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“I have no idea who took it, I just found it on the table and took it home because there was something off about it. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized the eyes were a different color.” I go on, “Besides, what am I supposed to do? Call up some relative I barely know and be like,‘Oh, hey, remember me? I stole your photos and now think I might have a body-snatcher situation on my hands. Can you tell me if I’m crazy or not?’ That sounds ludicrous.”
Micky is silent. I stare at her, waiting for her to say something or assure me I’m not, in fact, crazy.
“Have you ever thought maybe Julianne could be related to your birth parents? It kind of makes sense. I mean, she didn’t adopt you from an agency, right? Your biological family must have known Julianne in some way to choose her to raise you.”
Whoa. That never occurred to me. How have I not put that together before?
“I’ve got it!” she announces. “You should take one of those genetic genealogy test things! I took one last year. It gives you the names of other people you’re related to that also took the genetic test. Maybe there’s a sibling or cousin or something.”
“But I don’t have a biologicalsister,and even if I did, why would she have a photo with my adoptive mom?”
“Exactly. Because maybe Julianne is a relative.”
While bizarre, what she’s saying adds up.
“I wouldn’t forget having a twin, though. Shit, am I losing my mind?”
Micky takes a deep breath.
“Honestly, B”—she glances down at her martini on the bar top and twirls the stem between her fingers—“please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’ve been under an incredible amount of stress, and you’re starting to deal with a lot of issues and feelings that’re coming up surrounding your mom’s death. You’ve experienced a huge loss. Do you think it’s possible you might be searching for something that isn’t really there?” She winces.
Then she adds, “You know I love you, and I’m not saying that you’re wrong, you very well may be on to something, but this is a little out-there. Don’t you think?” She puts her arm around my back and lays her head on my shoulder.
I sigh and pick up my photos, reluctantly stuffing them back in my purse.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I just can’t shake my gut feeling that something is weird about this.”
She sits back up. “Then, by all means, you need to go after it and get answers. What do you need me to do? I will support you any way that I can.”
I pause, wondering if I’m just looking for something that’s not really there.
“What’s the name of that genetic test again?”
FOUR
Six weeks later...
“Ughhh!” I have to develop a new lesson plan and menu for my clients. I hate coming up with menus. There are too many options and not enough structure. I have a problematic client I wish I had never met. She wants me to draw upanothertwelve-course chef’s menu—the first two she turned down—for a home dinner party. Twelve courses at a dinner party are ridiculous. Even as a chef, I think it’s pretentious. I should refer her to someone else, but I’m cursed with being a people pleaser.
I crumple up the paper and chuck it against the wall. I’ll just serve them a sack of dicks—they can take it or leave it. Twelve courses of bagged-up schlong.
“Chow down, motherfuckers!” I shout to the empty room.
I’m surrounded by so many crumpled balls of notepad paper it looks like a hailstorm ripped through here. Yelling at imaginary people is my cue to take a break and step away. It’s much nicer outside. The fresh air helps to clear my head and shake off the anxiety. Lately, my brain has been all over the place. Micky was right when she suggested I might be going through an especially rough time in the grieving process. Clearly, my lack of sleep must have manifested into strange delusions about my family. Thankfully, I’m getting more rest these days.
My phone dings with a new email from Stellar Genetics. They have my results. I follow the link they give me to access the breakdown of my ancestry. It says most of my family originated from Europe. Wow, I’m almost 50 percent Irish. Looks like St. Patrick’s Day is about to get real crunk.
I click the tab markedRelatives. This was a bad idea.
Ken Hayes - Paternal parent / 100%
Lori Hayes - Maternal parent / 100%
Jack Hayes - Full sibling / 100%
Nope, not dealing with that right now.
I close the website and stuff my phone back in my pocket, pretending I never even saw their names. The few memories I have of my old childhood are all happy ones. But clearly, there was more going on than my naive six-year-old brain could understand. Being sent away broke me in a way they will never know. I tortured myself in my youth, trying to understand why they did it. Was it because I got car sick and threw up in the new family van when we went on vacation? Did I ask for too many presents on Christmas? My adoptive mom said I cried all the time when I was little; maybe I was too much to handle. She also liked to remind me I was lucky to be adopted and not in the foster care system. I’ll be honest, there were many days where I would have gladly taken my chances. I was told over and over my birth parents cared enough to choose a good mom like Julianne—but did they really? Or maybe they knew the same Julianne everyone else at the funeral knew too.
