“Have you ever known anyone who changed their name?” Kristen asked me one Saturday afternoon when we were about thirteen. We were at the diner getting smoothies.
“Like a nickname?”
“No, like changed their name completely.”
“Like when a woman gets married and changes her last name to her husband’s?”
Kristen shook her head. “Michelle decided she’s changing her first name.” Michelle was Kristen’s older sister. She was away at college studying to be an engineer, so I’d never met her, but Kristen talked about her all the time. I think she wished they were closer, but that would have been hard, considering there were several years and hundreds of miles between them.
“She’s changing it to what?” I asked. I’d never heard of such a thing, but I was intrigued.
“Corinne.” Kristen screwed up her face a little when she said the name, like it tasted bad. “She said she’s always hated the name Michelle and thinks Corinne fits her much better.”
I didn’t understand. Corinne was a pretty name, but it didn’t sound anything even close to Michelle. “So you’re supposed to call her Corinne now?” I asked.
“Apparently.”
“Like … all the time?”
Kristen fiddled with her straw wrapper. “Yup. Like forever. She’s having it changed legally. She said it’s been a lot of paperwork, but worth it. And most of her friends and teachers at school already know her by the name Corinne so it’s just us who will have to get used to the switch.”
I took a sip of my smoothie, trying to make sense of my thoughts, which were suddenly shooting around like a pinball. I’d never heard of anyone changing their identity like that before. Michelle would be Corinne from now on, and that would be that.
“Do you think it will be hard to get used to?” I asked.
“Um, yes! She’s been Michelle my whole life. It’s not just a name; it’s who she is. I don’t know how to just switch who she is in my brain.”
“But you’re going to try?”
Kristen shrugged. “I have to, right?”
“I guess. Maybe you’ll get used to it sooner than you think.”
“Yeah, maybe.” She sighed, resigned to it already.
What if your identity doesn’t have to be set in stone? I wondered. Maybe “who she is” isn’t Michelle? Maybe, inside, she’s been Corinne all along?
If the government had an entire system in place for you to change your first name if you wanted to, this stuff must happen at least sort of frequently. And Corinne’s family was going to try to get on board, even though it was hard for them. So people’s minds could adjust too, it seemed. Eventually.
Apparently, things like this were possible.
I tucked that information in the back of my mind. Something told me I’d need it someday.
Love,
Mom
Without looking, I click off the phone. I stare out the hotel room window, only vaguely watching the man in the white hat zigzag the riding lawn mower across the lawn fourteen stories below.
I picture Mellie sitting at the kitchen table in her leggings and slippers, her hair back in a braid, typing on her phone or laptop. I bet she has dark circles under her eyes. She always gets them when she’s tired or stressed. She’s probably not eating much, either.
I’ve never gone a whole day without talking to her. And now we’re at nearly three times that.
My thumbs itch to type a response.
But I can’t.
In some ways, the person who wrote those emails sounds like my mother, like the person I knew. Her voice, her phrasing. She’s a true writer. Not in a past life—in this one. But the story she’s telling is further proof that she’s not her anymore. This is a person who knows how to bare her soul. And that is something Mellie Baker never knew how to do.
Sharon is at the front desk again today. Her face lights up as we approach. “Did you enjoy your stay?” she asks.
“Yes, very much. Thank you,” I say.
“Isn’t that suite romantic?” She winks.
I glance at Sam. He’s on his phone. I can’t make out what he’s writing, but Sarah’s name is at the top of the screen. My stomach aches in its emptiness.
“Very,” I say, turning back to Sharon with a forced smile.
“He’s a shy one, isn’t he?” she whispers, nodding in Sam’s direction.
“Not when you get to know him.”
We check out, and I’m about to ask Sharon to call us a cab to bring us back to our car when I remember I’m not supposed to know about that.
“Are we parked outside, Sam?” I say quietly, hoping I don’t sound too obvious.
He looks up. “Oh. No, we got a ride here. I guess we’ll need to call a taxi.” Success.
