While My Sister Sleeps (22 page)

Hurrying to the den, she put the CD in her computer.
Where to
begin?
Each folder had a title and focused on an event in Robin's life. The majority related to marathons she had run, like
Boston 2005, Austin 2007, Tallahasse 2008
, and a quick look inside each showed details on training, pre-race events, and the race itself—offered in the same dry format as in her earlier journals. There were separate folders for speeches, also listed by location and date. Molly opened a few, but she had heard them. She had even written a couple herself.

But here was something new, a folder named
Speeches I Will Never Give
, and the files in it were not to be believed—titles like
Why I Hate My Mother, Competition Sucks
, and
Why My Sister Is Wrong.
Molly wasn't sure she wanted to read that one. She knew she was wrong; she was wrong all the time. She wasn't sure she wanted to read
Why I Hate My Mother
either. Kathryn was suffering such agony now that the idea of Robin hating anything about her was awful.

Who Am I?
Molly wanted to read that one, along with,
Do I Need A Shrink?

First, though, she went back to the folders, because there was one under
Speeches I Will Never Give
that registered.
Men.
Perhaps it was habit; Molly's initiation into the dating world had come through sneak peeks at Robin's journals. Perhaps it was pure curiosity, or wanting something light before she hit the heavy stuff, but she quickly opened the folder.

Inside were three files:
Nick Dukette, Adam Herman
, and
Peter Santorum.
Robin had dated Adam before Nick, but Peter Santorum was a new name. She clicked on this one.

What do you do on the day your life changes forever?
she began reading and was instantly hooked.

A phone call. One phone call. I can't even believe I was home when it came. I'm NEVER home. I train. I travel. I hang out at Snow Hill. I run to the Café for a latte and stay for hours because
someone always wants to talk. So how did he know I'd be home on THAT day at THAT hour?

It's a month before Boston, and I'm going for an eight-mile run. I'm worried about my hamstrings, so I shake myself loose outside. I jog down the driveway to the street and back. And there's another thing. If the phone had rung while I was at the street, I would never have heard it. A highway truck was out there trying to repair the road—pretty ridiculous, since mud season is barely over—but they're chugging and scraping along, making enough noise to drown out five phones.

Nana believes in sprites. She says they know your destiny in life and sit on your shoulder steering you where you're supposed to go.

So I'm there on the house end when the phone rings, and I consider ignoring it. I don't want to talk now. But I'm supposed to meet Mom for lunch, and I have to know where. Her current favorite is 121 Garrett, but they have LOUSY salads, so if she's going to suggest going there, I want to suggest somewhere ELSE.

I stick my head in the door and grab the phone. If it isn't Mom, I'm not going to answer. Then I see this name: Peter Santorum. Never heard it before, and I don't give out my number to anyone who isn't a friend. But Sarah had asked if she could give it to a guy. I broke up with Adam a month ago, and I'm starting to feel lonely. Peter is a nice name.

“
Hello?
”

I hear nothing at first, then a voice that is definitely too old to be Sarah's friend. “Is this Robin Snow?
”

“
It is,” I say, because my next thought is that this may be a guy from USATF wanting to talk about the selection process for the Olympic Marathon team. My sprite would know that was coming.

“
My name is Peter Santorum,” he says. I don't tell him I've
already seen that. He sounds close in age to my dad, who is always shocked when I pick up and right off say “hi.” CID isn't intuitive to him. “Does the name ring a bell?” this man asks.

Quickly, I try to remember every name on the USATF committee, but the list keeps changing as new people come on. “I don't think so,” I say politely.

“
Did your mother never mention it?
”

Not from USATF, then. I start to fear it's another of those third cousins who call to ask me to speak in their town.

“
Your mother is Kathryn, right?
”

“
That's right. But she never mentioned your name.” I shake out my legs. “Are you a relative of hers?
”

“
Of hers? No.
”

“
Do you KNOW her?” I ask, growing impatient. I want him to speed it up. I'm ready to run.

