“No,” said her father. “You’re mistaken, Vivi.”
“I’m not mistaken! It’s all about money with you two! Uncle Alan told me this summer that I’m just as conniving as you are.”
“You’ve never connived in your life,” said Ned. “You are a good person. I’m not sure where you got it from. Your mother and I have not set fine examples.”
Genevieve didn’t want excuses. She didn’t want denials. She didn’t even want details. She wanted to meet Missy. “Take me to the station, Dad. Now. Please. We can talk later. You guys work out your story, make sure your versions match and let me know what lies you’ve picked when I get home tonight. I have to catch the train.”
Her father had the nerve to look angry. “Nothing in the city matters right now, Vivi. Let’s sit down. There’s a lot to cover.”
“No, Ned,” said Allegra.
Genevieve flourished her umbrella. “I have to go into the city.”
“It’s more important to see some silly art exhibit than talk with your mother and father about your birth?” snapped Ned.
“If the circumstances of my birth mattered, you would have discussed them long ago. I have an appointment. I’m keeping it.” Her father spent his life going to appointments and rarely, if ever, put Genevieve ahead of them. Genevieve opened her cell phone to text Missy.
“What are you doing?” demanded her father. “What is the matter with girls your age? Why do you have to text every single minute to every single person? Put that thing down!”
“People are expecting me. I don’t want them to worry. You’ve had sixteen years to mention this. It can wait another thirty seconds.” Genevieve texted: Parent trouble. Taking later train. Will send arrival time ASAP.
Just communicating with Missy lifted Genevieve’s heart. It was only an hour. She could last one more hour.
* * *
I’m an idiot, thought Claire. Certifiable. They put people like me in institutions.
Missy and Genevieve will attach to each other, the way a few days ago Missy and I were attached. The rest of my life will consist of two sisters courteously accommodating a third.
Claire dressed faster than she ever had in her life, called the taxi from her cell phone, yanked on pants and fastened buttons at lightning speed. She was lucky. There was a free taxi and it was on the way. This was not always the case; her town had few taxis. She opened her stash of cash from birthday and Christmas presents, poured it into her purse and dashed out the front door, irritated by the time it took to lock up.
She stood on the curb, ready to wave the minute she spotted the taxi, so the driver would see which house. She was not wearing her usual bright colors. In New York, the color of choice was black. Claire and Missy didn’t even own black, which did not favor them. Claire had chosen a pair of expensive tailored khaki pants, a white long-sleeved shirt and a pale beige jacket. Clothing covered all but her fingertips. She turned the shirt collar up and left her hair down, so even her throat and ears were invisible.
I’m the color of a sand dune, she thought. I should change. Put on orange or pink or lemon or turquoise or all at once.
But it was too late. The taxi appeared. Claire flung herself into the backseat. “Railroad station, please. I’m afraid I’m going to miss my train.”
“You taking the nine-twenty-three?”
“Yes.”
“Your only hope is that it’s running late. That happens pretty often, though, so cross your fingers.”
Claire crossed her fingers. Missy is going to meet Genevieve so they can merge, she thought. I’m going so I can hang on to Missy.
She let a call from her mother go to voice mail. Claire knew exactly what it was about. The Saturday morning Jazzercise classes included Aiden’s mother. Aiden would have shared the video with his parents because that was how kids lived: sharing videos. Mom had been ambushed.
Good! thought Claire, astonished at the breadth and depth of her anger. You let me be ambushed! You didn’t care if I was out here without the truth!
The taxi was almost at the station. Claire could see the train, but it was hopeless. Even if they had had a green light, there were three cars between them and the intersection. They watched the train pull out. “I have to get to Grand Central.” Her voice was trembling. “Can you drive me all the way into Manhattan?”
“I don’t usually drive into the city. Is this a matter of life and death?” He was smiling a little.
“Almost.”
“We can race the train,” said the taxi driver, “and try to beat it to the next station. Odds are against us. But we’ll be able to see how we’re doing because the railroad parallels the thruway. Want to try?”
