The Woman in the Photo (6 page)

In spite of myself, I laugh.

“You see,” Francine continues, “Mr. Carnegie told the elder Mr. Tottinger that South Fork was more than a club for fishing
bass
. He told him that Pittsburgh's most prominent young ladies summer here and there was no better place for his son to cast his line.”

“That's absurd.” Swiveling away from Francine, I mentally will her off the veranda and into the lake. “Mr. Carnegie would never say something so crass.”

“He would and he did. I trust Father completely.”

Addie asks, “How did James Tottinger respond?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fuss with the silk flowers atop her hat. Then she presses a handkerchief against the beads of sweat on her upper lip.

“He was pleased.”

“Pleased?” Addie echoes.

“Pleased?”
I feel my heart increase its beating.

Pausing for dramatic effect, Francine Larkin takes one tiny step closer, leans in on her baby feet, and whispers, “He grinned devilishly and said he'd always been an expert
angler
. Clearly, the thought of having unfettered access to us all excited him no end.”

My dark eyes grow black. “Is this true?”

“As I said, I trust Father completely.” Francine lifts her pointed chin in the air with absolute confidence.

I don't need to hear more. Such impudence. Being compared to a
fish
? Paraded about for a foreigner's selection? Not me. Not
ever.
Just thinking about it brings color to my face. How could a gentleman like Mr. Carnegie even hint at such a thing?

“Shall we?” I say to Addie and Julia. They stare at me, dumbfounded. Julia sputters, “No one has summoned us into the dining room yet.”

“Surely you don't intend to stay here and subject yourself to such an insult?”

Again, Addie's fingers fumble about her hat. Julia stares at her feet, mumbling, “I'm quite sure he meant it as a compliment.”

“Compliment? Likened to a smelly, scaled, bug-eyed, flapping creature without limbs?”

Immobile, they gape at me with lips parted like . . . like
fish
. Francine's petite shoes suddenly seem permanently attached to the wood planks of the porch floor. Her brows still reach up to the treetops. I can endure no more.

“I will be dining at the cottage today,” I say, calmly. “I'm sure Ida will be happy to prepare extra for whoever wishes to join me.”

“You mustn't!” Julia says. “The royals!”

“They are no more royal than you or I.”

With that, I spin on my heels and descend the side steps that lead to the boardwalk. My shoes percuss the wood slats. My head is held high, my back straight. The blue lake glistens like the tail feathers of an Indigo Bunting. On my way to the far
end of the row of cottages, I turn back briefly to catch a glimpse of Francine's beaky grin. She mocks me, but I don't care. The other girls can pother like guppies around the arrogant Mr. Tottinger, lips parted, eager to snag his fishing line.

Not me.

Not ever.

S
OUTHERN
C
ALIFORNIA

Day after Memorial Day

Present

4:23
P.M.

W
ith seven minutes left before the state office closed, Lee's tires screeched into the parking lot of a cement-and-smoked-glass rectangle that rose out of the asphalt like a gray block of Legos.

“Don't bother locking the car.” Valerie swung open the passenger door before Lee had come to a complete stop. Her soft white work shoes hit the ground running. “We have nothing to steal.”

State workers were already flooding through the exit doors. Two salmon swimming upstream, Lee and her mother wiggled their way inside.

“Excuse me. Pardon me. Oops. Sorry. Coming through.”

Indoors, it was blessedly cool. With its washable wood paneling, vibrating white lighting, and smudged stainless-steel elevator doors, the lobby resembled any government building anywhere. Security waved them over to a metal detector. Valerie groaned. As the guard peered into Lee's cross-body bag and pushed Valerie's used Kleenexes aside with his rubber-gloved hand, she thought,
The terrorists have already won.

“Who are you here to see?” the guard asked.

“Adoption Unit. Fifth floor,” Lee said. After scribbling their names on a sign-in sheet, the guard flagged them through the metal detector and they raced for the elevator bank. Furiously poking the up button, Lee stole a peek at her phone even as she knew it was less than a minute since she'd last looked. Four twenty-four. Six minutes to go before she'd be locked out of her future . . . and her past.

Eyes pressed shut, Val willed the elevator to arrive. “Come on. Come on.” Lee stared at the digital readout.
Nine, eight, seven.
Unbearable pauses at each floor.

“Follow me.”

Grabbing her mother's hand, Lee pulled her to the stairwell door and swung it open. Together, they dashed up five flights of cement stairs, two steps at a time. By the time they reached the top, both were pink-cheeked and gasping for air. “Here. To see. Adoption counselor.” Lee plunged her sweaty hand into her bag and produced the wrinkled letter she'd kept in her underwear drawer for months. “I'm eighteen,” she heaved. “I have proof.”

A receptionist was just rising up from a scuffed white desk. “Ooh,” she said with a pout. “We're closed. It's four thirty.”

“Four twenty
eight.
” Valerie testily tapped the face of her watch.

