by Lisa Tucker
Though she and Amy had been corresponding for only about two months, they’d gotten so close that simply seeing Amy Callahan’s name on the top of the first page made Courtney tear up, as if someone she actually knew had died. Thankfully she was wearing sunglasses, so her mother couldn’t tell her she was being silly.
All of the important facts were in the summary. Amy Callahan had left Kansas City for Los Angeles in 1995, and changed her name to Harmony Williams. A few months later, she had changed her last name again after she married a man named Glenn Meers. When a truck broadsided her car, she’d been married for only a few weeks, and her husband obviously didn’t know her very well. The investigator had tracked down Meers, who admitted he’d never tried to contact any of his wife’s relatives after her death. Meers had been in and out of prison for years on drug charges. Maybe that explained his lack of interest in his wife’s past. The investigator had also tried to contact Amy’s family back in Missouri. He found only a stepmother, who complained that neither Amy nor her sister had visited her after her husband died. She hung up without asking why a private investigator was calling about her stepdaughter.
The report included two driver’s license photos: one of Harmony Meers and the other of Amy Callahan. There was no denying they were the same person, though Harmony looked like a hollowed-out shell of Amy, who’d been positively pretty.
Courtney sat back for a minute. It was just hitting her that the graceful, cautious woman she’d seen at the co-op was the same person whose sister had died years ago. She was surprised by how sad she felt for David’s wife.
“It says there are seventeen pages, but you only gave me the first four,” she finally said, looking at her mother. “Where’s the rest?”
Liz shrugged. “I didn’t bring it because it wasn’t relevant. It was primarily about Amy Callahan’s failed attempts at a singing career. I suppose that’s why she chose the name Harmony, though it seems to push it a bit much.”
Courtney scrutinized her mother. She didn’t seem like she was lying, but if she was, it had to be because of David. “Did the investigator also talk to Kyra?”
Liz shook her head. “I told him to find out what he could without discussing this with David’s family.”
“She may not even know what happened.”
“I’m confident she does. It would be quite easy to discover using Amy’s social security number.”
“But it says right on the first page that she changed her social security number.”
“I don’t believe that’s legal,” her mother said, which seemed ridiculous under the circumstances. Before Courtney could object though, Liz clapped her hands together. “In any case, David’s wife is obviously estranged from her sister if she hasn’t tried to look for her at least as hard as I did. She’s had years to do so, if she wished to. And it’s hardly your business, is it?”
Courtney vaguely remembered Sandra mentioning something about Kyra being estranged from her family. This was a long time ago, right before Michael was born, when Sandra was talking about helping them as much as she could with the new baby. But her mother was right. None of this was her business.
Liz turned to face her. “I would think it would be obvious why I insisted on keeping David’s family out of this. I was trying to spare you the embarrassment, in case this turned out to be a scam, as I suspected.”
Courtney didn’t say anything, but she was thinking it couldn’t be a scam. The writing in Amy’s emails was nothing like some Nigerian money request.
I’m listening to Ravel’s “Piano Concerto for the Left Hand,” which Ravel wrote for another musician who lost his right arm in World War I. It reminds me of what my shrink always says: you can lose what feels like everything and still find your way back to yourself.
Even if her name wasn’t Amy, she wasn’t pulling some kind of scam. It wasn’t possible.
“I hope you didn’t share any of our personal business with this identity thief,” Liz said. “ Your father would be mortified.”
“I never mentioned Dad at all.”
She reached over and pushed back Courtney’s sunglasses. “But you did mention me?”
My mother called for the fifth time this week. I know she still feels guilty about the way she treated me after my son died, but I wish I could convince her that I’ve never been angry about that. She’s always trying to help me with something I don’t need help with. She thinks that will make us close again, ignoring the fact that we were never close.
“Not really,” Courtney said, and adjusted her sunglasses. She was thinking about all the private things about her own life that she’d told Amy or whoever she was.
Normally, she wasn’t the kind of person who shared anything about herself with strangers. In fact, she’d often lost the chance to be friends with people when she wouldn’t reciprocate their confessions. With Amy though, it was different, and it wasn’t just that Courtney had too much free time. Yes, she’d written to Amy at least two times a day, often three or more, but if she hadn’t felt sure that Amy was the mysterious person who was going to change her life, she wouldn’t have opened up to her. She’d trusted a total stranger because of the vague prediction of a psychic. And she didn’t even believe in psychics. She was such a fool.
A man and his collie walked by. He was probably twenty-five, but Liz elbowed Courtney in the ribs. “See the kind of person you’d meet if you lived in Center City?”
Courtney slid the investigator’s report into her purse. “Right. Because everyone who lives downtown knows each other.”
Liz ignored the sarcasm. “Do you want to get lunch? There’s a great Indian restaurant down on—”
“I’m not very hungry.” Courtney stood up.
Liz stood, too. “I was only trying to protect you, darling.”
Courtney let her mother give her a hug, because she knew Liz was trying to help. Her mother couldn’t know how much this hurt. Even Courtney wasn’t sure why it hurt so much.
