The People We Choose Read online

  The cryobank will do the rest. They’ll reach out to him. Inform him of my request. He’ll choose the form of contact, and then they’ll send his e-mail, or letter, or phone number to me. My personal information is confidential until I choose to respond. If I choose to respond.

  I close out the screen, shove the folder in my desk drawer, and stand up.

  I walk downstairs, out through the kitchen door, and flop onto the hammock.

  And then I wait.

  The weekend is a necessary distraction.

  Max picks me up early Saturday morning for our grand birthday Philly tour. He comes to the front door dressed in dark jeans and a checkered short-sleeve button-up shirt with a black skinny tie around his neck. I’m glad I changed outfits five times and landed on the silky green dress that I worried at first would be too fancy.

  It’s our first time outside of Green Woods together, and the thrill of it thrums in my veins as soon as we pass through the town limits. I put the windows down and turn the radio up and close my eyes as the warm breeze tangles my hair.

  There’s a palpable buzz of freedom here in this car with Max. Escape.

  For the first time, I feel eighteen. I feel different.

  We don’t talk much during the ride. And we certainly don’t talk about our secrets. I don’t ask about his grandparents, and he doesn’t mention Frank. It’s like whatever happened around the firepit on my birthday was a contained moment that existed only in that specific time and place, with neatly sealed borders that none of us dare to cross again.

  I’ve been to Philly more times than I can count, but driving into the city with Max makes it feel brand-new. I see it through his eyes. I feel the deep love, the joy.

  Our first stop is a tour of Reading Terminal Market. Max had been aghast to hear I’d never been before. It’s chaotic and loud and exploding with people and smells—some better than others—aisle after cluttered aisle of vendors and markets, every kind of food one could possibly imagine. Fine meats and exotic produce, honeys and jams and herbs, chocolates, coffee, doughnuts. Max takes me to his favorite stalls, and it’s a long list. We split a roast pork sandwich and a grilled cheese with pickled green tomatoes, a cinnamon sugar pretzel and a lemon lavender whoopie pie, an apple fritter. We wash it all down with a minty fresh lemonade.

  My stomach aches by the time we leave. “If you leave here feeling healthy, you did the market wrong,” Max says, grinning at me.

  He takes me to his old neighborhood next, parking the car outside the building he had lived in since he was a kid. Max’s family had a floor to themselves. The tenth floor—the very top. It doesn’t look like anything special from the outside—pale brown stones, ten stories of white-framed windows, a big green door with a silver 4-1-2 at the top. But the way Max looks at it makes it feel like the most special building on the block. Maybe in the whole city.

  “Can we go inside?” I ask, grabbing his hand. “I want to see more. I want to see your old view.”

  “I doubt the new people who live there would let two strangers poke around their home. But it’s okay. I think being in there would make me feel sad and nostalgic and weird, and I don’t want to feel that way today. There’s no room for any of that bad stuff.” He squeezes my hand tight. “I loved it here. It was home. But I’m not sure it feels that way anymore.”

  We walk for a long time, Max pointing out all his old favorites—favorite deli, favorite Chinese restaurant, favorite mural, favorite park, favorite bench.

  “Favorite bench?” I stop walking and scowl down at the bench. “Do I want to know what happened here?” I picture it before I can stop myself: Max and a pretty, giggling girl, a kiss—maybe his first kiss. A kiss he can’t possibly ever forget.

  “Stop whatever you are thinking. Please. God. It’s where I used to bring Marlow when our mom and dad were fighting and we needed a break from the house. We had a lot of good times here. Probably our best times together. Listened to a lot of music. Mostly me DJ’ing, her listening and learning. Jazz, funk, classical, pop. Played some card games. Sketched people that walked by. It’s an excellent people-watching spot. You wouldn’t believe the characters we’d see. Philly has some special people, that’s for sure.”