“Can you help us with that?” I ask Sharon.
“Of course!” She seems a little confused, but arranges for the cab, and we wait out front for it to arrive.
“Who were you texting?” I ask Sam, trying to seem barely interested.
He shrugs. “Sarah.” As soon as he says it, I realize I was hoping he’d lie. At least then we’d be even.
“Oh. What’s going on with—”
“So we’re six and a half hours from Charleston,” he says quickly, studying the map on his phone. “We’ll make a quick stop for breakfast and gas, and then drive straight through. Sound good?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
The cab drops us off at the Outlaw. The parking lot is emptier this morning. We toss our bags in my car, and Sam takes the driver’s seat this time. My head is still pounding, and my rootless thoughts aren’t helping. I could use a break from driving.
The lack of easy conversation as we drive is conspicuous. Almost oppressive. I thought letting him off the hook with the whole kissing thing would allow us to go back to normal. I remember what happened yesterday, and he obviously remembers what happened yesterday, but he doesn’t know that I remember. So … shouldn’t that allow us a reset? Why are things still strained? Why can’t we just act like we always do?
The email from Mellie about Kristen plagues me. Kristen was her Sam. I’m glad—everyone should have a Sam. I just hope I haven’t ruined things with mine.
We stop at a diner around eleven to get food. Sam takes a picture of our plates. His is piled high with pancakes, bacon, and a cinnamon roll. Hangover food, he calls it. Mine has a veggie egg-white omelet with whole-grain toast, no cheese, no butter. I think I’m done with junk food for a while. The omelet is hot and delicious. I feel myself getting stronger with every bite.
Just as in the car, we don’t talk much over breakfast. Sam plays his Viking game and texts with Sarah some more; I practice my introduction to the Pembrokes in my head. The clank of silverware against our plates is the only noise at our table.
After using the bathroom and filling the tank, we’re on the road again.
I-95 is long, the colors dull. The long strips of grass on the sides of the road have been burned by the Southern summer sun.
The landscape is different, but the closer we get to the farm, the more I’m starting to feel like I did nearing the big stone house in Cherry Hill. In two hours, I’ll be knocking on my grandparents’ front door.
There are always some nerves at tennis tournaments and qualifiers, but I know what to expect at those. I know how the game is played; I know I have skill; I know I’ve worked hard. I know that at the end of the match, there will be one winner and one loser. But this could go any of a million ways.
They’ve been looking for you, I tell myself. They’re going to be so happy to see you.
My muscles are tight. Now I’m regretting not making use of the hotel gym this morning. I reach into the back seat, pull a tennis ball from my bag, and squeeze it tightly in my right hand, engaging my palm and finger muscles.
We pass an abandoned factory. It’s set back from the highway, a squat, gray building with broken windows and an overgrown parking lot. Suddenly, I know what I need to do.
Sam is jolted out of whatever thought process he was drifting in. “What?”
“Pull over!” I say, louder. The factory is getting farther behind. “Right here!”
He takes his foot off the gas, brings the car to a stop on the right shoulder, and flips his hazards on. “What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick again?”
I shake my head, and reach into the back seat for my tennis bag.
“Have you changed your mind about going to Charleston?”
“No. I just need a few minutes.” I step out of the car, and the rush and wind of the passing cars shudder through me. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head across the overgrown, sun-bleached field back in the direction of the old building. The day is hot, the sun brutal. But it makes me feel grounded. As if this patch of earth and I are all that exist. I stretch my arms and roll my neck and shoulders as I walk, gripping on to the ball.
I head directly to the north side of the building, past the rusted loading-dock doors, to the place I spotted as we were driving. There’s a nearly blank wall here—no windows, no doors, just a large graffiti tag of the word Believe—and a good expanse of cracked and weed-ridden but more-than-sufficient pavement. It’s a lot more serene this far inland from the highway.
