Debbie is someone I think I’d like to be friends with. She’s in her midtwenties, and the tight bun she wears her reddish hair in reminds me of Mary. We hit the ball back and forth, and she keeps calling out compliments like “Wow, I didn’t learn to serve like that until I was twenty-three!” or “Great shot!” I get the sense that she’s new at this, and while I’m glad I’m impressing her, I don’t know if she’d challenge me enough.
Monique, on the other hand, is fierce, both in her ability and her instruction. She wears her hair in lots of little braids that she ties back into one thick braid while on the court, and the muscle definition in her arms is goal-worthy. She plays in about fifteen tournaments a year, and is both the highest-ranked player and most businesslike of the three.
“Show me what you’ve most recently been working on with your trainer in New York,” she says when we get on the court.
I demonstrate my two-handed backhand. Bob was right—it’s gotten really good, even after nearly a week of not practicing very much. I expect Monique to at least smile, but she just watches and nods. “Again,” she says in a What did you think? You’d hit one ball and I’d give you a gold star? tone.
I hit the shot several more times, waiting for her next instruction.
Finally, she holds up a hand. “What else?”
“Um. We were actually just about to start focusing more on my backspin lob,” I say.
“Show me.”
I do, and she just nods again. Monique is the complete opposite of Debbie. I wonder if she even knows how to smile.
“Let’s play a set,” she says, taking up position across the net.
She is the toughest opponent I’ve ever faced. I manage a few points, but they’re not easily won.
“Your defensive game needs work,” she says matter-of-factly, echoing what Bob said at our last session.
“I know. And I’m ready to put the work in.”
She assesses me a moment more and then says, “Very well,” apparently pleased at my response.
We set up a schedule: two-hour training sessions, five mornings a week at my grandparents’ home court. It’s a far cry from the measly two shared sessions a week with Bob and Mary, and the commute’s a lot better too.
Monique’s style isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but I trust her. She picked up on the same problems in my game that Bob did. That’s worth more to me than any résumé or ranking. I know I’ll be able to learn a lot from her.
When we get back from the club, Ruth and I take a walk along the shore. I give her a hug—the first one I’ve initiated on my own. “Thank you,” I say.
She hugs me back, but far more gingerly than usual, and I realize my sweaty workout clothes are grossing her out. I don’t think I smell, but I end the hug and step back a bit just in case. “You’re very welcome, dear,” she says.
“I … need to make a phone call,” I tell her. “Would you mind giving me a few minutes?”
Her demeanor closes off in a flash. “Who are you calling?” There’s an edge in her voice I haven’t heard before.
She thinks I’m calling Mellie. “I have to call Bob, my tennis coach back home.”
And just like that, she relaxes. “Of course. I’ll give you some privacy.” She goes to dip her feet in the water, and I sit in the sand.
I know I have to make this call, but right now I’d give anything not to. There’s a knot in my stomach again—not the before-a-match nerves, and not quite the anxiety I felt before I met my new family. More like the unsettled feeling I experienced every time I talked to Mellie about tennis, because I knew what I had to say was going to make her unhappy, and I was about to ruin the good thing we had going.
I take a deep breath and dial.
“Back at it tomorrow, yeah?” Bob says upon answering. “You know what they say about idle feet.”
I thought the saying was about idle hands. “Hey, Bob. Actually, that’s what I’m calling about. I know I said I’d be back to training tomorrow, but … I’m going to be staying with my grandparents in South Carolina for a while.”
There’s a pause. “For how long?” All jokiness has vanished.
I watch as Ruth waves to a woman wearing a floppy straw hat. They strike up a friendly conversation. Must be one of the neighbors. “I don’t know,” I tell Bob. “For the foreseeable future.”
“What about tennis?”
“Nothing’s changed,” I assure him. “My grandparents have an incredible court on their property and I found a local pro who’s going to train with me. And I signed up for three tournaments this morning. The first one’s in Charlottesville in a couple weeks.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“Bob? You there?”
“Sounds like you’ve got everything figured out.” He sounds hurt. “Call me when you’re back, I guess.”
Guilt gnaws at me. I feel like I cheated on him and then dumped him and made him feel like it was all his fault. But what else am I supposed to do? “I will,” I promise.
I’m going to miss him, but I vow to keep in touch.
Boats float by serenely, like leaves in a pond. One of them is probably William’s, but I haven’t learned how to distinguish his boat from the others yet. Two little kids and their dad dig for mussels, and a seagull swoops down and snatches one right out of the boy’s hands. A dog kicks up sand as he runs in pursuit of a ball.
Sam would love it here. So many scenes perfect for capturing on film.
Ruth waves me over.
“Dara, meet JoBeth Montgomery.” She indicates her hat-wearing friend, a petite, brunette woman a little younger than Ruth but just as put together. “She lives down the beach from us. JoBeth, this is my granddaughter, Dara.”
JoBeth gasps, and gapes at Ruth in disbelief. “Not the Dara?”
Ruth puts her arm around me proudly. Possessively. “The very one.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and shake her hand.
