Take Another Look

by Rosalind Noonan

  “What?” Alarm jangled over Jane’s nerves. “But she looks just like you.”

  “I told you. Only we gave her a makeover today so that she would really look like me. She usually wears her hair different, and she likes pink and those flouncy skirts and polka dot explosions. She’s a girly girl. But she’s okay.”

  “So you pranked me?” More wounded than angry, Jane struggled to piece the situation together.

  “At first we were going to try and fool Emma’s mom. We talked about it on the bus ride to Emma’s. But Mrs. Suzuki saw Isabel come into the house, and Emma had to introduce her and all, and even without the makeover Mrs. Suzuki commented that we could be sisters.”

  They could be sisters.

  Jane kept her eyes on the road, fending off emotion.

  “So we knew Mrs. Suzuki would never go for it. But we did the makeover anyway. And then when you texted to say you were on your way, we decided to try to trick you. Isabel said it would be a real challenge to fool a teacher.”

  Isabel? No, the name is wrong, and she lives in another state. Still...

  “What is Isabel’s last name?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t know. Do I have to go to the tutor every Tuesday? What about when basketball starts?”

  “Yes. Every Tuesday.” Every shitty Tuesday.

  “I was just asking. You don’t have to yell.”

  “I’m not yelling, but I am upset. It’s not fun to be the butt of a joke.”

  “I’m sorry. We weren’t trying to mock you or anything. It was more like a challenge to see if we could pull it off.”

  “Well. I guess you did.” Jane’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Are you happy now?” She pulled up in front of Mrs. A’s house and punched the gearshift into park with a vengeance. It wasn’t a dangerous move, but it revealed the abrasive edge beneath Jane’s evaporating composure.

  “God, Mom. I said I was sorry.” Harper opened the door and yanked out her backpack. “Just get over it.” She slammed the car door before Jane could respond.

  If you only knew . . . It’s taken me years, and I’m still not over it. She’d made a mistake, a huge mistake, and it would overshadow the rest of her life.

  With utmost restraint, Jane held to the speed limit on the drive back to school as she kept trying to rule out the one possibility that seemed impossible. Could the new girl, this Isabel, be her daughter?

  When she had given Louisa up for adoption, Chrissy and Nick Zaretsky had said they wanted Louisa to keep her name.

  “I see it as a gift from her biological mother,” Nick had said.

  “And such a beautiful name,” Chrissy had agreed. With strong, high cheekbones, a dimpled smile, and eyes warm as whiskey, Christina Zaretsky had a motherly way about her that had appealed to Jane when she’d been reviewing profiles of parents eager to adopt. Unlike the other potential moms with hard, angular bodies from hours at the gym or running weekend 10K races, Chrissy appeared plump and soft as a favorite bathrobe. And this would not be her first attempt at motherhood; she had been raising two children back in Russia when their lives were cut short in a train accident. Such tragedy, and yet she had moved on, willing to live and love again.

  “Family is everything,” Nick Zaretsky had told Jane that day when she’d toured the family’s lovely stone and glass house overlooking Puget Sound. “We are lucky to have Chrissy’s mother and two sisters nearby, and my mother, she lives in an apartment we built for her out back.”

  So much family. Any child would be fortunate to grow up in such a beautiful, loving home, Jane had thought. She had never been to Bainbridge Island before, and the fabulous view across the blue water to the Seattle cityscape had won her over.

  Chrissy had shown her the nursery, decorated with a menagerie of animals parading along . . . elephants and rhinos, giraffes and flamingos.

  “My sister said it was presumptuous to decorate the nursery, but we couldn’t resist,” Chrissy had said, delicately smoothing a pillow with a pair of round-eyed koalas that had been embroidered by Chrissy’s mother. “Not to make any assumptions, of course, but I’m always very positive about the future. My mother used to tell me to write my wishes down and pin them under my mattress. She said that dreams could not become reality unless we pinned them down.”