I pull a racquet from my bag and bounce the ball. So many times I hated that I had to practice alone on the racquetball courts, wishing I could afford to play on a real court more than twice a week. Now I’m grateful for the familiarity and comfort of playing against a wall.
My body seems to act on its own, eager to get the chance to do what it does best. Before I fully make the decision to begin, the racquet meets the ball in a crisp forehand stroke.
The ball returns and I do it again. And again.
My anxiety fades. My mind quiets. Effort and exhaustion thrum pleasantly through my flesh. Exercising—training—is the one thing that never lets me down. It’s the one thing that’s the same everywhere, any time, no matter what else is going on. It’s the one way I know how to stay centered.
Some part of my mind registers Sam pulling the car around the building and parking about fifteen yards off to my left. I don’t look. I hit the ball again, hard, falling more securely into the most beautiful rhythm in the world, a never-ending volley.
I know I told Sam I only needed a few minutes, but it turns out I need more than that. They say it takes ten thousand hours of practicing something to become an expert. I check one more hour off that goal at this almost-too-perfect place.
Even though I can’t seem to trust my mind lately, my body never fails me. I know when I’m done, sure as I know my left foot from my right.
I let the ball whiz past me and drop to the pavement, pack my gear up, and toss it in the back seat. I grab my hairbrush and deodorant out of my bag. I probably shouldn’t have gone and gotten myself all gross before arriving at my grandparents’, but … I really needed that.
“We still have that bottle of water?” I say, sliding into my seat. It feels more comfortable now. I wonder if this is how other people feel after a really good therapy session.
“Yeah.” Sam reaches into the compartment in his door and hands the water to me. It’s warm, but I don’t mind. “You okay?” he says after I polish off the last drop.
“Better now.”
“Ready to get back on the road?” He’s speaking cautiously, like he’s trying to prepare for another outburst of unpredictability.
“Yes. Thank you,” I add.
He nods and pulls back onto the highway. I turn the AC way up and aim the vents toward me to dry the sweat. Then I set about fixing my hair and making myself as presentable as possible.
We take the exit just before Charleston proper and follow the GPS’s directions for another fifteen minutes down narrow side roads shaded by canopies of green. I turn off the AC and open my window—the air is fragrant with hay, fresh-cut grass, sunflowers, and cow manure. We make another turn, this time onto a worn gravel road, and the trees open up to reveal blankets of farmland. Large, round bales of hay are scattered over gently rolling hillsides. Horses graze; sheep with short coats sunbathe.
And then there it is. The house. It looks just like it did in the photo. Inviting, well-kept, and cushioned by sprawling farmland on all sides.
I’d love to know what made the Pembrokes decide to move here. Not that it’s not beautiful and incredibly peaceful. Or that it doesn’t show off their wealth. It’s just so different from that fancy mansion in Cherry Hill.
We pull up to the house, but can’t park in the driveway because it’s already filled with cars, trucks, and trailers. I wonder if they all belong to the Pembrokes or if some of them belong to visitors or farm staff.
Sam turns off the car, and I get out and stretch. The air is humid, but we’re parked under the shade of a large tree so it’s not too hot. I didn’t put the dress back on, but at least I don’t feel quite as out of place in my tank top, leggings, and tennis shoes here as I would have at the Cherry Hill house.
We leave all our stuff in the car and wordlessly walk side by side across the grass toward the porch. I’m glad Sam’s here, regardless of the subtle shifts between us that haven’t managed to right themselves just yet.
Just then the screen door opens and a guy comes out. He’s wearing cargo shorts, sneakers, and a gray T-shirt that says, Animals are people too. His dark-blond hair is pulled back into a sloppy bun at the nape of his neck, and he has the kind of smile that makes you wonder how any one person could have possibly lucked out with such an exquisite arrangement of DNA.
The back of my neck warms when I realize I probably shouldn’t be checking him out—we could be related.
“Hello,” he says, apparently as surprised to have found us out here as I am to be faced with a guy around my age instead of my grandparents.
“Um. Hi. Are William and Ruth at home?”