“
I did. It was a long time ago. So, she never mentioned me to you?
”

“
No. Who are you?
”

“
Your father.
”

I stop kicking and think, Oh God, a crackpot with this number.

I'm about to hang up when he says, “Don't hang up. Your mother's name was Kathryn Webber, and she worked at a flower shop in Boston. I was there playin’ tennis.” A pause, then a self-conscious sound. “I was kind of hoping you'd recognize the name, but it's a generational thing, I guess. I played the big tournaments in the seventies and eighties. Google me and you'll see. I really am a person. I played Longwood for nine years. That's in Chestnut Hill, just outside Boston.
”

“
I know where Longwood is,” I say. I had run Boston enough to know the area.

“
Google it. You'll see my name there. I was staying at the
Ritz—it's called something else now—but your mother used to do flower arrangements for the lobby there, which was where I got her name. I wanted to send flowers to someone special, so I went to your mother's shop. We hit it off and spent some time together. I left town and thought it was over. She called me a few weeks later sayin’ she was pregnant.
”

“
And I'm the result of that?” I don't know why I'm continuing the conversation. His claim is ridiculous. My mother doesn't believe in quick affairs. She doesn't believe in pre-marital sex, PERIOD, though we've stopped discussing that.

I should just hang up. Only this man doesn't sound deranged. And I did have that sprite on my shoulder, so there has to be a purpose to this.

“
I have a father,” I say. “My parents got married nine months to the day before I was born.
”

“
Look,” he says, “theirs wouldn't be the first marriage certificate to be altered. Or the first baby born a couple weeks early. Hey, I've agonized over this. Believe me. I've not been part of your life. Your mother never once called me to ask for a thing. I have three children of my own. They're a little younger ‘n you. One of them is affected by what I'm going to say, which is why I'm calling you.
”

Uh-oh. One of them is affected. Here comes the pitch, I think, and ask, “How did you get this number? It's unlisted.
”

“
I know the right people,” he answers so dismissively that I know he's telling the truth. He hurries on. “A couple of months ago I found out I had a heart problem. It was an artery thing, but while the doctors were treatin’ it, they diagnosed a hypertrophic heart. An enlarged heart. It's common in athletes, especially ones at the top of their game. I may not compete anymore, but I still play hard. So there was reason enough for me to develop the
condition. But when they said it can be inherited, I realized it wasn't just me involved. I was five when my father died. He was forty-one. He had a heart attack.
”

“
Caused by an enlarged heart?” I ask. I'm still skeptical, but I'm being sucked in. If this is a solicitation, it's a novel approach.

“
We don't know. But if I got the condition from him, there was a chance one of my children got it from me. Turns out my youngest daughter did. She's twenty and plays Division I volleyball. It's rigorous. She's on the court six hours a day. She doesn't have to change that since she's asymptomatic, but she knows what symptoms to look for.
”

Still I wait. I keep thinking that he has a special request, something to help his daughter.

Instead, he says, “Once I realized she had it, I knew I had to get in touch with you. I didn't even know your name, but a little research brought it up. Some surprise THAT was. You're an accomplished runner. But it means you're at risk.
”

I am not, I'm thinking, because his claim is absurd. “Well, thank you for the warning,” I say sweetly and am about to disconnect when his voice continues with force.

“
If I were you, I wouldn't believe me, either. Here's some guy callin’ out of the blue saying he's your biological dad. But hey, here's my number. Write it down?
”

“
Sure.” I start limbering up again as he reels it off. He actually says it twice.

“
Got it?
”

“
Yup.
”

He sighs. “Okay. You probably didn't write it down, but it'll be listed on your phone. Check out a reverse directory, and it'll connect with my name. Santorum, Peter. Or go to the cops. Have them check me out. If you still don't believe me, see your doctor. And if he gives you a clean bill of health, forget this call. But
watch yourself. If you feel dizzy or short of breath, get help. Please?
”

“
I will,” I say, and this time I do end the call. I wait for him to call back. A lunatic would do that. I'll have to change my number anyway.