  Charmed by the couple, Jane had accepted an invitation to stay for dinner. Everyone had made a dish for the meal, and over a dinner of lamb kabobs, buttery pelmeni meat dumplings, and delicious sugared pancakes called syrniki, Jane had made her decision. One of her babies would live in this house, in the embrace of this good-hearted family. She imagined her little girl toddling through the breezes that came off the water, learning to walk in this airy family room that opened to the sky. When she grew older, the little girl would make up stories about the people who lived in the glittering gem boxes across the Sound in Seattle. This lucky girl would have adventures with her aunties: shopping and ferry rides and sailing lessons. There would be baseball games with Nick, a huge Mariners fan. And her grandmothers would give her cooking lessons for special dishes that had been passed down through the generations.

  Such a good life her baby girl would have with the Zaretskys. The infant who came to live here would be the lucky one, the privileged daughter. The vision of such a charming life made Jane feel a twinge of guilt that she was not giving both children up for adoption. It seemed that Jane was no match for these parents hoping to adopt: couples with personal wealth, community resources, rich family history, and enthusiasm. In her darkest moments she worried that Frank had robbed her of the tools she needed to be a good mother.

  Not true, a small voice would whisper. You can do this. You’re the mother. Two tiny lives are growing inside you. They will love you. . . . They will both love you, always, for bringing them into this world. But one will come to love other parents, and that’s okay. You’re just one woman digging out of a terrible situation. You can only handle one child.

  More than once Jane had fantasized about keeping both babies. She would scribble lists of numbers. The plus column of her savings, the money she had scraped together substitute teaching and temping in Seattle. And then the list of her expenses : food and an apartment rental in Oregon. Car insurance. Bills from the doctors and hospitals, which would not be paid by the adoptive parents if she kept both babies.

  “Would you file for welfare?” Marnie had asked Jane one night as Jane added numbers to each column. “You could probably get food stamps.”

  Jane had already researched that. She had around ten thousand dollars saved—money she planned to use to live on for the first six months or so. “A person with more than two thousand dollars in the bank cannot get food stamps,” she said. “Besides, public assistance would put me into yet another database where Frank might find me.”

  Try as she might to cut the expenses and twist the numbers, the bald reality always shone through. She could barely afford one child; two would put her in a deep financial hole.

  She did not discuss the matter of her mental health with anyone, not even Marnie, but she knew she was in a tenuous place, walking a tightrope. One misstep, and the fall would be devastating for Jane and her two babies.

  Adoption was the only way to save them all.

  And so Jane chose the Zaretskys. They stood out as stable, grounded people—an island of calm in the sea of fear and doubt where Jane had been struggling to stay afloat. She had been living in panic, afraid that, in his spare time, Frank was hunting her down, intent on killing her.

  That was why she had decided to leave Seattle. Marnie’s support had proven to be invaluable, but sooner or later Frank would find Marnie and then Jane. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to keep moving.

  And so she had chosen to give one of her babies to the Zaretsky family and move south to Portland, Oregon, far enough away from Seattle that the two girls would not cross paths. It had been a closed adoption; Louisa would not be given Jane’s information, and Jane signed away all parental rights. Chrissy and
Nick were happy with that; they didn’t want to share their baby with an occasional mother. Jane had changed her name in the state of Washington, and spent the last few days before the babies were born searching online for a neighborhood in which to raise her daughter. Somewhere that felt like home, with trees and a main street and a waterfront. A slice of Americana with ethnic festivals and a Fourth of July parade. She had found those joys in Mirror Lake; she had built a life here.

  And now, a sliver of the past threatened.

  Eager to get to the truth, Jane pulled into a visitor’s spot in front of the school and went straight to the main office. Keys in hand, she called a few hellos on the way to the registrar’s office, where she paused in the doorway, relieved that Carol Delaney was still here. Jane did not have full access to all student records; she would need Carol’s help.

  “Hey, there.” Carol took a slug from a water bottle. “You caught me on my way out. It’s too quiet around here without the kiddos.”