“Yes. I have the money. Go for it.”
The cabdriver cut through traffic, leaning on his horn, taking risks and reaching the on-ramp of the turnpike.
It was like a movie. They caught up to the train, and began to pass it. It was going around fifty, while the taxi was doing seventy. Missy was only a few hundred yards to the right of Claire. Claire almost waved. “We’re going to make it!” she shouted.
“Probably not. We have to take the exit and go through some traffic and that will eat up our gains. We could drive one more station. It’ll cost more, but we get back the minute that the train is stopped here, and the minute it takes for the train to pick up speed again. Fasten your seat belt, okay?”
Now that she considered the possibility of dying in a crash, Claire was more cheerful about being a triplet. She fastened her seat belt, straightened her shirt and jacket and wondered what her cousin and Genevieve had chosen to wear.
More than once she and Missy had found themselves wearing the exact same clothing, when they had not consulted each other. When they were shopping, their hands frequently landed on the same shelf, choosing the same color of the same style. Would Genevieve, who had not grown up with them, dress like them anyway?
* * *
Frannie Linnehan was in cheerleader mode. She encouraged, danced, demonstrated, joked and guided. She sang along with the music, helped the newcomers and complimented the experienced.
When class was over and Frannie was putting away extra weights and mats, Liddy Scott came up. Liddy’s son Aiden was in Claire’s grade. The mothers often discussed teachers and curricula, happily listing their education peeves. Liddy said, “I can’t believe you’re here, Frannie!”
At work, it was necessary to be upbeat. So Frannie beamed. “Of course I’m here. I love this stuff.”
“I figured you were up all night talking about the video and you’d be too tired for a class. Jack and I were trying to decide, if we were in your shoes, would we want the media involved or not? But it’s out there now. You probably won’t have a choice. I absolutely never knew, Frannie. I’ve been in Jazzercise for six years and you never said a word.”
Frannie had acquired the skill of making little noises to encourage the customer. “Uh-huh,” said Frannie, barely listening.
“Claire told Aiden it was a hoax, but Aiden says it’s not.”
Frannie was blank.
Liddy Scott said slowly, “You haven’t seen it, have you?”
Frannie focused. “Seen …?”
Liddy handed her cell phone over. Annoyed, Frannie watched the tiny screen.
A boy sitting beneath an immense photograph of her niece’s high school in Connecticut was making an announcement. He introduced Missy, who was excessively perky, which meant she was up to something.
The camera shifted. Now Claire was there. How could Claire be at Missy’s school? Frannie vaguely recalled Phil agreeing to drive so Claire could help Missy on some project.
The girls were wearing the matching sweaters they’d gotten for their birthdays last year. Their earrings also matched, of course. Frannie was sick and tired of all the matching.
Missy twinkled at the camera. “I have the most wonderful, amazing, beautiful thing to share. My identical twin just surfaced. We just found each other! Can you believ
e it? I have a long-lost identical twin.”
In the video, Missy touched Claire’s shoulder. The girls faced each other. Even to Frannie, the identical profiles were a shock.
“And this,” said Missy, “this is my twin, Claire.”
Claire’s mother stared at the tiny screen as if she could climb in. Oh, Missy, she thought. Nothing good can come of this. Why didn’t you ask us first?
But that was unfair. Whatever happened now—and something would happen—it was not Missy’s fault. Four parents had let the girls down.
On the video, Claire sobbed. “We shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have agreed.”
Frannie had to get home. Gather Claire in her arms. Apologize. Tell the truth. Not that Frannie knew the truth. “Liddy, I have a second class this morning. Would you lead it for me? You know all the moves. I’ve got to get to Claire.”
Liddy nodded, and Frannie was out the door and in the car.
For years, she and Phil had tried and hoped and prayed for a baby. She had never gotten pregnant. For years Frannie reported in to Dr. Russo, who would suggest another avenue. No avenue, no matter how expensive, exhausting or upsetting, had given the Linnehans a child.