Before they said good-bye, Liz made her promise not to contact “Amy” again. “I’ll delete her emails and block her address,” Courtney said, and tried not to be annoyed when her mother acted surprised that she knew how to block an email address.
When she got home, the first thing she saw on her computer was a note from Amy, asking how her meeting with her mother had gone. I hope she didn’t depress you. Courtney did as she promised; she deleted all the emails and blocked the address. She walked away from the laptop, but not fifteen minutes later, she sat back down again and undid the block. She had to know who had been doing this.
Amy was online, too; her Gmail address was visible, green. She’d never instant-messaged Amy before, but as soon as she said hello, Amy wrote, you’re back. How was it?
me: What’s your name?
Amy: good idea to do chat
Amy: what?
me: I know you’re not Amy Callahan. Tell me your real name.
Amy: It’s Hannah. I’m sorry.
Amy: How did you find out?
Courtney was both surprised and depressed by how quickly this person had relented. She’d been hoping against hope that, despite the evidence, the woman she’d been writing was trustworthy.
me: Save the apology. My mother hired a private investigator . . . Just tell me the reason for the pretense. I think you owe me that much.
Amy: wow, a private investigator. I never thought of that. Did your Mother find Amy Callahan?
me: Do you think this is a joke?
Amy: please don’t be mad. I can explain. I didn’t mean to lie.
me: Of course you didn’t. You just needed money.
Amy: $$? No. I had to deactivate my real facebook page because of something that happened at school. It’s a long story.
me: At school??
me: How old are you?
&n
bsp; Amy: OK, I’m only 17, but I’ll be 18 in a few months. And I’m not in school now. I graduated, so it doesn’t matter anymore.
Amy: I wanted to tell you before, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want to keeping emailing.
Amy: I thought you would think I was too young to be your friend. But I’m really not. I mean, you know it’s true, right?
Amy: I didn’t want to lose you. You’ve helped me feel a lot less alone.
Amy: are you still there?
Courtney had dropped her face into her hands. She was reeling from the fact that she’d told some teenager about being bullied at work, about the end of her relationship with Stefan, even about her premature ovarian failure. And about Joshua. This seventeen-year-old knew more about how her baby died than most of her friends did.
me: So you needed a new Facebook identity? That’s your claim?
Amy: It’s true.
me: I don’t believe it. Why did you pretend to contact my ex and his wife then?
Amy: I wasn’t exactly pretending. I was thinking I would try to friend them, but first I wanted to know what they were like. That’s why I tried to contact people on their friend lists. To find out.
me: Why me? I’m not on their friend lists.
Amy: I know. Facebook recommended you. I already told you that.
Courtney thought the last sentence was laughable, given how much this person had lied to her.
me: I have no idea why you’re doing this, but it’s cruel. Has it ever occurred to you how Kyra might feel about a stranger using her sister’s name?
Amy: I had a good reason.
Courtney saw that Amy was typing. She was typing, too. She went back and forth, trying to explain how much this could have hurt David’s wife, but she deleted all that and decided to wait. If this person really was seventeen, she might have done this for a relatively innocent reason.
Whatever it was, it was going to be long. While Amy kept typing and typing, Courtney thought about the psychic. She started biting her thumbnail when she remembered that Evelyn Rose had only said the stranger would change her life, not that the change would be good.
Amy: I was trying to find Amy Callahan because she’s my mother. I took her name because I thought anyone who knew her would write me back and maybe tell me where she is. Kyra is my mom’s sister, though my stepmother and my dad acted like it was killing them to admit it. When I first saw her on facebook, I mentioned her at dinner and it was like I said I was going to be buddies with Osama bin Laden. I never had the nerve to write her, but now I don’t have to. Your mom’s private investigator knows where Amy Callahan is, right? So this is really cool. Meeting you has been so lucky for me.
Courtney’s nail was bleeding but she couldn’t stop tearing it as she read what Amy had written. Even though this person had lied to her constantly, Courtney had a bad feeling this was the truth. It fit so well with a vague sense of longing that was always present in the girl’s emails. It even explained Amy’s fascination with all things mother-related, including Courtney’s tense relationship with Liz.
Of course she knew what was coming next.
Amy: I’ve imagined her so many places, you have no idea. So where is she?
She sucked her nail and typed with one hand as she tried to figure out what to do.
me: What’s your phone number? The landline I mean.
Amy: It’s 816-2. Wait. This seems weird. Why didn’t you ask for my cell?
Later, she would realize that she could have simply said I want to google that number to make sure you’re who you say you are. But at that moment, her heart was beating so hard she couldn’t think of anything other than the truth. She wanted to call the girl’s parents. She wanted to let them tell her about her mother. Amy or Hannah or whoever she was, the person she’d been emailing for weeks, was depressed. Courtney was positive about that in the way only a fellow depression sufferer can be. She was so over her head. She felt as if Liz was right in the room, warning her not to take responsibility for a stranger’s life.
Amy: You told me you never use a landline anymore. This doesn’t make sense.
me: All right, give me your cell number.
