The People We Choose Read online

  “Even then, say I talk to him and he tells me he wrote the letter—maybe the cryobank messed up. They could have had a glitch in the system, or the person referencing the donor number was hungover and miserable and not paying attention. It could be a mistake.”

  “That’s why you have to talk to him face-to-face. And look at him. Really look at him.”

  “But we see what we want to see sometimes, don’t you think? Or in this case, don’t see what we don’t want to see. I don’t think I can trust my eyes.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think you have another choice. He’s the only way to get answers. He’s the key to everything.” When I don’t have a response, she asks, “Have you told anyone else yet?”

  “No.”

  “So Max has no clue about any of this?”

  “No.”

  “You know you have to tell him.”

  “If it’s true. Only if it’s true. Why scare him away if I have it wrong?”

  She bites down hard on her lip, smearing her perfectly applied lipstick. Her teeth are now as unnaturally red as the pie. “And you never felt… anything off about you and Max? Never picked up on any weird vibes?”

  “No, Ginger. Never once when we were making out did I stop and think—Gee, could this be my biological half brother? Wouldn’t that be something? And then keep going.”

  “I know that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what the right questions are right now.”

  “I don’t know the right words either.”

  “I mean—your brother.”

  “My half brother.”

  “If it’s true, what would you do?”

  “What do I do? I have to break up with him. It’s—” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.

  Incest. Test-tube incest, maybe, a product of science. But still—incest.

  I start laughing hysterically. It’s just so ridiculous—I can’t not laugh. Ginger’s eyes widen with concern. She picks up the fork and cuts off a big chunk of pie, lifting it up to my lips. “Eat. You need pie. Please.”

  The pie tastes as fake as I expected, the strawberries sugar-soaked and gelatinous. But the whipped cream makes it more palatable. I obediently chew and swallow.

  “It would be illegal to ever have sex with him,” I say matter-of-factly when I’m finished.

  “That’s why you were laughing?”

  “Yep.”

  “You didn’t, though? Yet? Did you?”

  I shake my head. “No. Definitely not. We’ve only kissed. But we did say—”

  She waits, compulsively eating a few forkfuls of pie in the interim.

  “We said ‘I love you.’”

  “When?”

  “The day he took me to Philly.”

  “You said you loved each other and didn’t tell me?” Her whole face droops. “That’s… kind of a big deal, Calliope. I know we haven’t had much—or any—real alone time, just the two of us. But you could have called me.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

  She’s quiet after that. It’s unsettling.

  “It was stupid of me. And if I could redo it again differently, I would. I’d tell you right away. But it doesn’t even matter now, that I love him and he loves me. If his dad is my…” I close my eyes. Donor. Frank. “Then it was all for nothing. I was a bad friend who got swept up in boyfriend land, and I’ll end up all alone in the end. Maybe I deserve that.”

  “You don’t have to be quite that dramatic,” Ginger says, roughly dissecting the last strawberries with her fork until it looks like a pile of obscene gore in the middle of the plate. “I would never say you deserve to be in love with your half brother. That’s way too epically cruel and Shakespearean. I’m not sure I’d wish that on my worst enemy.”

  “So”—I reach for her hand, forcing her to drop the fork—“you forgive me? You pity me enough to let my bad behavior slide?”

  “I didn’t say that either.” But she’s smiling now, red and toothy. “Ugh. It’s hard to stay mad at you when you might be in love with your sibling.”

  “Thanks for that, Ginger.”

  “Anytime. That’s what best friends are for.”

  I drown myself in more diner food and too much coffee until Ginger is slammed with the dinner rush, and then I drive aimlessly in loops around town, trying and failing to get lost. It’s impossible in this town. The sun sinks behind the hills at the edge of the valley, and I keep circling. I don’t stop until Mama texts, asking where I am. She never checks in. It’s time to give up for the day. Hope that I’ve stayed away long enough.

  I turn my headlights off before turning down our driveway. Added precaution. Just in case the light would carry through the trees to the Jackson house. Max might be watching for me.

  I’m walking up to the porch when I hear: “Something wrong with your lights?” I jump.

  Mama’s in her rocking chair, a tumbler of whiskey in her hand.

  “My lights? No. I was fiddling with the brights. And then figured I was at our driveway, so I just turned them off.”

  “You do know you’re a terrible liar. Which I’m glad about, by the way. Better to be a bad liar than a good one. Though better yet not to lie in the first place.”

  I sit down on the chair next to her. There’s no walking away from this conversation.

  “I’m assuming the stealth entrance was for the benefit of our dear neighbors. Though really, I would guess they can only see headlights in the winter, when the trees are bare. Maybe not even then.” She takes a sip, glances off in the direction of the Jacksons’ house. “I don’t see any lights coming from their neck of the woods. So, in the future if you’re avoiding Max, probably best to keep those lights on. Never know when a deer or a racoon or a kitten will wander in your path.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For turning your headlights off? Or for lying?”

  I sigh. “Both.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t need specifics. But you can be honest about hiding out. Would have saved an awkward conversation when Max came poking around the studio today. And then again at the house earlier this evening. He said he’d figured you’d be finished picking up new school things by then.”