  “Tranquility is good for the soul,” Jane teased. “And for getting work done. Listen, do you have a minute to look up a student for me? A potential softball player.” A small lie, but she needed some reason, and she could hardly say my long-lost daughter. “Her name is Louisa Zaretsky.”

  “Let’s see.” Carol sat down, swiveled toward the computer, and clicked the mouse a few times. “Do you know what grade?”

  “A sophomore, I think.”

  Carol’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Hmm. We have one Zaretsky. First name Isabel.”

  Jane held her breath as Carol clicked open another file. Maybe this girl was a distant relative of her daughter.

  “But it looks like her middle name is Louisa. Isabel Louisa.”

  Slammed by the truth, Jane stared at the screen. This was her daughter.... It had to be her.

  “What info do you need?”

  Jane forced herself to shed the paralysis of panic. “Just her contact info.”

  “Isabel Louisa . . . That’s a pretty name.” Carol copied the information in her round script. “I need to tell my daughter. They’re looking for names for baby number two.”

  “I didn’t even know you were a grandmother,” Jane said, leaning over Carol’s shoulder to take in the details on the screen—the impossible morphing into a concrete reality.

  Isabel’s mother was Christine Zaretsky, but no father was listed. Had Chrissy and Nick divorced? They had seemed like a cohesive couple, so determined to keep their family together.

  “There you go.”

  Thanking the registrar, Jane clutched the slip of recycled scrap paper as she made her way out to the corridor. There, she leaned against the shiny porcelain tile of the wall and dared to look.

  Arbor Lane.

  The GPS on her phone pointed to a location on the flats, away from the lake but near the freeway. Although she was tempted to head over there right now, there were grades to finish inputting, and Harper would have to be picked up from her tutor. But as soon as she could get away, sometime this evening, Jane would be paying the Zaretskys a visit.

  Chapter 18

  From the street, much of the small ranch house was obscured from view by a dense mat of bamboo shooting up from the ground. Probably planted by a novice gardener who had no inkling that the tough stalks would grow wild, tall, and invincible.

  Although Jane had not seen any activity inside, the yellow glow from the main window led her to believe that someone was home. Most likely, the daughter Jane had given away was inside that house, and Jane wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Staring at the house, she vacillated between feeling like a psycho stalker and feeling like the wronged party in an agreement that, now broken, was going to crack her life wide open. She dreaded Harper’s bitter reaction. To learn that your mother had given your sister away at birth and kept it a secret all these years . . . It sounded wrong to Jane’s ears, even though she knew there were logical, sound reasons for her actions.

  Then there was Luke. He didn’t deserve the ripples and obstacles Jane had brought to his life. She worried that the story of the daughter she had given away would be one secret too many, that he would see Jane as a bundle of lies, slowly unraveling as the past caught up with her.

  And what would happen if the school administrators heard about this? Of course, they couldn’t fire her because she had given a child up for adoption. But upon the unseemly appearance of a scandal, administrators were usually able to find some bogus way to dismiss an employee. Everyone knew the story of the teacher who had been fired for posting “party photos” on Facebook.

  It was a sordid mess, one that she had spent a lifetime trying to avoid. And she would have succeeded if Chrissy Zaretsky had stayed put in her lovely Bainbridge Island home.

  Holding on to that righteous indignation, Jane marched across the soggy lawn and rang the bell. Her plan was to inform Chrissy that she had been living and working in this town for more than a decade and politely ask the woman to relocate as soon as possible to maintain the privacy of both parties.

  But Chrissy did not answer the door.

  “Ms. Ryan!” Isabel’s smile was effervescent. No longer dressed like Harper, she wore her hair swept back in rhinestone barrettes. The pink cashmere sweater and coordinated plaid miniskirt worn under her kitchen apron were obviously expensive. Isabel stood back and ushered Jane in with all the composure of a fifties housewife. “I didn’t expect to see you at the door. Is Harper with you?”

  “She’s at home.” Jane tried to see inside, but a wall blocked her view. “Is your mother here, Isabel?”

  “Sure. Come in.”