She unabashedly surveys me from head to toe, like she’s going to go paint my portrait later or something. “Well! What a pretty, polite young woman! You seem to have turned out just fine.” She sounds surprised.
I tilt my head. “Sorry?”
She leans in, like we’re best friends sharing a secret. “You have no idea how worried your grandparents have been, knowing you were out there being raised by … you know.” She shakes her head sadly.
What is this woman getting at? I open my mouth to respond, but Ruth cuts in. “I’m sorry, JoBeth, but we do have to be going. We’ll talk soon.” She places a hand on my arm and guides me away.
“Wonderful to meet you, Dara,” JoBeth calls after us.
“What was that all about?” I ask. Clearly, William and Ruth have told their friends about me. But it’s what they may have been saying about Mellie that I’m more concerned about.
“Oh, she just knows how much we’ve missed you.” She bends down to pick up a seashell but then tosses it when she sees it has a crack. “Now, we’ve got the court and trainer and tournaments sorted. I called our travel agent, and she’s making all the airline and hotel arrangements. What’s next?”
“Um …” I try to shift gears as we turn in the direction of the house. “I actually need to get a passport. Do you think you’d be able to help me with that?”
“You don’t have a passport yet?” she says, almost angry. “Let’s go do that right now, shall we?”
“It might be complicated, though. I know you need to show them your birth certificate, and mine says Dara Hogan, not Dara Baker.”
She purses her lips, thinking. “I suppose you could apply for it under the name Dara Hogan, then?”
I shake my head. “I think my mom legally changed our names to Baker. But I don’t have any of that paperwork. I guess I could ask her for it—”
“No, no, you don’t want to do that,” she says hurriedly. “What if … what if you changed your name legally again? Back to Hogan … or even to Pembroke, if you like.” She looks up at me
innocently, as if this idea has just occurred to her. But she says it so easily that I have to wonder. “And then you can apply for the passport with that name.”
“Oh. That could work, maybe.” But what name would I choose? “Let me think about it?”
“Take all the time you need.” She pats my back. “I’ll never forget the first stamp I got in my passport. My mother took me to Paris for a week when I was sixteen.” She sighs wistfully.
“Wow, that sounds amazing.”
“It was the trip of a lifetime.” She smiles. “Perhaps you and I can go together sometime. Depending on your tournament schedule, of course.”
“There are actually tournaments in France,” I say. “Maybe we could do both at once.”
“Well, there you go! Consider it done.”
I have some downtime before dinner, so I take a shower, get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt since I can’t keep wearing that same dress, and check my email. Some spam and information about the tournaments, but nothing else. I was hoping the next chapter of the Celeste story would be waiting for me. I wonder if Sam told Mellie where I am, and if she’s upset.
Ruth lent me one of her books, so I bring it out to my terrace to try to read for a while, but Bob’s disappointed voice, the fact that it’s been over twenty-four hours since Mellie wrote to me, and the uncharacteristic radio silence from Sam keep tripping through my thoughts, distracting me. Why is it that I finally have everything I’ve ever wanted, and everyone’s mad at me for it?
And if Mellie really is unhappy with me for coming to stay with the Pembrokes, is it a healthy, normal kind of unhappy, or is it the I-should-have-Niya-go-check-to-make-sure-she’s-still-breathing kind of unhappy?
I end up just watching the river.
Ten minutes before dinner, the alarm I set on my phone goes off, and I fight my way out of my daze and head downstairs. I’ve learned that in this house, early is on time, and on time is actually late.
“Dara,” William says as we eat, “your grandmother and I were talking, and we’d love it if you’d consider calling us Grandma and Grandpa.”
I swallow my half-chewed bite of baked salmon with toasted almond and summer squash salad. Their faces are expectant, rosy, a little nervous.
It’s a reasonable request, considering they are my grandparents and they’ve taken me under their wing like only two people who really care about you could. But it feels … forced. Names like “Mom,” “Grandma,” and “Grandpa” should only happen one of two ways—you think of the person as that from the very beginning, as if it’s their actual name, or they earn it over a long period of time and trust and comfort. We’re on our way to the latter, but haven’t quite arrived yet.
I can’t say that, though. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll try to remember to.”
They beam. Then Ruth says, “Dara’s thinking of changing her last name to Pembroke, William. Isn’t that wonderful?”
My fork clatters against my plate.
“Really!” he exclaims. “Well, I believe this is cause for a celebration!” He leaves the table, and returns a moment later with a chilled bottle of champagne and three glasses. “To our family,” he toasts after we’ve each taken a glass. “Finally complete once more. May Celeste be watching down on us and smiling.”
I take the tiniest sip possible and try to maintain my smile. They’re so happy; I can’t ruin it.
But in my mind I’m rereading Mellie’s email—the one about Kristen’s sister changing her first name, and how that was such a revelation to Mellie. All the Marcus talk this week, the Grandma/Grandpa stuff, the eagerness of my grandparents to turn me into a Pembroke … I never thought about it before, but names really do have meaning. So you should probably make sure the one you have is one you like.
Ruth and William continue eating their dinner. I push my food around.