He doesn't call back. I wait ten minutes, which is all I care to spend on a nut. Then I run my eight miles, but all the while I'm wondering whether he actually thinks I'd believe him. Charlie Snow is one of the most upstanding men I've ever met. If I'm not his daughter, something is seriously wrong with the world.

Running clears my head. By the time I return home, check my phone, and find that he hasn't called again, though I'm starting to imagine that, wherever he is, he's shrugging and saying, “Well, I warned her. That's all I can do.
”

I feel let down.

He's right. His number is there on my phone. I'm tempted to try calling him back—but if this is a hoax, I'd be playing into his hands.

I Google Peter Santorum. Unbelievable. If the guy who called me is an imposter, he picked a visible guy to imitate. Peter Santorum lives in California, which is consistent with his area code—and, yes, I put his number in my BlackBerry I figure I need a record in case I decide to call the police. For all I know, Peter Santorum is a crazy man.

I look at his picture and see no resemblance. But I don't look like Dad, either. Mom always says I look like her Aunt Rose. Just to be sure, I dig out my picture box. There she is, Aunt Rose. We have the same widow's peak, same broad brow, same tapered chin. The resemblance is marked.

There's no way he's right, I'm thinking. I have these pictures as proof. Family portraits, vacations, milestones—there's a whole life in this box. My mother wouldn't let me believe in it if
it wasn't true. I'm THIRTY, for God's sake. That's old enough to be told.

But he didn't sound delusional. So I check out his daughter on the Web. She is twenty. She plays volleyball for Penn State, which is a Division I school. So this part of it is true. And there's something he didn't say, printed there in his daughter's bio. Her aunt
—his
sister—is Debra Howe. I know that name before I even check it out. Debra Howe was one of the first women to run Boston.

Something about Peter Santorum seems legitimate. He didn't gloat when he called. He did sound a little nervous, but wouldn't that be appropriate if he was talking to his biological daughter for the very first time? He didn't even sound eager to be calling—just concerned about doing the right thing. He didn't ask for anything. He just warned me.

I'm having trouble absorbing this. If you aren't who you thought you were, who ARE you?

There's an easy way to find out. I can ask Dad. I can ask Mom. But would they tell me the truth after all this time? Does Dad even KNOW?

Then I realize there's an easier way to find out. I call my doctor. She sees me the next day and does a chest X-ray, but the results are inconclusive. She refers me to a cardiologist, who does an echocardiogram. And guess what?

I'm shocked, but only partly, at discovering something that might kill me. I'm shocked at discovering that someone I don't know might have been the one to give me life in the first place. I think about Nana's sprite and wonder if it could be a coincidence that this man and I both have this condition.

Mine isn't severe. They don't recommend medication, but they tell me every last possible symptom. Sweet. They warn me against
pushing too hard, but they don't say I can't marathon. And that's good. It's my body, my life, and I want to run.

I haven't told Mom about the heart. I can't yet.

And I can't ask her about Peter. I'm afraid she'll lie. And then I won't be able to believe ANYTHING she says.

It's been a week now, and he hasn't called back.

There are times when I wonder what his life is like and whether we would hit it off if we met. There are times when I consider calling him. Or I could just show up at his door. He owns a group of elite tennis schools. I know where to find him.

Then I feel disloyal to Dad—to Charlie—for even considering it.

But what if I didn't tell anyone I was going? What if this was my own secret? I mean, if the guy is my biological father, I want to meet him. What if I could create a whole other life, like a parallel universe?

Right now, it's a dream. Too risky. And maybe I'm just being spiteful. I'm trying to adjust to the idea of a bad heart and a different father, and I start to BURN. I don't think I will tell Mom about my heart. If she can hide my father's name, I can hide stuff, too. It's my body, my heart, my life.