And then one day Dr. Russo telephoned. “We’ve never talked about adoption, Frannie, but a baby will be born to one of my patients in a few months. The mother wants a private adoption. You won’t meet her and she won’t meet you. You’d have to agree to total privacy about your baby.”
“Your baby.” The two most beautiful words in the world. The thought of her own baby obliterated everything else Dr. Russo said.
“Secrecy, in fact,” he explained. “On the other hand, there’s no agency, no social workers. Are you interested?”
“Interested?” Frannie’s laughter had pealed like cathedral bells. She had devoted years of her life to the dream of a child. Yearning for her own baby pierced every activity and hour. Yes, she and Phil were interested. Who cared what the rules were?
Phil was so excited about their baby that he lost weight. He couldn’t eat. They didn’t watch television, didn’t go out for dinner, didn’t do anything except shop for the baby and get the nursery ready. They laughed and hugged and bought everything. Now that the baby was almost here, they could not believe they had never discussed adoption, which was obviously the most wonderful event on earth.
When Dr. Russo called to say that they could come to the hospital and he would bring them their new baby, Frannie didn’t even remember to ask if it was a boy or a girl. Phil had to call back.
“It’s a girl,” said Dr. Russo. “She’s beautiful, she’s healthy, she’s perfect.”
When Frances Linnehan held her daughter for the first time in her life, her heart melted. Not then and not ever did Frannie have the sense that her little girl was adopted. Her baby was hers.
Phil said, “She looks like me.”
Even Dr. Russo agreed: their daughter looked like her daddy.
Phil had held his new baby carefully against his shoulder, supporting the tiny head with his hand. “She’s perfect,” he announced. “You’re perfect, aren’t you? Are you Daddy’s girl?” he cooed.
Dr. Russo seemed as excited and proud as Phil and Frannie. He was not thrilled that Frannie’s sister, Kitty, had come along. “I told you the rules,” he said sharply. “This adoption is not to be advertised.”
Ridiculous. A baby was a celebration. What was Frannie supposed to do, anyway? Fake a pregnancy? Lie to her own mother? Tell pretend stories about childbirth?
Her sister distracted the doctor. “I’m in the same situation,” Kitty had confided. “We’ve been trying for a decade to have a baby. But—oh, well. Instead, Matt and I will be the world’s best aunt and uncle,” she said bravely, and then burst into tears and had to hand baby Claire back, because it hurt so much. She was not going to have a baby of her own.
Again Dr. Russo reminded them not to tell people. But surely he didn’t mean friends. Frannie told all her friends. One of them listened in astonishment. “You didn’t even meet with social workers? There wasn’t a home study? They didn’t run a background check on you?”
“It was a private adoption,” explained Frannie. “Everything’s different.”
The friend was doubtful. “I never heard of a doctor just walking out of the hospital with the baby and handing it over.”
Frannie was sick with fear. Was there something illegal about this?
And then it was time to go before the judge, and the adoption was finalized, and they had a birth certificate with Claire’s and their names on it, and all was well. Or was it? In her heart, Frannie Linnehan had always known that there was something radically wrong with the way this adoption had been handled.
Now, in the car, speeding home, desperate to be with her daughter, Frannie’s every nightmare seemed almost to collide with the windshield; she kept having the sense that she was crashing into them, kept needlessly braking, kept bursting into tears.
When at last Frannie made it to the house and staggered inside, Claire was not there. She didn’t answer her cell phone. Phil didn’t answer his, either.
Claire had mentioned a project with Wanda and Annabel. Frannie opened the school directory, a page on the Board of Education site requiring a password, and did a search. There were no students in the entire town named Wanda or Annabel.
Frannie was astonished. Claire had lied! It was so unlike her! And the morning after she’d skipped the sleepover. And this video she had made, without bothering to tell her own mother and father!
Frannie had a thought so awful she could not speak it; she could only feel it.