  After we’ve canvassed the entire neighborhood, we get back into Max’s car. We drive, touring one neighborhood after the next, Max keeping up a steady running commentary of the sites. I’m not sure where we’re at when we stop to get out of the car again, but after a few minutes of walking, I see it: the LOVE sculpture. I’ve seen it before—everyone has—but I’ve never actually walked up to it. Never taken a picture with it.

  But we do now, in true tourist fashion, asking the most reliable-looking bystander if he’ll take our picture. We trust him not to steal Max’s phone based on his neat gray comb-over and spiffy white Keds and the fanny pack clipped around his waist.

  I try not to read into the photo—Max and I posing in front of bold red LOVE.

  It’s just a thing that tourists do. Being in love is not a requirement.

  I’m surprised to find that I’m hungry again, and Max insists we can’t leave until we eat a proper dinner. Food we could never eat in Green Woods, he says. He takes me to a Moroccan restaurant, dimly lit and covered in plush cushions. We’re served round after round of delicious sweet, spicy food, pies and stew and kebabs and pastries.

  We end the day with a stroll along Boathouse Row, charming old houses lining the edges of the Schuylkill River. The sun has just set and the glittering lights framing the houses are reflected in the dark, still water. We stop and hug by the glowing banks and I hold Max more tightly than I’ve ever held anything in my life.

  Philly will never feel the same.

  Max and I sit in the parked car in my driveway.

  Neither of us is ready to say good night. It’s been too perfect a day to end it before midnight. Every last minute of it needs to be fully lived.

  Only the porch light is turned on. The windows are all black. Mimmy and Mama didn’t wait up. They never do, and I’m glad tonight wasn’t an exception.

  We’re listening to the crickets, Max improvising lyrics to go along with the loud hum of their nightly mating call. Playing out, into the night, those cricket ladies are lovely all right. There’s a lull in the noise, and Max abruptly stops singing. He turns to look at me.

  “Can I tell you something?” he asks. He sounds nervous. His hand feels warm in mine. Too warm. I’m nervous now, too, nervous that we’ll cross those boundaries after all, talk about things I’d rather leave unsaid. At least for today. No Frank. No family drama. No murder.

  “Sure,” I say anyway. The right response, even if it’s not the one I’d prefer. It wouldn’t be kind to say I’d rather listen to crickets rubbing their wings together than whatever Max would like to confide in me.

  “I wanted to say it earlier today. A few times. But the moment never felt right enough.”

  “You’re making me anxious.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  “This isn’t how I pictured it going.”

  “It’s not how you pictured what going?”

  “I love you, Calliope. I know we only met last month, but I do. I’ve been falling for you since the day I came looking for sugar.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s not nearly enough air circulating in the car. I jab frantically at the window button to put it all the way down. Then I remember that the car is shut off. The window doesn’t move. I open the door instead.

  “Uh. Are you running away?”

  “No. Of course not. Just getting some more air in here.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the response I was going for.”

  “You’re making me want to faint. That’s not a bad thing. Romance can do that to a girl.”

  “You know you don’t have to say it back. It’s not like that. I probably just terrified you, saying it so soon. You don’t owe me an I love you just because I said it to you.”

&nb
sp; “I know.”

  “Good.”

  “But I do.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Thank god.” He slaps the steering wheel with his free hand. “You scared the shit out of me. But I wanted to handle myself like a real gentleman. Act all brave and understanding, even with rejection.”

  It’s dark in the car, but I can still see the relieved smile break open on his face.

  Maybe this—love—happened fast. But that doesn’t make it less real.

  I love him. I do.

  “Can we say it again?” he asks. “Just so I can be sure I didn’t dream the last time. And because you kind of took your sweet time getting to it.”

  “I love you, Max Martz.”

  “I love you, too, Calliope Silversmith.”

  The letter comes on Thursday.

  A week after I submitted the request.

  The return address is the cryobank.

  This feels fast for an actual response from him. Too fast.