At least she could talk to the girl that way, try to soften the blow. But instead of her number, Hannah typed, What state does my mother live in? When Courtney didn’t answer, she repeated the question.
me: Tell me your number and we’ll talk about it.
Amy: What state?
The cursor was blinking.
Amy: It’s only one word.
She had just decided to lie, but before she could type California—
Amy: She’s dead, isn’t she?
me: hold on
Amy: That’s why you don’t want to tell me on chat. Oh my God.
Courtney felt awful, but there was nothing she could say to make this easier. Hannah didn’t give her a chance anyway. Before she could type something soothing—she had no idea what—Amy’s daughter had signed off.
For the next hour or so, she paced her apartment, trying to figure out what to do next. If only she knew the girl’s phone number or at least her last name. Hannah’s emails told her nothing she didn’t already know: the location of the teenager’s IP address was in the northwest part of Missouri. There was no way to find her.
She’d just made up her mind to contact Kyra, via Sandra, when she heard the tone that announced she had mail.
Hi Courtney,
I wanted to let you know I’m OK. I never knew my mom. It was a shock, that’s all. I put a lot of energy into finding her, or at least wishing I would, so it was hard to hear. But having a mom doesn’t solve everything, as you know.
There’s one other thing I haven’t told you. When I first found Kyra on facebook, my dad told me that Kyra has always known my mom had a daughter. She even knows where I live. I don’t know why she’s never visited or sent me a card, but that’s why I haven’t reached out to her and my uncle yet.
I really am sorry I lied so much to you. You came along in my messed up life when I needed a friend so badly. I’m so thankful that you wrote me back the first time. Honestly, I spent a lot of time in the last month hoping that when I found my mother, she would be as cool and nice and funny as you are. I hope that doesn’t sound pathetic.
I just found out this morning that my dad and stepmother are dragging me on their vacation to Colorado against my will, so I’m going to be offline for the next two weeks. We’re going on some wilderness adventure. Ugh! I have two little half brothers that I’ll be stuck in the backseat with. I can’t stand them, but as you always say, such is life.
Talk to you soon I hope.
Hannah
Courtney would have been very skeptical about Hannah’s vacation claim if the girl hadn’t mentioned two half brothers in the backseat. It sounded like such a teenage thing to say, at least from what she could remember of being that age. She herself had only one brother, and he was so much older that they had never gone on vacations together, much less in a car, but if they had, she would have said the same thing.
At the time she was too upset to consider the fact that she’d told Hannah about her feelings for her annoyingly successful brother Christopher, the film producer. She’d also told Hannah about Liz’s wilderness adventures in New Mexico. She’d even told Hannah about a few of the long vacations she’d been forced to go on with her parents when she was a teenager.
Courtney wasn’t thinking about how well Hannah knew her, making it easy for the girl to construct a lie that she would believe. But even if she had seen through the lie immediately, what could she have done differently? She didn’t know how to get hold of Hannah’s parents. The girl’s aunt didn’t have any relationship with Hannah, nor did she seem to want one.
It was a little shocking to Courtney that David’s “perfect�
� wife had not only ignored her sister but also rejected her niece. It made her wonder what Kyra was really like. Not that it was any of her business, but she couldn’t help worrying what this meant for Michael. She wanted the little boy who looked so much like Joshua to have a good mother, a nice home, everything.
She wrote back to Hannah within minutes of receiving the girl’s email. Please don’t disappear. I’m going to worry until I hear that you are back from Colorado. At the end of the email, she added, Your aunt has no idea what she’s missing out on, not having you in her life.
TWENTY-ONE
In the middle of Kyra’s junior year in college, her sister mentioned that she’d missed a period. Amy figured it was just a product of her crazy life, working all night and traveling with the band, and, Kyra thought, thinner and more hyper than she’d ever been—though definitely not on drugs. Kyra had spied on her for months after Zach said her sister was using; she was sure about this. But when Amy started throwing up whenever she smelled hamburgers or bacon or basically anything greasy, she peed on a stick and discovered the depressing truth. She’d been so careful with birth control, but as Kyra, the math major, knew, birth control only has a high probability of working. Someone has to be part of that unlucky three percent.
Kyra made the phone call and set up the appointment. She offered to go, but Amy said she wanted to do this alone. It was scheduled for Wednesday, and Kyra skipped her philosophy class to take care of her sister when she got home. When Amy walked into the apartment a few hours later, Kyra was sitting on the wooden chair by the bookshelves she and Amy had made from concrete blocks and pine boards. She had a pamphlet in her lap about the abortion experience that she’d been trying and failing to comprehend.
Her sister threw her coat on the kitchen cabinet and plopped down on the wicker chair by the window and arranged her ever-present blue blanket on her knees. She joked that she’d turned into Linus, but the truth was she was always cold now that she was so thin.
“I went to the address you gave me at ten on the dot, like you told me,” Amy said. She pushed her hair behind her ears, but one side fell out again when she looked down at her hands. “They got me on the table, you know, ready to go.” She pulled the blanket up so that everything but her face and blond hair disappeared into the blue cloud. “I hope you’re not mad, sis. I just couldn’t do it.”