It takes a moment for the names to register. “Oh! Our gracious benefactors. No, they’re not here right now.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
He shakes his head. “They actually don’t spend much time here. Their main house is on Hilton Head Island, I think.”
Hilton Head? Google said nothing about that! They’re supposed to be here.
For the second time, I’m standing outside a house that’s supposed to be inhabited by the Pembrokes, but isn’t. Embarrassing tears prickle my eyes, and I look down. “I can’t believe this,” I mutter. There’s a rock at my feet. I kick it as hard as I can, and it plunks into the grass several yards away.
Sam speaks up. “Do you know how we can contact them? We’ve come a really long way.”
“Sure, man. I can get you their number.” He jerks a thumb back at the house. “Actually, their daughter is here. Maybe you’d want to talk to her?”
My head snaps up. “Daughter?”
He nods. “Catherine. She’s the best. She’s the reason we’re all here, actually.”
Celeste’s sister. “Yes!” I say, my words nearly stumbling over his. “I’d love to talk to her!” It’s not the family reunion I was expecting, but it’s something. A start.
The guy waves a hand, indicating we should follow him into the house. I give Sam an anxious smile. He raises his eyebrows and gestures for me to go first, then follows the two of us inside. Two rambunctious yellow dogs scamper over to us, tails wagging and drool flying.
“This is Vincent and Walt,” the guy tells us, dropping to his knees and rubbing vigorously behind their ears. The dogs flop over and expose their bellies. I give them both a pat.
The interior of the house is incredible. Open floor plan, wood paneling, and exposed rafters holding up the vaulted ceiling. My gaze drifts like a bee, touching briefly on the baby grand piano in a corner, the matching floral pattern of the upholstery, the hand-woven throw rugs strategically scattered over the shining wood floors.
The guy leads the way to a room in the back of the house with tall windows overlookin
g the landscape. There’s a desk and computer and couch, and papers everywhere. An office.
“You can wait in here,” he says. “Catherine’s out back. I’ll go get her.”
Outside, a few workers are busy hammering together a wooden fence near the barn. Chickens wander around freely, pecking at the ground, and a goat stands by, overseeing the action. I hear a door swing shut, and Sam and I watch as the guy crosses the grass to a large pen occupied by several enormous pigs and speaks to a woman with cropped blonde hair. She nods, removes her gloves, and walks toward the house.
“Are you ready?” Sam asks.
An anticipatory shiver rolls over my skin. “As I’ll ever be.”
When she enters the room, my heart throws itself against my rib cage. She looks so much like the pictures of Celeste, only older, and with a slightly larger nose and wider-set eyes. She’s not wearing makeup, but her face is sun-kissed and glowing. I wonder if the little lines around her eyes are indications of a life of laughter or sadness.
“Sorry to make you wait,” she says. “It’s been mayhem around here today.” She blinks at Sam and me, as if really seeing us for the first time. “How may I help you?”
“Hi,” I say. My mouth has gone dry, and I take a second to swallow. “My name is Dara Baker. Or you might know me as Dara Hogan. I think … I mean, I know … um … my birth mother was Celeste Pembroke?”
Her entire face goes slack, and she places a hand on the wall to steady herself. “Dara? Oh my God, is that really you?” Her voice is soft, as if she’s afraid I’m a hologram and if she disrupts the energy in the room too much I’ll shimmer away.
I nod.
Another beat goes by, and then, so fast it forces a startled gasp from my lungs, she throws her arms around me. Her embrace is strong, and she pins me against her so tightly it’s a challenge to breathe. I stand there, trying my hardest to be in the moment, to feel her warmth and her joy, to soak up the emotional impact of what’s happening. But the only adults I’ve ever been hugged by are Mom and Bob. Catherine’s hug is unfamiliar. Awkward. Which makes sense; she’s essentially a stranger. I guess I just thought, when coming face-to-face with my flesh and blood, everything would click into place in an obvious way. Definitive. Undeniable.
And She Was Page 12