Lilly doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’s typically expressive, but being under water from her neck down squelches any physical reaction she might have had. But you can see all you need to know in her eyes. A potent mix of anger and embarrassment. I dig my fingernails into my thighs so I don’t start to cry, because if I do, Lilly will suffer permanent emotional scars. When she slithers up the wall of the pool and climbs out, the other girls are in ready position, so she immediately returns to the block with knitted fists. She doesn’t look at me. The starting signal sounds, and Lilly’s in the water again swimming the backstroke, her strongest event. My heel is tapping rapidly on the cement floor while I look around at the other parents. I smile lavishly all over the place.
I look at my watch. If I don’t come up with something soon, Tessa and Smarty—both PhDs in the sixth sense—will sniff something’s wrong before the day is out. God, I used to be so sensible. I prided myself on being smart. All my life, I had a solution for anything. Until today.
I tap my thumbs together in syncopation with my foot.
The cogs in my mind get unstuck and almost groove. A spark of an idea starts to kindle.
After a good, hearty, fake sneeze, I drop my head toward the floor to pantomime rummaging through my handbag for a tissue long enough to make a quick discreet phone call.
I whisper into the phone with my head between my knees. I cup my hand over my mouth so no one can hear me. It’s almost impossible to have a conversation in here because of how loud it becomes with clapping and hooting. It must be Tessa’s event; she’s no longer on the bench. The person I’m on the phone with puts me on hold. I look up briefly. Tessa’s in the water. The lady comes back, and I tip my head down. I quickly end the call and sit up.
People are cheering, and I follow their lead. God forbid the girls look at me and I’m not celebrating like the rest of the parents.
I subconsciously rub my hands up and down my jeans and realize they are slick with sweat.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday, September 23, 2006, 3:37 p.m.
T
he swim meet is over. I spring off the bench, look down at my watch, and dash over to where the team has collected. I quickly snatch up everything that belongs to the girls, like a chicken pecking at bird feed. Thankfully, Tessa and Lilly are sitting next to each other, so after I swing their gym bags over my shoulders, it’s easy to grab both of their arms and guide them off the bench and rush them up the stairs. “Hurry, we don’t have time,” I say out loud to no one in particular. I’m a woman with a mission. And a plan!
They protest the entire way. But I’m impervious to their clamor. The Red Cross is closing distressingly soon, so I have no time to indulge them. I must ignore what they’re saying, partly because nothing else will fit in my brain right now. I’ll listen to them later. Later, they’ll have my undivided attention.
I turn on the ignition and put the car in reverse. “Great job, girls. Really, really great,” I praise them as I look to the side mirrors. No one is backing up behind me. The car jolts backward like it did when I was learning to drive a stick shift.
“Mom, I’m not even in my seat!” one of them says.
“I don’t have my belt on,” the other blurts.
“What a meet—
whew
—you girls were something else.” I’m just going to keep this all light and airy. Real casual and normal. They won’t notice a thing. I look down at my watch again. It’s going to be a miracle if we get there on time.
“
Mom
—where are we going?! Are you listening???? We don’t have our clothes—”
“Or even a
towel
—”
“I’m freezing!”
I look at them in the rearview mirror. I can’t think clearly with them complaining and persisting. “Oh, magnificent! Great!” I smack the steering wheel. “You’re cold! You’re wet! Super. Have you thought about me?! I may be losing my mind!”
The girls look at me with frozen faces, disbelief twisted with fear. I realize I didn’t say this to myself.
I thrust the gear into park and notice their gym bags on the front seat.
“Oh, gosh, I thought you had your things. Here—I’m sorry.” I throw the two bags into the back seat. “I’m so sorry. You must be freezing—here, let me turn the heat on.” I look down at their feet and silently thank God they’re not barefoot.
Lilly’s hand goes for the door handle. “I’m going to get our towels—”
“Lilly
, where are you going? Don’t open that door. Stay in the car—there’s no time. We might not make it as it is. I took your towels. They’re in your bags. Look in your bags.” I put the gear back into drive and head out of the parking lot. I have one hand extended into the backseat to support Lilly in case she springs forward—she’s still not strapped in. “Hold on, Lilly.”
“Make it where?” Tessa asks, shivering while pulling stuff out of her gym bag. I can’t look at them like this. Wet and cold. It’s killing me. What am I doing? I’m acting like a lunatic. It’s breaking my heart—but I can’t stop. We need to do this. I’ll make it better after this is all over. I really, really will.
If we do find out that I’ve lost my mind, it may not be such a terrible thing (for them) after all, since we may be on the edge of discovering that I’m not their mother. We’ll find out something soon at the Red Cross.
“My towel isn’t in my bag, Mommy,” says Tessa.
“This isn’t my towel,” Lilly snaps, “It’s Sophia’s!”
“Well, just use Sophia’s towel, for Pete’s sake. You’re soaking wet, what difference does it make?”