“We've driven from—” Lee didn't want to say North Beverly Park, which would convey the wrong message. Though they lived in one of the richest neighborhoods in Los Angeles, they didn't really
live
there. They parked their bodies in the pool house, not even allowed to use the pool. “We've driven from the Valley.”

“Sorry.” The receptionist's lower lip protruded in mock sorrow.

She seemed like a temp. Barely into her twenties, she appropriated an officious tone that betrayed her inexperience. As if sitting behind that childish desk was her first real job and she was drunk on the power of it. Pushing her rectangular wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, she gave Valerie's maid's uniform the once-over. Adjusting her posture, she picked up a pen and pretended to write something important. Lee noticed that her purse was already out of its storage drawer and her desk was neatly organized. Ready for work the next day. Post-it notes were tucked into a corner in a perfect yellow stack.

“Look here, missy.” Valerie's ruddy cheeks got even redder.

“Mom—”

“We will spend the night on top of your desk if we have to. I will snore all over your in-box, drool on your keyboa—”

“Is there a problem?”

From around a fabric-covered partition, a woman holding a stack of manila envelopes appeared. She was stunning. Her flawless purple-black skin glistened like a ripe eggplant. The close crop of her copper-colored hair highlighted exotic features: almond-shaped eyes, lips the color of peach flesh. She
stood as tall as a windmill, owning her height as if no one had ever advised her to slouch near the short boys.

“Yesterday was my . . . my . . . birthday.” Without warning, Lee erupted in tears. They spilled from her eyes like paint from a kicked-over can—all thick and spreading across her cheeks. She slapped one hand over her mouth to stop them, but it was too late. A year's worth of emotions flowed out of her. She cried for her lost future, her old bedroom with the front window that cast slanted shadows on the walls she'd painted herself. She missed Shelby; her brother, Scott; her dad. Beyond any ability to control it, she wept for all the ways life wasn't the way it was.

“I've been wondering when these would appear,” Valerie softly said, fishing wads of tissues from her purse.

“Now?”
Lee blubbered, causing both her mother and the tall goddess to laugh. Valerie shrugged and said, “Tears happen.”

Quietly, the young receptionist gripped her handbag and tiptoed for the elevator bank. In the elegant accent of a Somali princess, the woman with the manila folders flagged them inside saying, “I have more tissues at my desk.” Then she lightly placed her hand on Lee's forearm and squeezed. “I'm Abiyatou,” she said.

“I don't usually cry in public,” Lee cried. “Or at all really, that much.”

“It's okay. We see a lot of tears in this office. Happiness. Misery. Premenstrual.”

Lee sniffed and smiled. “Thank you, Abitoy—”

“Call me Abby.”

“Thank you, Abby,” Valerie said as they both followed the beautiful woman into a large air-conditioned space full of cu
bicles and leaning stacks of files. Around them, computers were being shut down, chairs were pushed under desks, lamps were clicked off, totes were swung onto shoulders.

“Say a prayer that my kids haven't been playing video games with the a/c blasting all day.” A middle-aged woman with cottony hair joined her coworkers on their way out. “My DWP bill was over two hundred dollars.”

The sights and sounds of exiting filled the cluttered room. “See you tomorrow. Same time, same place, same bad coffee. Ha ha ha.”

By the time Lee and Valerie reached Abby's cubicle near the far window, almost everyone else was gone.

“It's my fault we're late,” Valerie confessed. “Lee would have been here hours ago. I shouldn't have insisted on coming with her. I know better. Mrs. Adell is
always
careless with the time. My time. Today, of all days, I should hav—”

Abby silenced Valerie's mea culpa with a pat on her hand. “You got lucky today. My ride home is delayed. Have a seat.” She put the manila folders in her in-box and dragged one of her coworkers' chairs to the opening in her cubicle. With a gentle motion of her slender hand, she invited Lee to sit in the chair beside her desk. Then she seated herself and faced them both. “How can I help you?”

“I got this letter,” Lee said, wiping her nose with the tissue and inhaling a hefty breath to recover her composure. “Well,
we
did. My parents. But it's about me. Sort of. I mean, I think so. Part of me. Yes,
me
.”

Lee bit the inside of her cheek to shut herself up. Abby leaned forward and took the letter. As she read it quietly, Val and Lee
watched her eyeballs move from side to side like windshield wipers.

“Let's see here.” She placed the letter next to her computer and smoothed it flat with her hands. After turning the screen away from Lee and her mother, Abby rested her long fingers on the keyboard. She typed in the case number Lee knew by heart. From their vantage point, all Val and Lee could see was the back of Abby's computer and the rippled harvest moon of her hair. Keyboard clicking was the only sound in the room. In fact, it wasn't until Lee audibly sucked in air that she realized she'd been holding her breath.

“Here we are,” Abby said. “You're the Parkers?”

“Yes.” Valerie leaned forward. “I'm Valerie and this is my daughter, Lee.”

“Elizabeth,” Lee blurted. “My original name. The name on the letter.”

“Yes. I see.”

