Some of it was real, p.12
Some of It Was Real, page 12
I take a slow breath to drain some of the adrenaline that comes with being on the verge of breaking a story. “Sylvie, you do realize that your birth parents could still be alive?” She pulls Moose closer. “What’s it going to be?” Now I get to find out if she’s been bullshitting me.
Sylvie blots her nose then toys with the Kleenex. “On one condition. It’s off the record unless I say you can use it.”
I hesitate, consider. “Deal.”
Grabbing a pillow and the folded quilt from the foot of Sylvie’s bed, I look around for a spot to sleep. The window seat has a thin cushion. It’s about five feet long, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep anyways.
“Seriously?” Sylvie asks. She crawls beneath the covers. “You sleep on top. And don’t get handsy.” Her eyes are swollen, cheeks tearstained, nose red, but she’s rebounded enough to make a joke.
“I’ll try to hold myself back,” I say, and am rewarded with a weak snort. Moose follows me to the other side of the bed. “And you have your buddy here ready to tear me apart.”
Sylvie’s grin makes wrinkles that look like little whiskers on either side of her nose. “Only if I tell him to.” She rolls over, her back to me. “Sleep with the angels.”
“Do they sleep?” I ask.
She turns out her bedside lamp.
TWENTY-ONE
Sylvie
For a long time I pretend to sleep. My father’s warning plays in my head on a constant loop: Don’t dig up the past. There’s nothing good there. Focus on the future. Thomas’s breath steadies; his lips send off tiny puffs now and then, like a little kid blowing out candles on a birthday cake. I have the urge to kiss him again, this time for longer, and I angle my head toward him, bit by bit, until I’m so close that his breath glances off my lips. But I don’t steal a kiss. It would be another crime he would add to the list. Anyway, I don’t want to kiss him. I’m just searching for a port in the storm.
I roll onto my side, count the snow globes lining my shelves, a habit from childhood. They look charmed in the moon’s glow. The farthest to the left was given to me on the first birthday I can recall, my sixth, about a month after I came to live in High River. I didn’t have any friends to invite to the party, so the guests were my new parents; our orchard manager, Eduardo; his wife, Carla; and their kids.
Eddie brought a piñata, Carla, homemade tamales. Mom and Dad gave me stuffed animals—a bear and a rabbit. The Lopez kids gave me their favorite snow globe. I still have it. Inside is a white castle. Tiny figures stand on the parapet’s walls. Some hold bows and arrows. I was amazed the first time I shook the globe. White flakes fell, a drawbridge opened, and a black horse charged out. The drawbridge had a magnet, so after the last snowflakes settled, the horse receded and it closed.
My name was spelled in fat letters on a carrot cake that had nuts. I picked the walnuts out, lined them around the edge of my plate to save for later. Back then, I hoarded food—slid it into my pockets during meals, then into the corner of my bedroom closet. When Mom finally discovered the food, she broke that habit along with the other ones.
My birth parents could still be alive . . .
I’ve never asked myself if I wanted to find them. They were dead—end of story. The idea that I might have the chance to stare into a face that looks like my own, learn about their lives, childhoods, and what we have in common? Meeting them would be as shocking as winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket. We could have the same laugh, eye color, smile. Maybe I’ll finally belong. Or they could be horrible people . . . or still long dead. It’s like being given a present wrapped in gorgeous, sparkly paper but not knowing if there’s a wonderful gift or a bomb inside the box.
If they were alive, would they want me to search for them? Show up on their doorstep? Here I am, the daughter you gave away. Surprise! I’m back! Hey, just wondering what went wrong? Were you sixteen and scared–never wanted a kid–low on cash? Or was it because you didn’t love me? Will my birth parents let me in when I knock? Politely refuse and shut the door? Will they be ashamed of me, too?
