And She Was

by Jessica Verdi

  She didn’t do me the decency of considering I could have handled it then, so she sure as hell isn’t going to get my sympathy now.

  “Why isn’t our last name Hogan? Or Pembroke?” My voice is severe, and my face is growing hot. But I fill in the blank before she can. “Did you change it because you didn’t want to be found?”

  She nods, once. Her jaw is clenched.

  The lengths she went to, to keep me from my family.

  “Mom, why? I don’t understand! Why didn’t you tell me any of this? Is it because you thought I’d react the same way Celeste’s parents did?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Is it because you didn’t want me to know I had other family because you knew I’d want a relationship with them? And you didn’t want to have to deal with them because they were mean to you?”

  She hesitates. Gnaws on her cheek.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s how you justified it.”

  “It’s not that simple, Dara.”

  I get up and pace the room, tugging on the ends of my hair. As more questions leap into my mind, I spit them out: “Where did the name Baker come from?”

  She spins her ring around again, runs her gaze over the items spread out on the table. “I don’t know. I … liked the sound of it.”

  Wow. Great reason. “Why did you quit tennis?”

  She looks back at me with a tired I’m trying here, okay? expression. You’re not trying nearly hard enough, I want to say. “Because I was transitioning. I didn’t want to have to do it in public. There was a pro trans player before me, and—”

  “Stop,” I bite out, before I even really decide to. My mouth knew I’d reached my limit before my brain did. But I cannot listen to another word. “Just stop.”

  She does.

  My eyes are blurry with a fresh deluge of tears, but I’ve never seen so clearly.

  It was always about her choices, her happiness. Every single step of the way. I was just the idiot along for the ride.

  Well, guess what? Now I get to make a choice.

  I finally let myself do what I’ve wanted to since she first said the words biological father.

  I run.

  “Dara! Where are you going?” Mom is fast on my heels.

  “Leave me alone!” I run down the hall toward my room.

  I have to get out of here. Go … somewhere. Anywhere but here.

  I slam my bedroom door in her face, but she opens it immediately anyway. Tears slide down my cheeks, and I don’t turn to face her. Instead, I pull my suitcase from under my bed and start throwing things inside. Regular clothes, tennis clothes, shoes, hairbrush, phone charger. I push past Mom without looking at her, go to the bathroom, and grab my toothbrush.

  A vague plan starts to form.

  I’m going to find my grandparents. Get to know them, discover where I really came from. Maybe they’ll even be the source of support I’ve been wishing for. I’m done sitting around waiting for the approval of a person who has never truly cared about anyone except herself. Now it’s my turn to be selfish.

  “Dara!” Mom tries again as I stomp back to my suitcase.

  I toss the toothbrush in and zip it closed.

  With a final glance at my trophies, the twin bed I’ve slept in every night for the past fifteen years, and the photo taped to the wall above my desk of Mom and me at the high school family picnic, I move to leave the room. But this time, Mom blocks the doorway. “Where do you think you’re going?” She tries to be authoritative, but falls short.

  “I’m leaving,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head. “Sit down. We’re not done talking.”

  I meet her eyes, and speak slowly and deliberately. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. I’m eighteen. I have a license and a car and money of my own. I’ll call Bob and the juice stand and tell them I need some time off. There is nothing holding me here.” Bob. I hadn’t considered him until this second. I shouldn’t bail on him like this. But the need to get out of here quickly wins out over any guilt.

  I try to push past Mom, but she doesn’t budge. I’ve never felt the effect of the few inches she has on me before now.

  Everything is different.

  “I understand this is a lot for you to take in,” she says desperately. “But I can give you some books and websites to read about gender dysphoria. I … I know it’s confusing, but we can figure out our next steps together.”

  I snort. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  “I get that it’s going to take some time to get used to—”

  “I don’t need to read a freaking book. And if you think this is about you having gender dysphoria or whatever you call it, you’re even more self-centered than I thought you were.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand. Tears are marching into formation behind my eyes, and my throat has begun to constrict, but I try to be very clear with my next words.

  “You put yourself first without caring about how it would affect me. You erased my father and my real mother. You took my grandparents away because they hurt your feelings.” I take a quick, barely helpful breath and forge on. “I’ve sacrificed so much to make something of myself in tennis, and you could have been there for me in ways I never even dreamed of, yet you chose to make me feel alone in all of it—you made me feel bad about it. You chose that, Mom. And you lied to me every single day about it all.”

  From the expression on her face, you’d think she’d been slapped. “It’s not a lie to not come out as trans! Everyone has things in their life they’d prefer to keep private. But I’m a woman, and the fact that the world now sees me as one means they see the truth.”

  “You are not listening to me!” I shout. “It’s not just the trans stuff. It’s everything. Telling me that you got pregnant from a one-night stand was a lie. Not telling me about Celeste or her family was a lie. Hiding your tennis career was a lie.” I catch her eyes with mine and hold them there. “Admit it.”

  She’s the one to break the connection; she squeezes her eyes shut. “Yes, those were lies.” It doesn’t feel like victory. She takes a moment and opens her eyes again. Her gaze is raw, anguished. “But don’t you think it killed me to have to keep pretending, after a childhood and adolescence of doing exactly that?”

