The People We Choose Page 13

  The knob rattles. “You locked the door?”

  We never lock doors. Not the front door, not the bedrooms, not the bathroom.

  “I guess so. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  A pause and then, “Can you let me in? I want to help.”

  I grip the edge of the tub as I push myself to stand. The rows of checkered black-and-white bathroom tiles seem to be moving in a snakelike crawl beneath my feet. One step. Two. Three. I reach the mirror by the sink—I don’t want to look but I do. It’s a cruel, masochistic urge. I need to see if I look as awful on the outside as I feel on the inside.

  I do.

  My eyes are rimmed in purple, swollen and squinty. I’m still sunburned in odd spots from my day of enforced yard work, but every other bit of skin is as pale as I’ve ever seen it—paler than when I had the flu two winters back. My hair is stuck to my cheeks, glued in place by some noxious combination of vomit and tears and sweat.

  “Calliope? Please.” Mama’s voice is less patient now. More knob rattling.

  “Coming.” I reach for the faucet, splash a handful of cold water on my face. I check my reflection again, and I look just as awful as I did before, only now my hair is even more matted.

  I undo the lock. Mama is already opening the door before I can turn the knob myself.

  “Food poisoning?” she asks, brow deeply furrowed. “You haven’t been out to eat the past few days. We’ve eaten all the same foods. Maybe it’s a bug. Or hormones. Where are you at with your cycle? I’m due for mine this week, and you know that cycles—”

  “Mama.” A mother’s go-to—always, always the cycle. “No. It’s not my period. You’re right, it’s probably just a bug. I’ll wake up feeling fine.”

  She leans in, studying my face up close. “Have you been crying?”

  “What? No.” I reach up to touch my cheeks, like I’m confused as to why she would ask such a question. “I was puking hard, though, so my eyes were watering up.”

  “Hm.” It’s a deeply suspicious hm. If it was Mimmy, she would have already sent me back up to bed, and she’d be downstairs making a cup of chamomile tea to fix me. Not Mama. “Listen, sweetheart. If something has you upset to the point of puking and crying, I would love to know about it. I probably don’t need to tell you that. But if you’re not ready to share… I’ll respect that, too. Or I’ll try to at least. Temporarily. No promises long-term. Okay?”

  I nod. She’s hoping I’ll break down now. Tell her what really had me wrapped around the toilet bowl in the middle of the night. But I don’t. I can’t.

  When I don’t say anything more, she sighs and throws her arms around me. “Anything that’s going on, you’ll get through it. We’ll get through it. It can’t be that bad.”

  It’s hard not to laugh. Not that bad.

  What would she say if she knew?

  The truth? My donor lives next door, and his son is my boyfriend.

  No. My maybe donor lives next door. I can’t be sure. Not with so little to go on.

  “Calliope? Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Still here,” I say. “Just sleepy.”

  Mama follows me up the attic steps and I silently thank any god and the stars above and the whole almighty universe that I had the good sense to kick the letter under my bed. She punches roughly at my pillow to fluff it before I lie back down. Even though it’s a balmy eighty-some degrees in my room, I let her tuck the sheet tight around me, just like when I was a little girl. It feels good to be covered up. Hidden.

  “It really will be okay,” she whispers, her lips pecking my forehead.

  Will it be?

  Can it be?

  I might be in love with my brother.

  Biological brother. Half brother. Though I don’t think the “half” makes it better in this case. Blood is blood.

  Funny that I never thought blood mattered that much. It didn’t matter that I don’t share blood with one of my moms. Or Ginger and Noah. They were all my family.

  But blood matters now.

  Blood is everything.

  I don’t sleep.

  How can I?

  All I think about is Max—Max and me. A constant loop.

  How could being together feel so right?

  If it’s true, if we’re related, shouldn’t I have felt it somehow? Sensed it?

  Some primal instinct should have triggered in me—internal red lights, alarm bells, flashing CAUTION signs imprinted deep in my DNA.

  But there was nothing like that. It felt happy. And good. And real.

  It was real. Still is.