This video had gone out into the world. The whole world. To all people, places and ages. The birth mother—that meaningless figure in history who nevertheless had given Frannie and Phil their darling girl—might have seen the video. Had she found Claire?
* * *
The more she thought about it, the more upset Kitty Vianello was. Missy had been wired. Chattering teeth. Cold lips. Eyes open so wide it must have hurt. Could Missy be on something? At those PTA guest lectures, some speaker would always claim, “Any child can get into drugs; nobody is exempt.”
Of course every parent would think, Except mine; my kid is exempt.
Kitty called her daughter’s cell phone.
Missy did not answer. But trains were noisy. Possibly she didn’t hear the ring, or more likely, she had set her phone to vibrate so the ring didn’t bother other passengers, and in all the laughter and silliness of kids on a trip, she wasn’t paying attention.
Kitty left a routine message. “Call me, honey.”
Missy was just excited, she told herself. But who got that excited over a class trip? And although Missy did love the city, she was not a big museum person. She wasn’t even an occasional museum person.
Suddenly even the trip was suspect. Since when were kids allowed to tag along on other classes’ school trips? Didn’t they still need permission slips and insurance forms and fees paid in advance?
The phone rang in her hand. It was her sister. “I’m glad you called, Frannie,” said Kitty. “I’m worried about Missy.”
“You saw that,” Frannie yelled, “and you didn’t let me know?”
“Saw what?”
There was a pause. Her sister said, “Go to YouTube.”
“But first—”
“This is first, Kitty,” said her sister. “This is first, second and third.”
Kitty hurried to her computer, followed Frannie’s instructions and played the video. She almost fainted. “Matt! Come here! It’s an emergency.”
Matt trotted into her office. She pushed him into her chair.
He watched the video twice.
“Matt, there’s no escape now,” said Kitty. “Videos have a shelf life of forever. Who might see this? What will they do?”
Her husband tried to be comforting. “I don’t think anybody can ‘do’ anything. Not to us, not to the girls. I wish the girls hadn’t taken t
hat approach. But I think Missy’s accomplished what she wanted to. We have to put the truth on the table.”
“We don’t know the truth!” cried Kitty. “We never have!”
Because sixteen years ago, Kitty Vianello had also gotten a phone call from Dr. Russo. “What’s wrong?” she had cried, clinging to the phone. Why would her sister’s doctor call? Had something happened to Frannie? To the baby?
“Nothing is wrong,” Dr. Russo said. “I was impressed by your family. I rarely handle private adoptions, but incredibly I have another one, and you meet the mother’s criteria. This baby had a low birth weight. She’s in Newborn Intensive Care and might not live. Right now she’s not thriving. If you and your husband have the courage and want to adopt her even with the risk that she might not make it, you can visit her now in NICU. Perhaps the presence of her mommy and daddy will help. Do you want to try?”
In an instant, Kitty and Matt had grabbed their car keys. Matt drove as if they had already met their daughter, already held her, had been worrying about her for weeks. They ran up to NICU. It seemed to them that they actually recognized her, this shockingly small infant under her heat lamp.
The staff called the baby Little Miss. Kitty and Matt shortened it to Missy.
For long nights and dark days they held their tiny baby in her tiny knit cap, maneuvering around the tubes that nourished her. Their love for Missy almost crushed them. From the first, Kitty was her mother; Matt was her father. All they wanted was to bring Missy safely home.
There was some kind of birth date confusion—the electronic file gave one date and the paper file in Dr. Russo’s handwriting gave a different one. Matt and Kitty cared only about the little flickering life in their hands.
One grim night they called their minister because the hospital staff thought Missy would not make it, and the minister baptized her at two in the morning. Working backward from the nickname, they had named her Melissa.
One day Dr. Russo led them into the family conference room at the hospital, never a good place to be. Kitty and Matt did not know why the obstetrician would deliver the bad news, instead of the neonatologist. They held hands. They listened fearfully.