B00B9FX0MA EBOK

by Anna Davies

  “Well, you shouldn’t have scared me,” I said.

  “Right. So … do you want to go talk? Or get breakfast?” Adam asked.

  I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t. I just need to … do stuff by myself.” The envelope crackled in my hand.

  It’s just a prank. Just a dumb Keely prank, I reminded myself. Maybe she’d put Matt up to it. I wouldn’t put it past her. It would be embarrassing and humiliating but I’d survive, just like I’d survived before. I’d be fine. And this time, I wouldn’t ask Adam for help. I wouldn’t ask anyone. Help equaled weakness. Help was drama-fueled and overrated.

  “I need to be alone,” I said to Adam.

  Hurt flickered in his eyes, then he nodded. He jammed his hands into his pockets.

  “Seriously, I’m fine. Thanks for coming, but everything’s cool.” I said it loudly, in case Matt or Keely or anyone was hiding in the woods, watching and ready to laugh. Well, they could watch all they wanted. They wouldn’t see me break down.

  “Okay,” Adam said after a pause. He turned and headed down the steps. And finally, when I was alone, I headed back inside, opened the envelope, and saw my mother’s handwriting looping and slanting in front of me.

  What was this?

  I’d expected some lame journal entry Keely had salvaged from her bedroom from back when we used to do sleepovers. Another old HIKE list. Maybe even an old draft of my Ainsworth essay she’d fished out from Klish’s office. But how would she have access to my mother’s stuff?

  Smoothing the paper on my knee, I began to read.

  It was a letter, written in my mother’s bubbly, slanted script.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  I don’t expect you to understand about the babies, or about the adoption arrangements. And I’m not asking you to. I’m also not asking for forgiveness, as I’ve done nothing wrong, or for understanding, as I doubt it’s something you’re capable of. What I ask is that you realize that I’m done with both of you. I’m giving my children up for adoption, and I hope they know that it’s not because I don’t love them. Because I do. It’s because I am scared of what it would be like for James and me to be parents. I don’t want us to be like you. I don’t want my children growing up in a large, silent house afraid to touch or say the wrong thing. I don’t want them always being afraid. I want them to learn that life is messy and big and raw and real. And I know this will give them what they need. I always thought

  The letter trailed off. It was obviously just one page of many, but it didn’t matter. The proof was in the page.

  Children.

  I thought of the picture on the refrigerator. The girl smiling, eyes wide. Me, except not. Was that … her? Was she my sister?

  The bell above the door at The Sound and the Story rang, and the fifteen or so members of the Sunday afternoon book club looked up at me. I waved, trying to seem casual.

  “Your mom isn’t on the schedule today, love,” Joanna Fenton, the store owner, said. She was English and a retired philosophy professor and normally I loved talking with her.

  “I know. I had to grab something from downstairs,” I said shortly.

  “All right, love,” she said. Thankfully, she turned back to the group.

  “I think Jane Eyre only thinks she hears things. She’s being haunted by her own psyche. The voice in the attic is a metaphor for the voice in her own head,” I heard one woman say knowingly as the rest of the group murmured in agreement.

  If only she knew.

  Downstairs was the so-called rare book section, although it was usually more of a repository for the water-stained, ink-marked, paged-through volumes that were periodically discarded by the U. With each step, the air smelled mustier, although there was the scent of lingering lavender — the scent of my mother — as well.

  Downstairs was her domain, where she cataloged the books, shipped orders, and spent hours reading and daydreaming. Walking into her office felt like stepping into her private sanctuary, even if it was open and owned by Ms. Fenton.

  I gently stepped over the black-and-white cat named Cow and picked up the book on top of a messy stack. Growing Up and Moving On: A Guide for Almost Empty Nesters. Underneath it: Debt U: How to Save for College Without Losing Your Savings. My heart twisted when I read the title. My mother used to read dense philosophy books and oversized anthologies. Now, all she seemed to read were self-help books geared toward dealing with me.