  I close my eyes and picture Max, and I don’t know how I can possibly un-love him—as if it was a conscious decision to fall in love in the first place. It wasn’t a choice with Max. I met him, and I fell in love with him. Rule or no rule. That was just how it was.

  My sheets are drenched in sweat, knotted up from my tossing and turning. The sun comes up and I’m still wide awake. The light seems to form a spotlight on Max’s canvas, me and my tree. I can’t look away—can’t stop remembering that golden day. Our first kiss. The painting, the picnic, dozing on Max’s shoulder.

  No, Calliope. Stop.

  I need to get out of bed. Away from this painting.

  The smells of coffee and toast rise from the kitchen. I’ve never been less hungry, but I know Mama will be up to check on me before going to the studio if I don’t come down first. Her temporary patience might flag if I don’t at least pretend to be recovering. I swing my legs over the bed and stand. Force my feet down both sets of stairs, one step at a time.

  Mama and Mimmy are at the table, sipping coffee with their plates of fresh fruit and peanut butter toast.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Mama says, watching me carefully. “Feeling better?”

  “I am. Just like we expected.” I take a piece of toast and a few scoops of fruit as proof. The bread is too dry in my mouth, but I smile as I chew.

  Mimmy reaches over to pat my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t wake up last night when you were sick. I somehow slept straight through it. Want any chamomile? It’ll be easier on your stomach than coffee.”

  “I think I need some coffee,” I mumble, pouring myself a full mug of it even as Mimmy pinches her lips in disapproval. Coffee is my only chance of getting through this day.

  Hopefully I’ll be exhausted enough by the end of it to sleep tonight. Nightmares can’t be worse than reality.

  I’m halfway through my mug when I realize with a start that Max could show up on our doorstep at some point today. Bright and chipper and fiending for a baked good. And a kiss.

  I can’t. I can’t kiss him. I can’t see him.

  “I think I might go to the park this morning,” I say, putting my coffee down too hard, splashing some onto the table.

  “By yourself?” Mimmy asks, handing me a napkin. “No Max? Or Ginger?”

  “I’m sure I’ll see them at some point. Later. I just want to spend a little time with myself. I haven’t had much of that this summer. Maybe I’ll bring a book. Journal.”

  I sop up the coffee, pretending not to see the quick look Mama and Mimmy exchange.

  “Everything is fine. Really.” I dip the last end of my toast in the coffee, then shove it in my mouth. “You’ve always said I need to be my own best friend first and foremost.”

  “That is very true,” Mimmy concedes. “Don’t forget a blanket. And sunscreen. And water. And snacks. And—”

  “I won’t.”

  “You know, some time alone really might be just what you need.” Mama takes a slow sip of coffee, her eyes fixed on me as I stand from the table. “I like Max. You know I do. But you’re so young. And you two got serious pretty quickly. It’s okay to take things slow. No rush. You have all the time in the world.”

  We have no time, I want to scream. No time!

  Slow, fast, it doesn’t matter.

  If my Elliot is his Elliot, there’s no time left.

  I walk for a while when I
get to the park. I walk until I reach the other side of the lake, find a small shady patch between the bank and the woods. It feels more private here.

  I flip through the pages of Sense and Sensibility. Try and fail to lose myself in the Dashwood sisters’ drama. I put the book down. Pick up my phone. I open the internet app and search: donor siblings meet.

  I read about a donor whose sperm created fifty children. Fifty. That seems excessive—until I find another article about a British donor who says he likely has eight hundred offspring. Maybe a thousand.

  This is our reality, according to the articles I tear through frantically, one after another—these kinds of massive, sprawling genetic families, with no precedent or consistent rules and protocols, especially in America, that prevent this kind of disaster from happening: offspring of prolific donors meeting and falling in love, not knowing the truth about their connection. Not knowing the genetic risks that come packaged with their love.

  I read more about online registries, and stories of donor siblings tracking each other down through mail-away DNA tests, regardless of a donor’s anonymity.

