.”
“But I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“All right.”
“And I don’t want you to ever mention it again,” she said, pointing her finger at him.
“Okay.”
“I just want to pretend that Rachel Jackson Adams never came here today. In fact, I want to pretend that we never met; really, let’s act like she was never born. She no longer exists to me. In fact . . .” Jasmine grabbed her cell, scrolled down to where she had Rachel’s name, then pressed DELETE. “Now she’s gone forever,” she said, holding up the phone for Hosea to see.
Hosea pressed his lips together and Jasmine could tell her husband had something he wanted to say. She didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want him to say another word about how there was more to this. But curiosity made her ask, “What?”
“I’m just thinking, if you think this isn’t true, why are you protesting so much?”
Her glare made him hold up his hands. “Okay, I got it. No more talk about Rachel . . . or this. So . . . let’s go pick up the kids,” he said, making a quick change of subject. “Remember, we’re taking them to Shake Shack tonight.”
“I forgot, but that’s good. That’ll be fun,” Jasmine said, though there was not a bit of cheer in her voice.
She’d banned Rachel from existence, but as the hours passed, she couldn’t get thoughts of her or her words out of her mind. Not even her children with their chatter and their laughter could take Jasmine’s thoughts away from Rachel.
She kept going back to the scene in her apartment, to the picture, to the words Rachel had spoken. And it was as if she were trying to interpret another language.
Through the hamburgers and shakes they had for dinner, through returning home, through getting her children ready for bed, Rachel and her cockamamie story remained with her.
Even when Jasmine kissed Hosea good night and closed her eyes as he held her, Rachel wouldn’t go away. She was waiting for Jasmine, right there in her dreams.
I think you may be my sister. My half sister.
Over and over, Rachel taunted her.
I think you may be my sister. My half sister.
She kept saying it, at first serious. Then her tone filled with laughter.
I think . . . ha ha ha . . . you may be . . . ha ha ha . . . my sister!
“No!” Jasmine sprang up in bed, her arms flailing as she reached for Rachel’s throat. She pressed her thumbs as hard as she could against her skin. If she could just kill her, that would shut her up!
“Jasmine!” Hosea shouted, grabbing her hands.
Jasmine blinked, then blinked again. In the darkness her eyes adjusted. And she saw her hands, around her husband’s neck.
“Oh my God!” Jasmine exclaimed, pulling back. “Babe, I’m sorry.”
Hosea clicked on the light, then massaged his neck.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He coughed. “I might never be the same.”
“I’m so sorry!” she cried.
“Darlin’, I was just playing with you. I’m okay, don’t worry about it.” It was the distress on her face that made Hosea pull her into his arms. “It was only a dream,” he said. Then he held her as they lay down together. And in her ear he whispered, “It was only a dream,” over and over again.
But even as she settled down, and even as she heard the soft snore of her husband returning to sleep, Jasmine wouldn’t close her eyes. Because what Hosea said wasn’t true. That hadn’t been a dream. It was a nightmare. The worst nightmare she’d ever had. And if she closed her eyes, she might have that nightmare again.
No, she couldn’t let that happen. Even if she had to s
tay awake for the rest of her life, she was never going to let Rachel Jackson Adams invade her sleep again.
Chapter
8
Rachel
Some things are best left buried.
Rachel remembered her mother used to always say that, but she’d never really given it much credence. Until now.
Regardless of whether Jasmine was her half sister or not, Rachel was now just fine with that information staying buried. After Jasmine threw her out like she was common trash, Rachel was livid. Jasmine had the nerve to call her a liar and literally push her out the door. As if Rachel would lie about something like that. As if she really wanted to be related to Jasmine.
Nope. As far as Rachel was concerned, that move was the final straw and her frenemy had officially reverted to being her outright enemy.
The question now was: what in the world would she tell her father?
“Sister Adams, you hear me?”
The sound of the elderly woman raising her voice snapped Rachel out of her thoughts. Rachel had zoned out ten minutes ago when the woman first began rambling on and on. They were in the dining hall of the church for a private reception following Lester’s sermon.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Rachel replied. She really hadn’t meant to be rude, but the woman’s incessant babbling was nerve-racking.
“I was just saying that Pastor Adams really showed out today.” The woman glanced over at Lester, who was talking with some of the church elders. She had a totally inappropriate look on her face—like if she was thirty years younger, Rachel would definitely have to check her. But this woman and her sagging, wrinkled skin and snow-white hair was no threat. Besides, Rachel had bigger issues taking up space in her head.
“I mean, we got to get him back here soon because he is definitely God’s messenger,” the woman continued.
Rachel nodded, although she couldn’t tell you two words Lester had said during his sermon. She could tell he’d done a good job, though, based on all the hooting and hollering going on in the sanctuary. Lester had come a long way from the red-mop-headed little boy who had a crush on her. Being a pastor had given him confidence. Being the president of the American Baptist Coalition had given him juice. And although sometimes she longed for the old Lester, the one who did anything she said, there was something about the confident Lester that she found attractive. He could check her with ease, yet give her just enough space to do her thing. Some people felt he was still a pushover, but she liked that he had found a balance.
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