  And then, I found a book at the bottom of the stack, the one that had caught my eye the last time I came down. My mother had tried to push it away without me noticing, although at the time, I hadn’t thought much about it. Chaucer and Philosophy, by James Thomson-Thurm.

  James. Like my father. I picked up the book, fingers trembling, and turned it over. On the back was an author picture of a handsome man with a trim beard. He was sitting in what seemed to be an office, his gaze off in the distance.

  He was my father. He had to be. There was something about his half smile, the way he pushed his lower jaw out slightly, that reminded me of me. My mother always said that I smiled like a Lhasa apso puppy. And in this picture, I could see it.

  I had my father’s smile.

  I shoved the book in my bag and began looking more fervently, sure there were more clues. I yanked open the bottom drawer of my mom’s desk. It was scattered with old bills and programs from previous bookstore events. I shuffled through them until I found a single lockbox.

  I picked it up. Shook it. I heard a soft thud.

  The box had been locked at one point, but years had caused the metal to rust, and the lock practically crumbled in my hands.

  Inside was just one picture: a sonogram photo. I squinted, held it to the light. It looked like a photograph of the universe. But then, I saw the writing. Baby Girl A with a hand-drawn white arrow.

  And then, Baby Girl B.

  Baby Girl B was underneath Baby Girl A, stacked as though they were sleeping on bunk beds.

  Upstairs, applause broke out, abrupt as last night’s surprise storm.

  I slid the photo into my pocket and raced up the stairs two at a time.

  “Hayley, darling, did you find what you were looking for?” Ms. Fenton called. “And would you like to join the discussion? A young person like you would provide a great counterpoint.”

  “Nope!” I said too loudly. My voice was strained and sweat was collecting at the back of my T-shirt. “I’m fine.”

  “Would you like to stay for coffee?” she pressed.

  “I really can’t,” I said. I headed off in the rain toward the car.

  I had a sister.

  I had a sister.

  I couldn’t. I didn’t. I was Hayley Kathryn Westin, an only child and part of a team with my mother. She’d told me everything: Five years ago, she’d found out her father had died, from one of the periodic Google searches. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, flicking between her horoscope and the search engine, when her face had crumpled and she’d begun crying slow, long moans that filled the house and caused Sadie to growl. I’d held her tightly, patting her back and telling her it would be okay, even though I’d only been twelve and couldn’t understand why the news affected her so profoundly. Shouldn’t she have been happy he was dead? He was the one who’d shunned her.

  Another snapshot: six months ago, my bedroom, when she’d woken me up to whisper urgently that Geofferson had said I love you. That she hadn’t heard the words since … since who? Had she said the name? Had it been James? I had too many details swirling through my mind, making it impossible to pick which ones were essential. Why had my sister been kept a secret? It wasn’t fair. For years, I’d felt all alone. I wondered if she’d felt the same way. And then, another thought: What if my sister had been at the Ainsworth because she’d been a semifinalist? Or because she was friends with one of the other candidates? Leah had said that she and “I” had spoken before….

  My phone beeped.

&nb
sp; Hayley, honey — Geoff and I decided to head to Boston for the day. Back tomorrow. Love you. oxo

  OXO. It was the way we’d always signed off on texts, ever since the sixth grade when I’d realized the combination of letters looked similar to the symbol for infinity.

  Ordinarily, I’d type it back.

  Now, I didn’t.

  I pulled up the Ainsworth e-mail detailing the memorial viewing for Leah. Kennilworth was about an hour away. I didn’t have to go. After all, I hadn’t known her at all. But maybe my sister had. It was a long shot, but it was something I hadn’t had before.

  My heart surged as I started the car. The rain started again, a heavy downpour that required me to turn my windshield wipers up high. My hands were clammy on the steering wheel. This was crazy. I knew that. But so was everything.

  The funeral home was on the outskirts of what looked like an industrial mill town. The rain hadn’t let up and was streaming on the windshield as I slowed the car to a ten-mile-an-hour crawl.