  “I don’t believe you. If you didn’t want to lie, guess what? You didn’t have to! You could have told me the truth at any time.”

  “No, I couldn’t!” Her energy is elevated now too, matching mine.

  “Why the hell not? I’m your daughter! We’re supposed to share things like this as a family. You had a million opportunities to tell me. The first time I asked to take tennis lessons, you could have told me you were a tennis player once too. You could have taken me out on the court yourself! When I was little and asked why we didn’t have any other family, you could have explained that your parents didn’t understand this part of you. Any of the times we were doing puzzles or eating dinner or folding laundry or sorting through the mail … you could have opened your mouth and said the words.” I hold up a finger. “Or, better yet, you didn’t have to tell me at all—it could have just been how things were. I could have been a part of it from the beginning. Those old family pictures should have been hanging on the wall since the day we moved into this house.”

  She rakes her hands through her hair, as if trying to hold on to whatever weak excuses have been keeping her going all these years. “You don’t understand. I—”

  “You what?”

  “I was scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of losing you!”

  She says it like I’m supposed to thank her or something. Be honored that she cared so much. “You really don’t know me at all, do you?” My heart breaks a little more as I say it. “The only thing that would have made me leave is this. The lies. Not the truth.”

  I push past her again, my suitcase lumbering behind me, and this time, she doesn’t block my way. I grab the photos and
papers from the living room and shove them in the front zip pocket of the suitcase. When I get to the front door, I hitch my tennis equipment bag over my shoulder. That should be everything. I stop, and turn, keeping my expression blank, ignoring the way the air cools the half-dry tear tracks on my cheeks and chin. “Tell me everything you know about Celeste’s parents.”

  “Why?” she says, slightly panicked.

  “I’m going to find them.”

  Her face crumples. “Dara, please, don’t do this. There are things about them you don’t know—”

  “Well,” I say, wanting my words to hurt, “I’m sure you’ll understand if I’d rather find out those things from them, considering I can’t possibly trust a single word you say anymore.”

  She looks half defeated, half terrified, like a stray puppy being taken into the shelter. “Their names are Ruth and William Pembroke.” Her voice trembles. Ruth. My middle name. Was I named after my grandmother? “The last time I looked them up, a few years ago, they were still living in the New Jersey suburbs in the house Celeste grew up in. Cherry Hill, the town is called.” New Jersey. All this time, we’ve been not even a half-day’s drive from one another. “He was a partner at a law firm, but he may be retired now, I’m not sure. She was the chair of a children’s hospital charity. They had another daughter—Catherine. I didn’t keep track of her.” She holds up her hands, as if to show she’s not hiding anything else. “That’s it. That’s all I know, I swear.”

  “Thank you,” I say and walk out the door.

  She doesn’t follow, but she does call one final plea after me, her voice raw: “Dara, please don’t tell anyone.”

  The words fall from her mouth and snake around my legs like chains, rooting me in place. I don’t turn or say anything. I just stand there on the front path, my back to the house, a final bomb going off in my heart. It’s still all about her.

  I force myself to move again, and throw the suitcase and tennis bag into the back seat of my car. I’m about to climb into the driver’s side, but Sam’s house catches the corner of my eye.

  I hesitate.

  Damn.

  A quick good-bye, and then I’m out.

  The blatant normalcy inside the Alapatis’ house feels like an assault. Sam’s dad and little sister are in the living room, playing cards and laughing. They wave at me. I run into Niya on the stairs—she’s coming up from the basement with a basket of laundry. Her long, shiny black hair hangs over one shoulder in a fat braid, and the delicate stud in her nose twinkles like a speck of fairy dust in the foyer light. “Twice in one day, huh?” she says to me. Without warning, my eyes fill again. Niya is a good mom. She hasn’t spent nearly two decades lying to Sam or Annita. Concern mars her features as she notices my tears. “Dara? What’s wrong?”

  I clear my throat and train my gaze on the floor. “Nothing,” I lie. “Sorry, just need to talk to Sam about something.”

  “He’s in his room.” We pass each other and then she says, “Ramesh made way too much food for dinner. I’ll pack up some leftovers for you to take home.”

  “Thanks.” No use telling her I’m not going home.

  I knock on Sam’s door and open it. He’s at his computer again. Or still.

  “Hey! I’ve been waiting for your call.” His eyebrows are raised expectantly.

  I straighten up, trying to look like I know exactly what I’m doing, even though it would be so easy to crumple to the floor. “I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving?” He stands up quickly. “Why? Where are you going?”

  “A place called Cherry Hill. It’s in New Jersey.” Our eyes find each other. His are filled with concern, curiosity, confusion. Mine are wet, and on the verge of spilling over again. I know I’m not giving him much, but I’m afraid I’ll start sobbing and won’t be able to get myself together enough to get in my car and drive away. I begin to turn.

  “Wait.” He grabs my arm as if to stop me, like I couldn’t just shrug him off if I wanted to. “What happened?”