Gently, I put Thomas’s arm around me and rest my head on his chest, listen to the metronome thud of his heart. Still asleep, his arm reflexively tightens and long fingers glide down my side. When he unconsciously kisses my hair, a tear slides over the bridge of my nose. It’s the little things, unintentional acts of intimacy, that get to me. My love life has been a handful of failed relationships and brief encounters that left me empty. Star-shine glances off Thomas’s skin. He has faint seams that radiate from the corners of his eyes. I’ve never heard him laugh. When I met him in my dressing room, I couldn’t stand his face; now I’m drawn to it. A siren wails in the distance, reminds me that this man is my adversary.
I didn’t tell Lucas everything about “The Cask of Amontillado.” Montresor’s family crest was a snake with its fangs embedded in the foot crushing it. The motto was: “Nemo me impune lacessit.” It meant: “No one attacks me with impunity.” Thomas’s article will ruin my career. I have the right to fight back, don’t I? Maybe I could be Montresor instead of Fortunato?
My mind spins through the last twenty-four hours, possible scenarios for the next few days. Regardless of what happens with Dad, am I really considering a show without any prep? Before Lucas, back when Danny and I sat side by side behind a rickety card table, I always did cold reads. People lined up. But it’s been six years. I hardly remember that girl. She performed with zero expectations. Now I have both a reputation and a career to protect. Now there’s a show to perform.
What if I work up the nerve to skip prepping and then, without any bridges, the door doesn’t open? Lucas is building my career, and I do think he cares about me, but he won’t stick around long if the numbers go south. He’s a survivor, too. Where does that leave me? My fear that failure meant having to come home seems almost quaint now. They won’t take me back. I’m a tree without roots.
Exhausted, I slide toward sleep . . .
The sun is warm on my skin, sand coarse beneath bare feet. There’s a light breeze that smells of salt and sea. I wear a white dress dotted with pink flowers. A blue-green wave rises in the distance, gathers momentum. I turn to the castle and frantically dig beneath its walls. There isn’t much time. Sand crystals stick to my sweaty skin. The hole is four feet, then five then six . . . The wave now touches the sky, blocks all but a sliver of sun. It rumbles like a hungry beast, calls my name . . .
I rip clear of the dark dream, sit up. Thomas has moved to the window seat, crunched sideways to fit on the short bench, Chris curled beside him. Both are sound asleep. Did Thomas wake to find his arm around me? Do I repulse him now?
Dad’s quiet footsteps descend the stairs. The hallway floor creaks as he heads into the kitchen to fill his thermos with coffee. He’ll come home at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast with Mom—two eggs over easy, one piece of toast, cherry jam. More coffee. I could slip out of my bedroom, confront Dad by myself. Last night I agreed to press on, with Thomas. If I didn’t, he might’ve thought that I was hiding the truth. Our goals don’t align. But if he returned to LA right now, despite whatever pity I’ve earned with this family visit, his article would probably cast me as an unredeemable fraud.
My chest tightens at that thought. I’ve spent years burying every doubt, but in two days they’ve all risen from the dead. Now I’ve reached a fork in the road. I glance back over at Thomas. This is a big risk.
Moose watches me from his curled position on the rug as I creep to the window and study Thomas. When he hugged me last night, I thought I’d gained the upper hand. Looking down at him now, the curve of his lower lip, his broad chest, long lashes on a smooth cheek . . . I’m not sure who is manipulating whom. Yesterday the battle lines were clearly defined. But last night things changed. The only certainty is that I’m walking on quicksand.
I tap Thomas’s shoulder. He wakes with a start. “Dad’s up. Let’s go.” Silently we tug on jeans, sweaters, and boots. The front door creaks open, closes with a dull click. Dad always walks through the orchard to Eduardo’s first. Together they plan the day. I want to catch him before he gets to Eddie’s. Thomas scoops up Chris. Moose follows as we tiptoe through the hall, down the stairs, across the front porch.
The moon is so bright, we don’t need the little flashlight I snagged from a desk drawer. We leave our bags by the car. Thomas nods at Chris. “Leave her on the front seat,” I mouth. “We won’t be long.” He opens the SUV’s door, slides her in, and shuts it with pressure from his hip. What would happen if Mom woke now? Would she follow us into the orchard? Stop Dad from talking to me? Would she drag me upstairs, to their bathroom, and . . .