“Are you kidding? She picks her nose! I am not using a nose picker’s towel!”
“I’ll use it. I’m freezing.” Tessa grabs the towel from Lilly.
“Fine. Don’t be surprised if you get boogers all over you.”
I can’t listen to them anymore. They need to be quiet!
“Listen, girls,” my voice is thick with desperation, “I haven’t told you about the terrible thing that’s happened to Ricky.” I quickly try to concoct who “Ricky” is and what the “terrible thing” is that I haven’t told them. This sucks.
“Who’s Ricky, Mommy?” Tessa is already feeling selfish for complaining about not having a towel. She starts to nibble at her nails.
Then Lilly blurts, “I can’t believe you made me fall in the pool. What was that about? Embarrassing me like that. I’m gonna hear about that for the rest of my life. I could have gotten a penalty! The least you could do is have my towel. I’m freezing my butt off.”
I let Sassy Pants have a moment. I can’t say I don’t deserve it. She’s just scared and confused and is protecting herself with anger. Thinking about genes, I actually feel better about her tirade.
“Where are we going that’s so important? What’s the family emergency?” Lilly’s back on track.
Tessa starts to cry.
“By the way Mom, we lost. We
lost
that meet, ya know—the one you’re so proud of,” Lilly points out. “And next time, don’t clap for the other team. You’re supposed to clap for us. We saw you.”
I pull the car over to the side of the road and shift into park. “Tessa, please don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. I guess I didn’t realize you girls lost. Well, you know that never matters to me. You know that, winning or losing, I’m still proud of you. And yes, I was clapping because … because … do you know what it’s like for a mother to see her daughters being so amazing? Working so hard at something and then doing that thing they worked hard at?! I don’t give a
damn
who won.” The girls turn to look at each other with synchronized shock. I scan Lilly’s features and swear her eyes and nose are right off my face. I can’t believe I cheered for the other team. And I just cursed in front of them.
“Here, take these.” I frantically yank tissues from a box I keep in the car and quickly pat Lilly’s wet legs. “Take these tissues and blot your arms. What do you have in your bag, Lilly? Isn’t there something you could use to dry off? We just have to make one quick stop, and then we’ll go straight home. Don’t worry. They’ll have towels for you there. They’re good people there. They’ll help us. That’s what they do. Help people in need. Okay?
Please.
We just need to get there before they close.” I look at myself in the rearview mirror to make sure I don’t look too berserk for the Red Cross. I can’t give them a reason to refuse our blood.
“Listen, you two. I know I’ve been a little off today. I promise things will get better. I’ll be back to normal in no time—don’t worry—we just have to stop at the Red Cross. Okay? One quick stop, and everything will be fine.” As I say this, I scramble for an explanation as to
why
we are going to the Red Cross, and why exactly I’m going to insist blood be drawn from their innocent veins.
So … I tell them … the terrible,
horrible
news … about their second-great cousin, “Ricky,” who is related to my grandmother’s sister’s granddaughter (whom they’ve never met or heard of). He needs … surgery. Serious surgery. And even though he lives in … Argentina, everyone in the family is donating blood just in case.
They barrage me with questions about Ricky.
“Girls, I don’t know all the details—we’re not shipping blood to Argentina, he’s … having … the surgery … here someplace, in the U.S. Or maybe they are shipping it. I don’t know all the details. Hurry up and get dressed Lilly. Look in the back. There’s a bag of old clothes that I was going to drop at the Salvation Army. Blot yourself off with something in there, and get dressed. We have no time to waste.”
“What blood type does he have?” Tessa asks. “Shouldn’t we know his blood type? We just talked about this in health class.”
“Uh, well, it’s the same as mine. I don’t know what yours are, that’s why we’re going to check first. They’re not going to take blood from you unless you have the same type as Ricky.”
“How do they do that?” they ask in unison.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s a simple finger prick.” I don’t dare look in the rearview mirror. I can’t bear to see them scared. I gulp a pool of saliva and wonder if it’s audible to anyone but me. There is a long silence.
“There’s a swim cap and goggles in here that are not mine. Neither are these nose plugs. I don’t even use nose plugs, Mom. My shirt’s not here,” Lilly says in a quieter tone.
“Lilly, that’s your fault, not Mommy’s. Coach tells you all the time to put your clothes in your bag,” says Tessa.
“Lilly, use one of those old tops from the Salvation Army bag.” I pray to God there’s nothing in there that she’s made me promise not to give away. She wears clothes until they’re way too small for her because of her attachment issues.
Lilly reaches her arm around to feel for the bag. There’s the crinkle of plastic.
“What do you mean he could die? We’ve never even met him—he’s our cousin—our
only
cousin.” Lilly can’t handle death in any form, fiction or nonfiction. I should’ve thought this whole story through before it left my mouth.