  I parked down the block and walked into the funeral home, aware that my jeans and T-shirt weren’t exactly appropriate.

  The inside of the building smelled like dead roses and too much air freshener and I felt claustrophobic as soon as I entered. Mourners, clad in black, were clustered in tight circles. A group of teenagers, about my age, were standing near the entrance. Their hands were in their pockets, and they were shuffling from one foot to the other. No one was talking.

  In the center of the room was a casket. It was polished oak, and looked almost like a grand piano, the way the lid was standing open on one end. I hesitantly walked toward it, taking halting steps as I moved between different guests. I wondered where Leah’s parents were. Whether she’d had a boyfriend. Whether anyone would look at me and know that I shouldn’t be here, not really.

  Ten steps. Nine steps. And all of a sudden, I felt someone tug on the crook of my arm.

  I whirled around. It was an elderly woman, gazing up at me. She was almost a foot shorter than me, and probably weighed fewer than ninety pounds, but her fingers dug into my skin.

  “You,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I — I don’t know,” I stammered. “Leah and I were up for the same scholarship. I met her once. I just wanted to pay my respects.”

  “You’ve done enough,” she said.

  “I … don’t understand,” I squeaked.

  “You were the last one with her.”

  “I … don’t understand,” I said again.

  “You were in the hospital. I saw you.”

  People turned to stare, and I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Just then, a blond woman with dark shadows under her eyes walked over to us and clamped her hand on the woman’s bony shoulder. “That’s enough, Mother. You’re upset. You should lie down.”

  I’m sorry, she mouthed toward me.

  “I saw you. At the hospital. You were there. You heard her scream,” the woman said.

  I turned and walked out, my face burning and my ears ringing.

  She — my sister, my twin — had been there. And maybe she’d killed Leah. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe Leah’s grandmother was just confused, her brain overpowered by grief.

  I drove aimlessly. I kept thinking of a book my mother had read to me over and over again when I was little. It was called Are You My Mother?, about a baby bird who hatches while his mother is away from the nest. He hops all over, assuming each person is his mother.

  I knew how that bird felt. Except right now, I didn’t have a mother I could depend on. Why had she kept my sister a secret? And now, when I needed her more than ever, she was with Geofferson. It wasn’t something I could ask on the phone. I needed her. Here. Now.

  But I didn’t have her. I didn’t have anyone.

  I had myself.

  And somewhere, maybe, a girl who shared my DNA.

  I woke up with a start. Sun streamed through the windows, creating a light-dappling pattern on the linoleum floor. My neck had cramped, and my shoulders felt uneven. I blinked up at the fluorescent lights, trying to figure out where I was. I was in Mrs. Ross’s classroom, curled up on the small orange love seat in the back of the room. The clock above the door read seven a.m.

  I’d slept at school.

  It was a new low for me. I’d come here after the funeral home, not wanting to go home and desperate to do research on James Thomson-Thurm. Having spent the past three years in and out of school at all hours, I knew that the door behind the auditorium always remained unlocked, so it was easy to sneak in. The Yearbook room felt safe, and unlike my computer at home, I was confident I wasn’t being watched. But I couldn’t find much. All I knew was that he was a scholar of medieval history, an adjunct professor, and had written countless articles on Chaucer. I’d found a faculty home page with a brief bio. He had two children. He lived in Brookline, Massachusetts. I’d found an address. But beyond that, nothing. He didn’t have a listed phone number. And I wasn’t sure whether I should contact him.

  I didn’t want to. There had to have been a reason why Mom was so adamant about never communicating with him. Plus, what would I say? He knew he had a daughter. The fact that he’d never looked me up made it clear he wasn’t interested. And if Mom wouldn’t talk about the fact that she’d had twins, how could I trust some guy I’d never met to tell me my history? It was better to just figure it out on my own.

  Feeling exhausted, I managed to shuffle toward the gym locker room. I splashed cold water on my face. I didn’t recognize the girl blinking back at me in the mirror.