That first birthday, Mom constructed elaborate sushi rolls in the shape of dragons with fiery red eyes and scaled tails made from avocado, sesame seeds, seaweed. They scared me, like at any moment they’d breathe fire or claw with sharp talons. I slid Carla’s tamales onto my plate and Mom’s eyes filled. She turned away but I knew she was crying. I hadn’t chosen her. When it was time to eat the cake she’d baked and expertly iced, I had two pieces, even though I didn’t like it. But she only noticed the walnuts I’d picked out of each slice.
“Ready?” Thomas asks. It’s cold enough that his breath makes white clouds.
My pulse quickens. “Let’s go.”
“Where is he?”
I point to fresh footsteps in the dewy grass. Dad is a creature of habit. He chooses a random row, walks slowly, so he can examine his trees for signs of fungus or fire blight, a bacterial disease that can wipe out an entire crop. I lead, Moose by my side, Thomas follows. We could take a shortcut to Eddie’s, but this one last time I want to walk in Dad’s footsteps. Thomas glances at me, like he can’t quite believe I’m here, doing this. Will he keep his end of the deal? I didn’t, with Danny. If Thomas screws me, it’ll be karma back to bite me in the ass.
This walk through the orchard makes me feel like Benjamin Button. The years fall away until I’m a little girl again. I climbed these trees, played tag with Eddie’s kids, balanced on tall ladders to help pick. What would Eddie say if he saw me now? He watched me grow. Taught me about pears, but also, family. He and Carla have five children. Their home was noisy, messy, filled with energy, fun, and love. Their small ranch stands on the corner where the elementary school bus dropped me off. I’d run in to get a hug from Carla and a snack. Until Mom made a rule I had to come right home. Is Eddie ashamed of me, too?
Thomas touches my arm, points. Dad is twenty yards ahead of us, head bent over a tree branch. He’s in the same work clothes as last night, but now wears a green down coat over his vest and one of Mom’s knit hats, this one striped blue. He doesn’t look up as we approach, though by now he’s heard us. “Daddy,” I call softly then realize we’re out of Mom’s earshot. “Dad.”
“Sylvie.”
I swallow hard. “I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
He scowls. “I thought I made myself clear last night.”
My heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings. “You lied.”
“Ironic, coming from you.”
“Think whatever you want about my career—”
“Come on, Sylvie. What you do is—”
“Go ahead, say it,” I dare him.
“What you do is a charade . . . at best.”
“Fine! You’re better than me. Mom’s better. Your way of life is the only one that’s worthy. Okay? But you both lied about how my biological parents died. I want the truth.”
“I told you, leave the past alone.”
“I need it.”
Dad exhales a mist of white. “I don’t know the whole truth.”
TWENTY-TWO
Thomas
Sylvie asks, incredulous, “How is that possible?”
Wess turns and continues walking slowly down the row of trees. Silently, I take my phone out and trail closely behind Sylvie and her dad. I hesitate then press the red record button, slide the phone into my vest pocket.
“When Hana couldn’t have a child, she was heartbroken. Don’t give me that look. Being a mother is all she ever wanted. You know that she’s an only child. Continuing her parents’ and grandparents’ legacy . . . it was her heart’s desire but also her responsibility to honor them.”
Sylvie asks, “Why didn’t you go the fertility route?”
“We started down that road. But it was early days for IVF and also, as a Catholic, Hana was torn about the process. She wasn’t sure God would approve of circumventing her body’s natural abilities. We did two rounds of fertility treatments, they failed, and Hana said no more. She thought it was God’s will.”
“So you decided to adopt,” Sylvie states.
“We did not decide. Hana did. I was certain that I couldn’t love someone else’s child.”
The impulse to squeeze Sylvie’s shoulder hits; to let her know she’s not alone. But that gesture would be hollow. She is alone.