“Please, Lilly, I don’t know. Of course he may not die. Of course I want him to live, especially so you girls can meet him, just not now, okay? I’m just too upset to talk about it. Let’s just try to stay strong, and do what we need to do.”
The girls rummage through the bag of old clothes as we pull into the Red Cross parking lot. Before I step out of the car, I flip the mirror down quickly to check the makeup on my bruise.
“Here, put that on,” Tessa says to Lilly, tossing her something from the bag.
“I am not wearing a Dora vest! Are you crazy?! I wore that when I was three!
You
put it on!”
Great,
now
she’s a clothes snob.
“I already have a shirt. What’s the difference anyway? There’s nothing else in here besides this winter coat. Fine, take the coat.”
I sweep some bangs over the Band-Aid on my forehead. I feel myself coming unglued. I’m jittery, and the littlest straw could break me.
“What the hell.”
I don’t believe my eyes.
I brush my hand casually across my chin. It doesn’t budge. That’s because it’s connected to my chin—
in the form of a chin hair!
And it’s long enough to pick up signals from low-flying planes. I stare at it. I’m not going to flip out because of this. This is not going break me. I have no time for this. But how and when did I become a lady with chin hair? I’m thirty-five. I remember what Gabrielle said about the woman whose husband left her for the au pair.
My eyes dart to the dashboard clock. We’ve gotta get in there—
now
. I have to move beyond this hair, though it’s long enough to hang laundry off of.
“I’ll take care of it later.” I flip the mirror closed. “I keep up with personal maintenance. My husband is not gonna leave
me.
”
“Why would Daddy leave you?”
Oh God, not again?
“Give me the hat in that bag. Is Daddy’s old golf hat in there?” Tessa hands it over, and I tighten the strap and pull the hat down over my head. Snug enough to keep everything inside.
Out of the car, we all hold hands and walk solemnly up the marble stairs, between the gargantuan, round columns that flank a huge wooden door, into the main foyer of the Red Cross. A very respectable, distinguished place.
We try to fit in.
I stand between my daughters. The girls I’ve always known as my daughters. They stand tall; both in wet bathing suits and goose bumps—while I wear a long, wiry hair on my chin, a purple monkey on my cheek, and a Band-Aid above my right eyebrow. All is quiet—except for the thrashing of my heart.
“Good afternoon,” I say in my most refined voice. The receptionist takes one look at us, and her eyebrows twitch upward almost imperceptibly. She clears her throat and looks around, to make sure the security guard hasn’t gone for the day.
“May I help you?” she lies.
“We’re here to have our blood type checked.” I tell her the story about Ricky. She looks at her watch, and escorts us into a donor room without remarking.
The girls each receive a medical robe and blanket, and slipper socks that the nurse insists they keep. After I fill out some routine paperwork, the nurse draws my blood. She takes a pint. But from the girls, for now, she’ll just prick their fingertip for a sample to test the type.
“You must love your cousin Ricky very much,” the nurse offers, trying to relax them.
They clutch each other’s hand, their eyes fixed on the ceiling. They’re magnificently brave, and I’m so proud of them. They’re mostly, uncharacteristically, quiet except for an occasional mention of Ricky’s name and questions about his illness or his mother and father—the aunt and uncle they never knew existed.
Before the nurse leaves the room to check the girls’ blood types and make up Red Cross blood cards for us, she offers apple juice and cookies and a Band-Aid for Tessa’s thumb, which is bloody from her gnawing on it. We munch on the cookies, and I whisper to the girls, “We’re not going to mention this to Daddy. He’s under too much stress, and I don’t want to worry him about Ricky. Let’s keep this little mission to ourselves.” I wink. “Okay?” They nod with their mouths full.
When the nurse returns, she hands me the three cards, one with each of our names and blood types and says something to me that I don’t hear.
I fan the cards, poker style.
Come on, three-of-a-kind
I silently pray to myself. I lower my eyes and read them. Lilly Thompson A+, Tessa Thompson B+, Caroline Thompson AB+.
I close my eyes. I need another plan.
Sunday, September 24, 2006, 9:12 a.m.
The wooden blinds
are not drawn all the way to the sill; they reveal a twelve-inch gap of dark sky. It looks like night, though I know it’s not. The glass panes are teeming with swollen droplets. They descend the slippery window, picking up speed, taking others with them, engulfing them, capturing them, becoming bloated and heavy. The rain falls without sound. The only sound comes from the clock on my bedside table. I look over to check that it is indeed morning. The pills I promised myself if I didn’t fall asleep by 1:00 a.m. are still there. They wouldn’t have helped anyway.
Yesterday, after we returned home from the Red Cross, the girls insisted on writing Ricky a “Get Well Soon” card. They each included photos of themselves and pictures they drew for him to hang on his wall. I was queasy from inventing that colossal lie and for the unsettled business of our blood test. I never considered the test might not be definitive. I was so sure it would be. And now I have to mail this letter to a fake address in Argentina.