  Inside the house was more upscale, with travertine marble floors and eclectic pendant lights shaped like gumdrops hanging over the table in the vestibule. Jane peered around the wall to the living room, but it was empty, as was the dining area behind the living room where sliding glass doors led to the backyard.

  “Mom is taking a nap,” Isabel offered by way of explanation. “She isn’t feeling well.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m sorry to bother her, but I really need to speak with her tonight.”

  Isabel’s smile faded. “Am I in trouble, Ms. Ryan?”

  “No. It’s nothing you did. Although I have to say that I don’t appreciate being pranked.”

  “I guess Harper told you.” The girl’s blue eyes grew round. “I’m really, really sorry. I take full responsibility for that. Kids are always saying we look alike, and we wanted to see if we could fool an expert. I can never resist a challenge.”

  As the girl spoke Jane took in the L-shaped house. An open door on her right revealed a hallway, probably leading to the bedrooms, and from here she could see the doorway off the dining room leading to the kitchen. It was modest and tidy, but a far cry from the house on Bainbridge Island. She turned away and moved toward the built-in bookcases on either side of the fireplace. One photo collage showed Isabel’s school pictures from kindergarten through ninth grade, with empty spaces for the last three grades. Most of the other photos featured Isabel, sometimes alone, other times with Nick and Chrissy. Nick’s hair had turned to silver, and his face had thinned, but his merry, bold-cheeked smile was unmistakable.

  “Is this your father?” Jane asked, lifting a photo in a black frame.

  Pressing her lips together, Isabel nodded. “It was. He died last spring. On Easter Sunday.”

  Stunned, Jane put the photo back. “I’m sorry.” She had not expected this; Nick would only have been in his fifties.

  “It’s been a sad time for Mom and me. That’s why we moved here—for a new start. Mom had to get away from the memories.”

  The block of ice around Jane’s heart was melting. “And you? Did you want to come here?”

  “It was my idea to move here.” When Isabel lifted her chin, tears sparkled in her eyes. “Please don’t be mad at me, but I have to tell you the truth. We came here to find you, Ms. Ryan. You see, I know that you’re my biological mother.”

  “What?” Jane straighte
ned.

  “After we lost Dad, Mom and I realized that family is everything. My dad used to say that all the time, but I didn’t really understand how true it was until he was gone. Mom and I figured that since I have a sister and another mother in the world, it was a good thing to get to know them . . . to get to know you.” With pleading eyes, she opened her hands to Jane. “And so here we are.”

  Jane’s fury had dissolved in the midst of Isabel’s utter sincerity. This girl, this young woman, her polite, well-mannered daughter. Isabel Zaretsky was the exact opposite of her twin—the day to Harper’s night—and this moment gave Jane all the satisfaction that had been lacking in the past fourteen years.

  Giving in to the welling emotion, Jane took Isabel in her arms and wrapped her in a hug. “I never thought I would be able to hold you in my arms,” Jane whispered.

  “I know. Me too.”

  While Jane ignored the tears filling her eyes, Isabel patted her back. Such a maternal gesture for a teenager, wise for her years.

  “I’m glad you’re not mad. That would just destroy me right now. I’m in a tender spot with Dad gone and Mom so sick.”

  Jane stepped back, her hand on Isabel’s shoulder. “How long has your mother been sick?”

  The girl shrugged. “It started when Dad died. That’s understandable. We all felt awful. Then it got bad, and . . . when the doctors didn’t know how to help her, the therapist suggested a move.”

  “Did that help at all?”

  “In the beginning. Mom really liked it here. But a few weeks ago, her dizziness and nausea came back.” Isabel twisted the string of the apron around her fingers. “She started seeing some doctors here, but they can’t figure out what’s wrong. I just hope and pray that they find something to help her. I love her so much.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  A scuffling sound came from the hallway. “Isabel?”

  Jane had to bite back a gasp. The shell of a woman leaning against the wall barely resembled Chrissy Zaretsky, who had been so vibrant and robust the last time Jane had seen her. Her hair, now thin and a watery gray and white, hung limp on her shoulders, and her damp, drawn face was lined with pain.