  It could just be a confirmation, I suppose, some official note letting me know that the request is being processed. But I know without opening it—that’s not what it is. I know that the answer I think I want will be inside.

  I checked the mailbox as soon as I got home from my shift at the studio—I’ve been tracking the mail obsessively, along with vigilant e-mail checks on my phone. The mail truck comes between 11:13 and 11:48 every morning without fail. Mama and Mimmy are usually at work then, but a few times on off shifts one of them beat me to it. I’m lucky today was not one of those days.

  I’ll tell them, of course I will. But not yet.

  I tuck the letter under my pillow and sit on my bed. It’s hot and stuffy in the attic, even with the fan on full blast, like every other day so far this summer. The atmosphere doesn’t feel right for this kind of revolutionary life moment. I need to be comfortable. Focused. My best self.

  So where do I open it? When exactly? Do I go outside—maybe sit in the hollow of my tree, or climb to the top of the peak overlooking the valley, or sit along the edge of the pond? Drive to a café? Go somewhere outside Green Woods, order a nice latte like an adult and sit there and sip it while I open an envelope that could change everything. Act casual, like it’s any other day, and this is any other piece of paper.

  Do I wait until dark, when secrets feel more secret?

  Mama calls up from the bottom of the attic steps and my heart beats against my chest. I didn’t think she’d be home from the studio until later.

  “Can I get your help with the garden, sweetie? The weeds are total monsters.”

  She pops my door open.

  I jump up from the bed, my eyes darting back to the pillow. Safe. Fine. No envelope edges peeking out. Nothing to see.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. Totally okay. I just didn’t think you’d be home so early. You scared me.”

  She glances around the room, like she’s not convinced that’s all that’s going on. Looking for what I’m not sure, Max’s foot sticking out from under the bed, a stray marijuana bud. “I gave Marielle my afternoon classes. I need to get some yard work done. We’re starting to look like the Jackson house.” She shudders at the thought. “Though I haven’t seen it in a while, and not since they moved in. Has your boy helped fix the place up?”

  “A little.” Not really, though. My boy thinks it’s his dad’s duty. His house, his promises. It’s more of a standoff than anything. Joanie did at least trim some of the hedges that were starting to grow up over the porch steps.

  I change into an old pair of overalls and give one last resigned look at my pillow before following Mama downstairs.

  Later. After weeding. There’s no rush.

  But clearing the garden turns into taking a spin with the push mower, and after that Mama notices weeds growing in the cracks of our front path. I’m sweaty and sunburned and greatly in need of a shower by the time Mama releases me.

  Mimmy’s home then, too, calling up to me as I’m brushing out my wet hair, asking for help cutting up vegetables for dinner.

  Ginger texts asking if she can come over to escape her mom.

  Max shows up on the doorstep with some wildflowers he picked by the pond.

  And just like that, my day is gone, every minute filled with the people I love. The people I’d like to escape, just for a few hours.

  Ginger stays until ten. And it’s well after midnight by the time Max slips back through the woods to his house.

  My room is still hot, but not quite as unbearable as it was before.

  Maybe there is no perfect time or perfect place. Maybe I need to grab the moment whenever it’s here.

  And here it is.

  I sit on my bed, facing the round window. The moon. I take a deep breath.

  With trembling fingers, I open the envelope.

  The first piece of paper is from the cryobank—they explain that my donor opted to write a letter, which was then e-mailed to their office.

  The second piece of paper is from him. Frank. A neatly typed letter that the cryobank printed out.

  Before I read a word, I pick up my phone and scroll through my music library. It’s only appropriate to have some Frank Zappa on right now. I select “Valley Girl” to start. I know from Mama that Zappa’s daughter Moon is featured on that song.

  Music playing—volume low enough for me to tolerate—I turn back to the letter.

  I start at the top. I want to read all the way through, as it is, not cheat and skip to the bottom. The name that I’m hoping I’ll find there.