I came here to meet my family, learn where I came from. And I’ve done that. I’m still doing that. But could it be possible that where I come from and who I am are two different things? I don’t know if I want to be Dara Pembroke. I don’t think I should have to be, to be part of their world.
And I definitely don’t want to be Dara Hogan, after learning about the Hogans from Mellie’s emails.
“Um,” I begin timidly, and they look up.
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m so sorry, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done for me …”
They wait.
I can’t meet their eyes. “But I think I’m actually going to keep my name. Baker.”
Ruth barely reacts, just rests her fork and knife on the edge of her plate and pats her mouth with her cloth napkin. William, however, doesn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh, I … did we misunderstand something?” he asks, glancing at his wife.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I did tell Ruth—Grandma—that I’d consider it. She wasn’t wrong. I just decided right now.”
“I see,” he says.
“Dara Baker might not be who I was born as,” I say, trying to find the right words, “but it’s who I am now. I feel comfortable as Dara Baker. I know her.” I like her.
“We understand,” he says, nodding. “We just want you to be happy. Don’t we, darling?”
Ruth nods. “Yes. Of course. That’s the most important thing.”
The atmosphere has changed, though, and I say the first thing I can think of to bring us all back together again: “I was wondering if you had any old videos of Celeste that I could watch.” There are framed photos of her all over the house, but I’d love to be able to get a sense of her demeanor, her movements, the shape her mouth took when she spoke.
That gets Ruth to smile. “As a matter of fact, we had all our home movies transferred to digital files a few years ago. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”
“Everything,” I say. “I want to learn as much about her as I can.”
“Ask and you shall receive!” She finishes her champagne, folds her napkin, and places it on the table. “Are you finished with your supper?”
“Yes,” I say, and it’s true, though I didn’t eat much. “It was delicious. Thank you.”
“I’ll have Penelope serve the coffee and dessert in the television room.”
There are dozens of videos. William helps us get set up, then leaves Ruth and me to reminisce on our own, claiming this should be a time for grandmother/granddaughter bonding. I suspect he secretly fears the videos will make him too emotional.
Celeste was the baby of the family, and her parents clearly worshipped her. We start at the beginning, with the grainy recording of Ruth holding wrinkly, newborn Celeste as they’re wheeled to the car outside the hospital. Little Catherine, only two years old, wearing a pale-blue dress, saggy tights, and a crown that says BIG SISTER, toddles beside the wheelchair, peering over the edge at the new baby.
A video from a few years later shows Celeste and Catherine under a pink sheet tent in Celeste’s bedroom, Catherine reading to her sister from a storybook about farm animals. They appear to not know Ruth and her camera are watching them. “Do the piggy voice, Catherine!” Celeste begs in her tiny soprano, and Catherine obliges, puffing out her cheeks and putting on a silly accent.
Another video is of nine-year-old Celeste at a playground. “Mom, look!” she shouts, waving, and the camera zooms in as she zips her way across the monkey bars. Her blonde ponytail swings behind her in the breeze.
“She looks like me at that age,” I murmur.
Ruth pulls her misty gaze from the image of her happy, very much alive daughter on the screen. “You look like her now too.”
I smile sadly, and nod. Catherine had said the same thing. It’s nice to hear from the people who knew and loved Celeste. “The dimple,” I say, pointing under my eye.
She nods. “That’s part of it, yes. And your voices are similar. You sound much more like her than Catherine or I ever did.”
“I never even thought about what her voice sound
ed like,” I whisper guiltily.
“Oh, my dear girl.” Ruth tucks me in close to her side, so my head is resting in the crook between her shoulder and neck.
My phone, which is on the coffee table in front of us, beeps with a new text. I jump a little at the sound—I haven’t gotten a text in a while. Maybe it’s Sam. My heart beats harder. I sit up and click the screen on. Not Sam. Not Mom. It’s from Mary, of all people.
Bob told me you’re not coming back. Thanks for telling me. He’s not the only one you’re abandoning, you know.
Crap. I did forget all about Mary.
Another text comes in.
I’ll see you in Charlottesville. Get ready to lose.
Mary’s playing in the tournament. Which means Bob will be there too. My stomach squirms. I don’t want to have to face them. She’s right—I did abandon them. I wish I could give them an explanation, tell them what’s been going on. Surely they’d understand then. But who knows who they’d tell. I can’t put Mellie at risk.
Ruth pauses the TV. “Is everything all right?”
I make my phone screen go black without replying to Mary. “Yes. Everything’s fine. Sorry.”
The home movies continue. There are birthday parties and Christmas mornings, school plays and ballet recitals, visits to the zoo and Disney World, graduations. Celeste is happy and smiling in all of them, often hugging her sister or holding hands with her mother or teasing her father. It’s clear she loved her family very much.
By the time we reach the end, I feel a bit closer to my birth mother. I’ll never get the chance to truly know her, but at least now I have a sense of her. A more complete image to hold on to.
“I’m so glad you had these,” I say to Ruth as she turns off the TV and we collect our empty coffee cups. “Thank you for showing them to me.”
“Thank you for asking,” she says. “It’s been a while since I’ve watched them. I think I needed it as much as you did.”
And She Was Page 21