“Hana filled out all sorts of forms, applied to different agencies. By then we were in our mid-forties. Low on every list.”
“But you said you didn’t want to adopt.”
“Your mother convinced me to get the fish in the boat then decide if we wanted to keep it.”
“So foster care was the last resort?”
“I put my foot down on that one. Biggest fight of our marriage. An older child was already influenced by parents who could’ve been drug addicts or worse.”
“It’s not their fault what their parents did,” Sylvie says.
“No, it’s not. But children are molded in those first few years. I didn’t want to borrow trouble.” He tugs off his hat, scratches his head, then replaces it. “Damn hats are always itchy.”
“Try wearing the sweaters she made.”
Her dad chuckles, and for a moment I can see how they once were partners in crime, buddies.
“So how’d you end up with me?”
“One day your mom packed a lunch, all my favorites, and we went up to Mount Hood for a hike and picnic. She told me that there was a little girl, barely six, who needed us. We could take her on a trial basis. I argued that the child would come with big problems that we weren’t equipped to handle, that it could potentially damage our marriage. She reasoned that we had built upon our legacy, created an even more successful orchard, but had no heirs. Didn’t I want someone to pass things on to?”
“So it was all about the orchard?” Sylvie asks, a thread of hurt woven through her words.
Wess must hear it, too, but still admits, “That was a large part of my decision.” He looks around. The sun glances off the hilltops. “Generations have put their lives into this place. I’m proud of them, and always hoped they’d be proud of me. The idea that we will eventually sell it and someone else will run Young Orchards is a bitter pill to swallow.”
He coughs, deep and phlegmy. Sylvie’s hand rises to touch his back then falls without contact.
“Hana promised that she’d be responsible for you. If there were problems, she’d solve them. If you were too much to handle, you’d go back.”
Sylvie asks, “Did you know how she solved problems?”
Wess squeezes the back of his neck. “I knew from the moment you stepped out of that car and came up the front walk, knobby kneed, eyes pinned to the ground, hair in messy braids, we both loved you. It was that simple. Whatever your mom did to help you let go of the baggage brought with you, to give you a shot at a good life? I don’t fault her. Hana always wanted the best for you and our family.”
“Did you . . . did you ever consider sending me back?”
“Not once.”
Sylvie sharply exhales. “So Mom is the only one who knows about my past, foster care, my birth parents?”
“She doesn’t know much.” Wess runs a hand over his grizzled chin. “Look, Hana did ask about your past. Anyone would. She was told that if she made a fuss, our petition to adopt could be denied. She pressed a bit more and learned that the story about the plane crash had been created to protect you. That kind of thing only happens if the birth parents were really bad people, reprehensible. The caseworker said she wanted to give you a fresh start, a bright future. She called it divine intervention, God’s work. That was enough for your mom.”
“What was the caseworker’s name?” I ask.
“I don’t recall,” Wess says. “It was decades ago.”
He scuffs a boot along the dirt. “Sylvie, if your mom thought that adopting you was somehow criminal or immoral? You know her. She wouldn’t have done it. The adoption went through very quickly. Both Hana and I, we felt fortunate for the chance. The idea that I couldn’t love another man’s child disappeared that first night as we sat making paper animals, your tiny face scrunched with determination. You were my daughter.”
Sylvie looks away, sniffs. “I understand. But I need to know where I came from.”
Wess demands, “Isn’t it enough that you’re a Young?”
“It matters. But—”
“But the fact that a journalist wants to write an article about you matters more? Sylvie, you don’t even know him. I got the impression from your agent that Thomas doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”
They’re talking like I’m not even here. But her dad is no fool.
Sylvie finally meets his gaze. “It’s not about him or his article. That’s what started things, but I’ve realized that I need to know. For me.”
Wess reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a tattered manila envelope, lumpy at one end. He holds it out to Sylvie. He was prepared for this; he knew his daughter would try to talk to him one last time.