  Some also ended up meeting by chance, fate, serendipity, whatever the hell you want to call it. One couple got married before they discovered their common origin. They had kids. Three of them. They’d felt connected from the first time they met. They’d thought that bond was a good thing. Until they found out the truth.

  My moms and I had never seriously discussed signing up for the Donor Sibling Registry. But of course I’d wondered about it sometimes, in all my years thinking about Frank—how many donor siblings might be out there in the world. How many other half Franks were wandering around, not knowing about him. Not knowing about me.

  It had seemed so hypothetical.

  But it would be naive to think I’m the only one. That it’s just me and his actual son. And—oh god. Marlow. A possible half sister, too.

  I drop my phone. I’m at my limit of absorption for the day.

  Max texted a few times while I was engrossed in my search, and I read them now. He went to the house, he said, and no one was home. Was I working? The next text said that he drove into town for iced coffee, stopped by the studio with one for me. I wasn’t there either.

  I deliberate over my lie, and then type: I had to run some errands today. New school things.

  He instantly sends back a kissy face.

  That emoji, a kiss, makes me nauseated.

  I can’t avoid him forever. I do realize that.

  Which means there’s only one thing to be done right now—I’ll call the cell phone number from the letter. The letter I tucked in my bag when I left my house this morning. I’ll call Elliot Jackson. Hopefully not the same Elliot Jackson who’s living next door. The one who is biologically half of my boyfriend. I’ll listen to his hello, or his voice mail message, and either I’ll recognize his voice or not and I’ll have my answer.

  I can’t see Max again until I know the truth.

  Because if it’s a different Elliot Jackson, then we’ll be perfectly okay. This will all be over. The most horrific misunderstanding possible, nothing more. Maybe Max and I will even be able to laugh about it someday. In the—very—distant future. Or maybe I’ll never tell anyone. It can be my secret. A nightmare that never leaves my own mind, never infects anyone else.

  Please let it be a horrific misunderstanding.

  I pull my journal out of my bag, find the page where I’ve neatly tucked away the letter.

  And then I pick up my phone. I tap *-6-7 to block my caller ID, and enter his number slowly, carefully. I tap the last digit, hold my breath. Wait.

  Seven rings. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  An automated voice clicks on: You have reached the voice mailbox for two-one-five—

  I hang up. Count to one hundred. Press to redial.

  The automated voice comes on again and I throw the phone down. I’m not ready to leave a message, because what would I say? The plan was just to hear his voice, either in person or on a recording. That’s where my strategy ended.

  I try a last-ditch effort—I do an internet search using his number. There’s nothing helpful, though, no clear identifiers for an Elliot Jackson. I could wade through useless webpages for hours. It feels like a black hole.

  I need a sounding board. A second opinion. Some brutally blunt advice.

  I need Ginger.

  She doesn’t instantly respond to my text asking what she’s doing, which must mean she’s working at the diner. I gather up my blanket and bag and head to the car.

  The roads and signs and cars are a blur. You are going to tell Ginger everything. I’m lucky that I pull into the diner parking lot unscathed. I kiss my hand and tap the ceiling of the car, a superstitious and nonsensical habit courtesy of Mimmy. But I don’t question it. Just in case. I scan the parking lot and exhale with relief when I see Ginger’s bright yellow car.

  She’s with a customer when I walk in, looking like a perfect pinup retro waitress in her short red-and-white-checkered dress and frilled white apron, red scarf tied around her neck and cat-eye glasses frames that don’t hold actual prescription lenses. And red lipstick, of course. It might be the local diner and no one else gives a shit, but Ginger does. Ginger gives a shit. She somehow makes wiping down greasy Formica tables and serving plates of congealed omelets look glamorous. Like the most desirable job in Green Woods.

  I sit down at a booth and watch while I wait. Her customer is certainly enjoying his service. A fifty-something man, balding with a denial comb-over, wearing a white muscle tee and acid-washed denim shorts that should have been disposed of several decades ago.

  Ginger is smiling and nodding politely as he leers at her, but the second she turns away she rolls her eyes and purses her lips.