  “Oh god. What did you tell him?”

  “That you weren’t at the studio. Or at home.”

  “Where did you say I was both times?”

  “I said I wasn’t sure. That you might be running some more errands.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s what moms do.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, staring out into the dark, and I almost say it. I almost say: I found Frank.

  But then Mama speaks. I swallow the confession. “Listen,” she says. “I won’t ask questions or make any grand speeches, but I will tell you this: Whatever it is that’s got you so upset? It won’t just go away. I’m glad you could have time to yourself today. But, darling—you have to face it. Whatever it is, whatever the implications are. Face it head-on. Be brave. You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be as easy as you think.”

  “I never said it would be easy. The most valuable things in life rarely are.” Mama takes her last swig of whiskey and stands up. “We should get to bed. I suspect you didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

  I follow her in and go through the motions, brushing my teeth, washing my face, putting on pajamas. I lie in my bed, steeling myself for the morning.

  Ginger and Mama are both right. I need to face it straight on.

  Face him straight on.

  No more calls, no more automated voice mail. To be honest, I’m not even certain I’d recognize his voice over the phone well enough, not after one dinner. Even if he picked up, I would need more evidence. A more definitive answer.

  I can
’t be stuck in this loop, wondering, worrying, lying.

  Elliot runs in the morning. That’s my best shot at catching him alone. Because I can’t exactly knock on the door, say Oh hello, Max, can I talk to your dad? Privately?

  I’ll wake up early. Wait by the top of their driveway. Hope he doesn’t take a break day.

  That is the plan.

  Please don’t let it be him.

  I’d rather he was cruel. A thief. A murderer. A convict of any kind, really.

  I’d rather he was anyone else in the world.

  Because anyone else means it’s okay to love Max.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE next morning my alarm goes off at five. For a groggy, dream-laced moment my brain can’t comprehend why it’s happening: It’s summer. My moms never give me the opening shift at the studio. There is no sane reason for me to be awake before the sun is up. Is my alarm clock glitching?

  And then it all comes back to me at once, a sad, heavy wave. Max and Elliot. The need to get to the bottom of everything. The need to know.

  It’s hard to decide what to wear when you might be meeting your father—donor—for the first time. Our dinner meeting doesn’t count. Those stakes were very different. But at five in the morning, I conclude anything goes and throw a yoga hoodie on over the shorts and T-shirt I slept in and shove my feet into the glitter slip-ons Ginger made for my birthday. The extra sparkle gives me a small flare of courage. It’s almost like Ginger will be there next to me, letting me borrow some of her shiny confidence. Though Ginger would never approve of waking up at this ungodly hour for anything other than a diner shift. Even then, she usually pulls an all-nighter instead, preferring to stay up late rather than wake up early.

  I take the steps down as quietly as possible, one cautious tiptoe at a time. I’m expecting to breeze out the front door, but my plan is thrown off by a rattling sound in the brightly lit kitchen. Somebody is making coffee.

  I’m wondering if it’s possible to still slip out the door unheard and unseen when the last stair gives an unfortunate squeak.

  Mimmy pokes her head out from the kitchen doorway. “Calliope? What are you doing up so early?”

  “I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, so—” My morning brain whirs, clunky spinning gears not yet in sync for the day. Mimmy watches me curiously. “So—so I thought maybe I’d watch the sunrise from the top of the hill. Start the day on a positive note.”

  Mimmy nods and smiles in approval, which only makes me feel worse about the lie.

  “That sounds like the best way to start the day! Very grounding. I’d offer to keep you company, but we have an early training session at the studio this morning and Mama and I have to scoot soon. She’s just upstairs wrapping up her morning inversions.”

  “That’s okay,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hear how relieved I am to be rid of them. “I’ve never watched the sun come up alone. Maybe it’s time at eighteen.”

  “Maybe it is.” Her voice sounds odd as she says it—a little sad, a little proud. “Wait there just a minute.” She disappears back into the kitchen. I hear cupboards opening and shutting, liquid splashing. “Coffee for your sunrise,” she says, reemerging with a tall green thermos in one hand. “Vanilla coffee, a healthy pour of oat milk, spoonful of stevia. And a blueberry oat bar in case you get hungry after the walk. I made them yesterday—it’s my first attempt at the recipe, so go easy on the baker if it needs work.”

  “Nothing you make ever needs work.”

  She shushes me and gives me a quick hug. “You’re too biased. Now get up that hill before you miss the best part.”

  I leave through the back door, walk in the direction of the woods until I’m far enough from the kitchen window, and then skirt the side of the house. It’s mostly dark still, though the sky is streaked with the first hints of light. I tread along the grassy edge of the gravel driveway to avoid any crunching sounds, lucky that I know every twist and divot between our house and the road. A few early birds chirp from the branches above me, but otherwise the world is silent. Even the woods still seem to be asleep.

  I realize, with sinking dread, that if I don’t see Elliot today, I’ll have to pretend to become an avid sunrise watcher so I can try to catch him another morning. It’s that, or I call the number and leave a voice mail if he doesn’t pick up. Wait for a call back.