  I take an unstable breath. “Mellie is not my mother,” I whisper. It’s a little strange, using her first name. But calling her “Mom” right now feels even less natural.

  Everything on his face turns down: his mouth, the corners of his eyes. “What do you mean? You were adopted?”

  “I can’t talk about this now, Sam. I’ll text you later, okay? I just came to say good-bye.”

  “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “I don’t know. At least a few days. Maybe longer.” Depends on how this goes.

  His next words reach inside me, like a salve to the place that hurts the most. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I blink. “Really?”

  “I mean, I have to check with my parents, but I don’t have anything going on for the next few days.”

  Maybe he’s only offering because of the tears in my eyes. Maybe he just really wants to know what happened with Mellie. Or maybe it’s because he’s Sam, and he would never let me down. I don’t care what the reason is. This trip, whatever it ends up being, will be so much easier if I have my best friend with me.

  “Yes! Oh my God. Please come. I’ll pay for gas and hotels and food.”

  “Okay, give me five minutes,” he says and begins to pack.

  I wait in the car as Sam explains to Niya and Ramesh what’s happening. I don’t know if they give him a hard time or not, and I don’t ask when he gets in the car. I imagine the conversation went something like:

  Sam: “Uhhh, Mom? Dad? Is it okay if I go on a trip with Dara?”

  Niya: “What, right now?”

  Sam: “Yeah.”

  Ramesh: “Where? What are you talking about? For how long?”

  Sam: “She said something about New Jersey? For a few days?”

  Ramesh: “New Jersey? Whatever for?”

  Sam: *growing impatient* “Dad, she’s leaving town with or without me, and I think it would be better if she had someone with her. We won’t stay away too long, I promise. And I’ll check in all the time.”

  Niya: “I don’t like this. Let me call Mellie—”

  Sam: “No, don’t. Dara’s leaving because of Mellie.”

  Niya: “What do you mean? What happened?”

  Sam: “I don’t know. But it must be bad.”

  Niya: *hesitates*

  Ramesh: *looking at Niya* “It’s not as though we can stop him. He’s going to be off to college in a couple months.”

  Sam: “We’ll be careful. Love you.”

  Niya: “We love you too.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make the imagination bubble above my head, and the perfect, happy family inside it, pop.

  It doesn’t work.

  Sam and I don’t talk as I drive to the bank and take money out of the drive-through ATM. I don’t have a lot of savings, and what I do have I had been planning to use for the circuit, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Everything in Francis shuts down by nine p.m., so the streets are dark and empty. The question lingering in the car is so conspicuous that Mellie herself may as well be perched on the console between Sam and me, crowding the front seat, causing a giant blind spot, and making it difficult to pay attention to anything else.

  But Sam doesn’t ask just yet, and I don’t offer the information. I just want to put Francis firmly behind me. Once we’re finally on our way somewhere and not simply leaving somewhere, then I’ll talk.

  The one stoplight in downtown Francis is red. I bring the car to a halt and wait, even though the streets are abandoned and there’s no one coming in any direction. It occurs to me that this is yet another example of how I’ve been conditioned to just go with the flow, not asking questions, not being allowed to make decisions for myself. I could put my foot on the gas right now, drive safely under the red light and into the intersection, and carry on with my journey, and no one would be worse off because of it.

  You know what?

  Screw it.

  I ease the car f
orward.

  A little shot of adrenaline and self-satisfaction surges through me, and I smile.

  “Dara!” Sam says, breaking the silence and grabbing on to the inside of his door as if he needs to brace himself against the impact of me going a whopping twenty miles an hour on a deserted street. “The light didn’t turn!”

  “There was no one coming,” I say calmly.

  “That’s not the point! Someone could have come out of nowhere! Or you could have gotten a ticket!”

  “Oh yeah, because the Francis police are out in full force tonight, huh?”

  Sam sighs as I pull onto the highway extension. “Okay, what is going on?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “First we need to figure out where we’re headed.” The road we’re on now is the only highway around here, so we’ve got to be on the right track. But directions would help.

  “I thought you said New Jersey.”

  “Yeah. Cherry Hill. Can you look up the address for William and Ruth Pembroke?” I nod toward the phone in his hand.

  Out of my peripheral vision, I see Sam’s head whip toward me. “Pembroke? Like Celeste Pembroke? From the box?”

  “Yes.” He seems to sense I’m not ready to elaborate, but I can feel the curiosity radiating off him.

  He taps the screen a few times. While I wait, I switch to the middle lane and check to make sure I’m not doing too much over the speed limit.

  “Okay, I got the address. Plugging it into the map.” He holds the screen up in my line of sight. “Five hours, seventeen minutes. In about forty miles, we’re going to merge onto I-81S. I’ll let you know when the exit’s coming up.”

  “Perfect.”

  “It’s already late, though, Dara,” he says uncertainly. I glance at the clock, surprised to find it’s after eleven. “Do you really want to drive through the night?”

  I’m wide awake, and itching to put as much distance as I can between Mellie and me. The drive won’t be a problem. But he does raise a good point—I probably shouldn’t go ringing my long-lost grandparents’ doorbell at four a.m. I really want this to go well, and that wouldn’t be the best start.