  Hello,

  I’m not sure how to address a letter when I don’t know who you are. What your name is. A simple hello will have to suffice. But really: hello. I mean it. It’s good to “meet.”

  Though it’s strange to make contact. To acknowledge your existence. I’m sure it’s just as strange for you.

  I have to admit, I’d long forgotten the decision I’d made nineteen years ago. Or not forgotten. Never forgotten. That’s not possible. They alerted me at the time to a confirmed pregnancy, but that was the last update I received, so I didn’t know if the pregnancy was viable or not. I pushed it away after that. Deep into the back of my mind. I made myself busy with other things.

  I was still young at the time, trying to make it in Philadelphia with heavy student debt, and I needed money. (I won’t pretend my motives were purely altruistic.) And I was so certain about so many things. One thing I was especially certain about was that I would never have children of my own. I figured that donation—helping other people to have the children they desperately wanted to have—was also a decent thing to do. I kept the donation open because I knew I would be too curious otherwise. I would wonder. Maybe no one would be out there. Or maybe somebody would be.

  Here you are. Nineteen years later.

  I hope that you’ve had a good life. That your parents gave you the home and the opportunities you deserved.

  In case you’re wondering, I ended up having children of my own after all. Soon after the donation. Life laughs when we try to make plans. I don’t think I was meant to be a dad, but so it is. You were better off to not have me in your life. I do believe that. You should, too.

  I’m not sure what else to say now. I don’t know that I can offer you anything that you want or need. In fact—I know that I can’t. But if you are still curious about any family history, I’ll put my cell number below.

  I really do hope you are well. And happy. Above all, happy.

  Best,

  I close my eyes before I can see the name. My stomach swirls—with anticipation, with dread, with guilt.

  It is just a name.

  A name will tell me nothing. The name has no power until I search for it online or call his number.

  It is just a name.

  I open my eyes. The words on the page loop and swirl and I grip the letter tighter as I focus on the bo
ttom.

  Best,

  Elliot Jackson

  Elliot Jackson.

  Elliot.

  Jackson.

  Elliot Jackson.

  No.

  It’s a common name.

  This Elliot Jackson could live anywhere—across the country, across the Atlantic.

  This Elliot Jackson is not my next-door neighbor.

  This Elliot Jackson cannot be Max’s father.

  Chapter Twelve

  I drop the letter to the floor. Sweep it under the bed with my foot.

  I can’t hold it. I can’t look at it.

  I can’t breathe.

  I shut my eyes tight, swallowing the first surge of bile that rushes up my throat.

  This can’t be right.

  The Elliot who wrote this letter must be another Elliot Jackson. Or the cryobank has made a terrible, terrible mistake. Crossed wires. Had the wrong donor write to me.

  I was not from a bloodline of maybe murderers. Cheaters.

  I was not from the same bloodline as Max.

  Max.

  The next wave of nausea hits with more force. I jump from the bed, throw my shaky legs down the stairs as fast as I can manage without tumbling headfirst in front of my moms’ bedroom door. I will not puke on the steps. I will not puke in the hallway. I hurl myself into the bathroom, lock the door, and fall to my knees in front of the toilet.

  I wretch over and over again. Dinner, lunch, bile. I wretch until there is nothing left inside me. I am hollow. A shell.

  I’m too weak to move at first, my arms still hugging the bowl for support. The porcelain feels cool against my hot skin.

  The tears come next. I was wrong—there is something left inside me after all. A steady drip-drip added to the pool of vomit. I flush the toilet. Flush again. Add more tears to a fresh bowl of water.

  There’s a knuckle tap against the door. So quiet at first, I desperately hope I’ve imagined it. I hold my breath, listen.

  Another tap. “Calliope?” Mama. Shit. Mimmy would be easier to get rid of.

  I slowly let go of the bowl, grab a wad of toilet paper to dry my eyes. Take a deep breath. “I’m okay. I think it’s just a little food poisoning or something.”