  I wave from across the room to get her attention. She stops walking when she sees me, clearly surprised—I used to come here all the time on her shifts, but I haven’t done it once this summer. My guilt is a prickly, uncomfortable itch. I’m only here now because my life is a disaster. Not because I’m a good friend who wanted to brighten her day with my company.

  But she smiles as she starts over toward me.

  “Hey,” she says, dropping down next to me in the booth. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I haven’t visited you yet this summer.”

  “Oh please.” She waves her hand, her nails tipped in checkered black and white. “I don’t really blame you. The food is supremely mediocre, for one. And I’d be distracted, too, if my soul mate suddenly moved in next door.”

  Soul mate.

  Did I think that?

  Maybe. Deep down. In a place I wouldn’t dare let become words before. And certainly not now.

  My face must crumble, because Ginger looks panicked.

  “What? What did I say? Is everything okay? You and Max didn’t…?”

  “No. We didn’t break up.”

  “Oh, thank god. I was starting to feel positive about love again after the pep talk you two gave me on your birthday. If you two broke up now, we’d both be hopeless.”

  “Ginger…” I wipe my clammy palms against my dress. My stomach twists. This is Ginger, I remind myself. I shouldn’t be nervous. I can tell her anything. Always. “Any chance you have a break coming up soon?”

  She studies me for a moment, her heavily darkened eyebrows pulled in a tight line. Then she glances at the clock, sighs. “Give me fifteen minutes, okay? I’ll bring you a root beer.”

  I drain two glasses of root beer while I wait. The bubbles float in my empty stomach.

  “Sorry,” Ginger says a half hour later, putting a piece of strawberry pie in front of me. It’s unnaturally red and shiny and covered in a swirly mound of whipped cream. It’s nearly as big as my head. There are two forks on the plate at least. She slides into the booth next to me, close enough that our arms and legs are pressed together. Her apron is off to show that she’s on her break, and her glasses are clipped to her collar. “You looked lik
e someone who needed some pie. I have fifteen minutes. Tell me everything.” She picks up one of the forks, cuts off a squishy-looking lump of strawberry from the tip of the pie.

  “I did it. I requested Frank’s name.”

  She drops the fork, and the sad strawberry, on the table. “You did?”

  “He wrote me a letter.”

  “Oh my god. That was fast.” Her red lips are a perfect O. “Calliope. This is so huge.”

  “His name is Elliot Jackson.”

  She starts to say something. Stops. Starts. Stops again. It’s like the sound our old lawn mower makes when I first try to rev it up.

  “Not—it’s not—?” She’s begging me to fill in the blanks for her.

  “I don’t know. He gave me a phone number. I tried calling it before I came here, hoping I could hear his voice and figure things out that way, but I got a robot voice. I didn’t know what to say in an actual message, so I hung up. I used the number to search the internet, too, but didn’t find anything helpful.”

  She stares at me with wide, unblinking eyes. “How does this happen, though? I mean the likelihood of being neighbors. It must be one in a million. A billion even. Don’t they have rules in place to stop exactly this from happening?”

  I shrug helplessly. “I was researching earlier today. The system has flaws. I’m proof of that.”

  “But it can’t be him. Right? You would know. You just would.”

  “Would I?”

  She nods, but not with her usual Ginger flair of confidence. “I mean, you met Elliot, didn’t you? Did you notice any similarities?”

  “No. Besides the fact that we’re both white, I look nothing like him.”

  “Okay. Then you probably have nothing to worry about.”

  “So you think it could be another Elliot Jackson?”

  She picks up the dropped berry with her fingers, pops it in her mouth. I don’t know how she’s eating right now. I want to scream as I wait for her to finish chewing.

  “Maybe,” she says finally.

  “Maybe?” I definitely want to scream now. And I would, if we weren’t sitting in Ginger’s place of employment.

  “I don’t know, Calliope. We have no other facts. You didn’t get the answers you needed from calling the number. So you can either keep trying until he picks up the phone, or you can put your big girl pants on and walk next door and talk to him.”