  I felt outside of myself as the hallway filled with students. I scuffed down the hall, feeling shorter than I ever had before. I was wearing jeans and a hoodie and my hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. I looked like a girl on the run, which was exactly how I felt.

  I shuffled to homeroom, staring at my feet.

  The intercom crackled.

  I glanced up at the speaker, my stomach churning.

  “Will Miss Westin please report to the guidance office?”

  “Ooooh!”

  “You’re in trouble!”

  I wasn’t even sure who was saying what. It didn’t matter. It was the same stuff everyone said when someone was called to the office. In a way, I was glad to be called out. It was obvious I’d snapped. This was the moment I’d been worried about: when it would become clear that I was mentally falling apart. Except now, I knew I wasn’t. I had the sonogram photo. I had proof.

  The white-noise machine whirred inside the guidance suite, and a plate of peanut-butter-chocolate-chip cookies was sitting on the counter. The room seemed so cheerful and innocent that I wanted to cry.

  “Oh, sugar, how are you?” Miss Marsted asked, looking up at me.

  “Fine.” Not fine. My stomach involuntarily rumbled, and I had to steady myself on the counter. “Why am I here?” I asked, trying to sound as polite as possible.

  “Well, we all just wanted to check on you. We heard that you might be a bit stressed out about the Ainsworth. And we want to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Everything’s fine,” I repeated. “Who said I was stressed about the Ainsworth?”

  “Well, one of your friends popped by. Said you wouldn’t do it on your own, but that he was worried.”

  “I don’t have friends,” I said tightly.

  “Well, that’s something you can discuss with Miss Keeshan. She’d love to see you and make sure everything’s all right. These types of competitions can do all sorts of funny things to people. I don’t know how you do it,” Miss Marsted said, swooping out from her spot behind the desk and practically pushing me into Miss Keeshan’s office.

  “Why not Mr. Klish?” I asked.

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry. Just have a good conversation, you hear?” Miss Marsted said, closing the door with an ominous thud.

  Miss Keeshan was twenty-six, and had just gotten her social work degree the year before and was psyched to work wi
th teenagers, which we all knew for a fact because she used the word psyched in casual conversation. She also wore clip-in feather extensions in her hair, sported skinny jeans and fluorescent tank tops under her blazers, and tweeted Nicki Minaj lyrics. She had no idea what I was going through. I doubted she could pronounce Ainsworth, let alone spell it. But I was desperate.

  “Hayley, welcome!” Miss Keeshan said, spreading her hands wide, as if her office were a grand palace and not slightly bigger than a vending machine. The room was made even more claustrophobic by the oversized hot-pink beanbags strewn on the goldfish-orange shag carpeting. A poster with a sloth hanging on a tree dominated the wall behind her desk. HANG IN THERE! the poster commanded in oversized letters.

  “All right, let’s talk,” Miss Keeshan said. But instead of sitting behind her desk, she collapsed into one of the beanbags, patting the one next to her to motion me to sit.

  “You want me to sit down on the floor?” I asked, arching an eyebrow in disbelief.

  She nodded. “I feel like it’s more conducive to a conversation than sitting with a desk between us, don’t you think?” she asked in a way that made it clear it wasn’t up for debate.

  “All right.” I gingerly perched on the beanbag.

  “So, I know that the Ainsworth interviews have been a roller coaster, and we all heard the sad story about Leah.” Miss Keeshan frowned as if she knew her. As if I’d known her. “And I just thought it might be nice to talk. Get things off your chest. What do you think?”

  I shrugged. I was so sick of being asked what I thought. The truth was, for the first time in my life, I didn’t know. I felt so tired, an aching feeling creeping through my veins. I’d kept everything bottled up for so long, and now, everything seemed so mixed up in my brain. It was as if the Facebook page for the fake Hayley was a purple sock in a load of light-colored laundry. All of a sudden, everything was stained — including my ability to come up with remotely appropriate metaphors.