  Please, Elliot, go for a run this morning. Please.

  I pick up my pace. The Jackson house is to the right once I hit the road. My moms will be driving to the left to get to the studio.

  I don’t pass any cars on the short walk. But still, just in case, I hug tight to the tree line. My choice in sweatshirt color—black—and shorts—dark gray—was slightly questionable for a predawn trek.

  The Jacksons’ mailbox looms in the dim light. They haven’t replaced it yet—it’s the same mailbox I’ve been passing my whole life. It looks like it was once white, based on the few flecks of paint still left, but it’s mostly exposed metal now. There’s a massive dent on the side, maybe from a car, and the pole is slanted dramatically. Like it’s a gust of wind away from toppling over. I assume it’s just one more item on Elliot’s long list of household to-dos.

  I choose a spot between two thick tree trunks. There’s some privacy if I need to hide—what if Marlow or Joanie are, unbeknownst to me, devoted morning runners, too?

  Mimmy’s coffee is a godsend. As is the granola bar, which—as expected—tastes perfect even if it’s Mimmy’s first go at a new recipe. I’m surprised I’m hungry enough to eat, but my stomach seems confused by the time of day and the unprecedented early movement. I drink the coffee slowly, just in case I’m here for a while. It didn’t occur to me in my sleep haze to bring my phone, which means I only have the sun to mark the passing of time. I watch as it creeps higher above the treetops, golden light chasing shadows from the woods. Morning dew sparkles. Squirrels and rabbits and other tiny creatures stir.

  An hour goes by, maybe an hour and a half. Leaning against the tree trunk has me dangerously close to sleep. I force myself upright, alert. A few minutes later, I hear it: the sound of sneakers grinding down on gravel. I push off the grass to stand.

  I get my first glimpse through the trees. Elliot, in a gray T-shirt and shorts, coming up the driveway. Surprisingly quickly. Earbuds in, mouthing along to whatever music is playing from his phone. Frank Zappa would be appropriate.

  I take a deep breath and step onto the road.

  My heart races, an unsettling thump-thump-thump. It’s like I not only climbed the hill, but ran the whole way to the top.

  Elliot reaches the end of the driveway, eyes widening when he realizes he’s not alone. He slows, then stops, staring at me as if he might be imagining that I’m here. “Calliope?” he says, too loudly, overcompensating for his music.

  “Hello.” I lift my hand to wave, but it stalls somewhere in the middle, stiff and unmoving.

  “Uh, can I help you?” He takes out one earbud, then the other, and shoves them in his pocket. “Are you on a morning run, too?”

  “No, I’m no runner.” I laugh, an awkward, high-pitched sound, and force myself to move closer, cross over the rest of the road to the start of the driveway. I don’t stop until I’m standing right in front of him.

  Even with the smattering of grays, I can tell that his hair had been dark, brownish black, not auburn like mine. His nose is strong, angular, as different from mine as a nose could be. My face is heart shaped, his more triangular. But he’s watching me with clear blue eyes, and his smile shows two deep dimples. His lips are full like mine, too, especially round on the bottom, and with two distinct points at the top, like two mountains on an otherwise flat plain. It’s not everything—eyes, dimples, lips—but it’s something.

  “Calliope? Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  “Did you write me a letter?” I blurt out. I don’t have the energy for subtlety or nuance.

  “Did I—?” His wide eyes study me, searching for greater meanin
g.

  It’s fascinating in a purely objective sense, the way his face plays out the complex chain of emotions that come in rapid succession—bewilderment, recognition, shock, and, lastly and most emphatically, horror.

  More subjectively, I feel every reaction in every bone and cell of my body. Especially as I start to recognize tiny, painful familiarities in the planes of his face. The lift of his brows, the twist of his lips, the crinkling of his chin. I’ve seen those same expressions in photos. In mirrors.

  “No.” He says it loudly. Like volume will somehow make it more resolute. More true. I swear the leaves around us tremble in response.

  “No, you didn’t write me a letter?”

  “I did write a letter.” His fingers tear through his hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions, like he’s been shocked. Which, I suppose, he has been. “But it wasn’t to you. It couldn’t have been to you.”

  “How do you know? If it’s the letter I received, there was no name at the top. You didn’t know my address. You knew nothing about me. Only that I existed.”

  “But… it could have gone anywhere. The other side of the country. Hawaii. Alaska. Not to my next-door neighbor. Not to my son’s—” His mouth hangs open, slack, his whole face seeming to lose the elasticity needed to hold everything in place.

  “Girlfriend.” I finish for him.

  “Maybe they made a mistake. Switched names in the system.”

  He’s staring at me, waiting for me to respond.

  I say nothing.

  “You can’t be sure.” His last attempt. “We could do a paternity test. You can order them online. Do it at home.”

  I wonder why he knows this. I don’t think I want to know the answer. “If that’s what you need to be sure.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I think the cryobank would go out of business if they were keeping bad records.”

  He reflects on this, really looking at me, maybe for the first time. And then he nods, defeated. “I just can’t believe it’s… you. After all these years. That you’re my daughter.”