“I know all about my adoption,” Lee added quickly. “It's never been a secret. I mean, you don't have to protect us. My mom wants me to know whatever there is to know.”

Abby nodded as Valerie pressed her lips together in a tense smile. When she reached for Lee's hand, Lee understood the gesture was meant to calm her down.
One, two, three . . .
she counted the numbers on Abby's keyboard. “It's been a tough year,” Val said.

“These things are always emotional,” Abby stated, simply. Then she jotted something on a scrap of paper and hit the escape button on her keyboard. “Can I see your ID?”

Lee pulled out her driver's license and handed it to Abby.
As she held it up to Lee's face, Abby's wheat-colored eyes compared the photo with the real girl. Satisfied, she said, “I'll be right back.” Up she stood.

Valerie stood, too, moving her chair aside to let Abby out of her office. In silence, Valerie watched Abby glide over to a bank of lateral filing cabinets and consult her paper. She saw her pull out a drawer overstuffed with files. Each file a person. A life. A family. A mystery. Suddenly her cheeks stung. She felt like crying, too. The letter had stated they had information regarding “medical history.” What if they found out that Lee had inherited a disease? Or some kind of defective gene she would pass on to her kids. What if she decided not to have kids as a result? Val would never be a grandmother. Lee would never be a mother. She would die alone with an arthritic cat. Maybe
twenty
cats. All strays. How was it possible she'd never worried about any of this until that very moment? Critical medical information was never
good,
was it? No one sent you an official letter to inform you that your genetics pointed to an ancestry of centenarians who died in their sleep.

“Lee.” Valerie wheeled around and looked at her daughter, seeming so small and vulnerable in the state-issued office chair.

Instantly, Lee read her mother's face. “It's going to be okay,” she said.

“It's not too late to forget about the whole shebang and go home.”

Gripping the vinyl armrests, Lee admitted, “I'm a little scared, too.”

That's all Valerie needed to hear. Crouching low before her daughter, she placed both hands on Lee's knees. Softly, she
said, “We
can
leave, you know. Abby will understand. We can march straight for the elevator right this second. You needn't ever be more than Lee Parker. My daughter. That has always been—and will always be—enough.”

Lee looked into her mother's light green eyes and saw the love she knew would forever be there. She wanted to whisper,
Let's go
. Together, they would thank Abby and she would nod knowingly. They would pass the slow elevators and run for the stairs again—set free—handbags flapping in their wake. Outside, in the broiling downtown parking lot, they would tilt their heads up to the setting sun and clamp one hand on their pounding chests and say, “Whew. We dodged a bullet.” On the way home, Valerie would type “ice cream” into Lee's iPhone and say, “Left at the light. Right two blocks ahead.” All the lights would be green. Inside Baskin-Robbins, Lee would inhale the smell of frost and order a double scoop of Pralines 'n Cream. “Don't miss that mother lode of caramel,” she'd say, joking but serious. As they slid into pink seats attached to a pink table, they would reach their free hands across the sticky surface to grasp each other in solidarity. It wouldn't matter that Lee's fingers were long and thin and her mother's were Jimmy Dean sausage links.

Still.

“If I don't find out now,” Lee said, her voice quivering, “I will always wonder. I don't want to always wonder.”

“Everything okay?” Abby suddenly materialized at the entrance to her cubicle with a single folder in her hands. Lee was shocked to see how thin it was. As if nothing were in it at all. Her heart began to push its way out of her chest.

“Honey?” Valerie said to her daughter, still squatting.

“I'm fine.” Lee sat up straight. “I'm ready.”

“You're sure?” her mother asked.

Lee nodded. Not sure she could trust her voice.

As soon as Valerie got up and out of the way, Abby entered the cubicle and sat down. She set the closed file aside. “We're in no rush here,” she said. “The information we have for you is yours forever.”

“I want to know,” Lee blurted. “Now. Whatever it is.”

“Some adoptees wait until they're ready to have children,” Abby went on. “Others don't feel the need to know medical history at all. You're young, Lee. You have plenty of time to find out about yourself. What's the hurry?”

How could she answer in front of her mother, the woman who didn't give her life, but who gave her
a
life? How could she admit that her need to know who she was had been a shadow standing next to her always?

“I'm ready,” she said with a period, silently thinking,
Right now
.
Not in another eighteen years or eighteen seconds.
Yesterday was her birthday, but that sunny afternoon in Abby's cubicle was the moment of her
birth
.

“What do you have to tell me?” she said.

Abby nodded. “Okay.”

For the next several minutes, Abby explained the process. She counseled Lee and her mother on what they might hear, what it might mean. “Genetic predisposition is not fate. It's an elevated risk due to the discovery of a gene mutation. It may, or may not, result in disease.”

Valerie squeezed her daughter's hand. Lee swallowed. Both bobbed their heads even though they didn't fully comprehend what Abby was saying. Did Lee have a mutant gene?

After she was done speaking, Abby made a copy of Lee's driver's license. She gave her a form to sign and notarized her signature. In a soothing voice, she asked, “How are you feeling?”