CHAPTER 1
“Your daughter’s on television.”
“What?” I just about drop the spoon
I’m using to stir my custard mixture. Is this a joke? A wrong number? I pull my
cell phone away from my ear and read the ID on the screen. Nope. That’s Jules’s
name, right under the picture of her wearing a red, white, and blue stovepipe
hat at last year’s July 4th picnic.
“Monica? Are you there?”
Her voice calls through the
speaker, and I slowly put the phone back to my ear. “Yeah. I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
I close my eyes and shake my head,
as if that will bring some clarity to my mind. It doesn’t work. “I heard, but.
. . are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I recorded it to the
DVR so you can see for yourself.”
Leave it to Jules to think of the
practical answer to my questions. “I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll leave the porch light on.”
As we end the call, I look down at
the spoon I’m still holding, motionless in the sauce pan. Instead of creamy
custard, I now have something more akin to runny scrambled eggs. It’s ruined.
Being a chef, I don’t usually make such stupid mistakes, but I’m more than a
little shell-shocked from the bomb that just fell on me.. I turn off the flame,
pour the contents down the disposal, then drop the pot and spoon into the sink
with a clatter.
Running upstairs to grab my shoes,
scenes from the past flash through my memory.
The hospital. All those white
walls. The antiseptic smell. The rhythmic squeak-click-click-squeak
of the gurney. The turtle-shaped water spot on the delivery room ceiling. The
sharp cry of lungs being filled with oxygen for the first time. When I turned
my head away, one nurse said to the other, “She’s not keeping it. We’re
supposed to give the baby right to the adoptive
parents.”
That had been my idea. Don’t give
the baby to me. Why should I hold something that’s not mine to keep? I thought
it would be easier that way.
I was wrong.
Still, twenty-five years later, I
do believe I made the right decision for my daughter. As I stuff my feet into
my sneakers, I still think it was the right thing to do. For everyone. Even so,
my knees feel slightly wobbly as I trot back down the stairs. My hand shakes as
I grab my house keys. And when I call to my dog, Ranger, my voice shakes.
“I’ve got to go out.”
He lifts his shaggy brown head from
the couch and looks my way, no doubt thinking he can stop me with a longing
look from his big, soulful eyes. But I dash right past him.
“Sorry, buddy. No walk tonight.”
As I pull the front door closed
behind me, a velvety breeze rubs across my cheeks, my bare arms, and my
shorts-clad legs. I’ve lived in the Las Vegas valley long enough to know that
100-degree weather during the day often results in the most wonderful
night-time conditions. Everyone else on the block knows it, too, and it looks
like most of them are taking advantage of it tonight.
Mr. Williams raises his hand in
greeting as he approaches, and I wave back. His dog, a black and white Great
Dane named Caesar, tugs him along, straining at the leash. It’s obvious who’s
walking whom.
“Where’s Ranger?” Mr. Williams
asks.
I motion behind me. “Hanging out at
home. I’m heading over to see Jules.”
The wind picks up and a gust lifts
his silver comb-over and drops it on the other side of his head. Smoothing it
back in place with one hand, he nods. “Have fun, then. See you –” The rest of
his words are blown away as Caesar propels him down the block.
I’m thankful for the wind. It provides
an excuse to keep my head down. Hands stuffed in my pockets, shoulders curled
forward, ponytail swinging wildly, I speed walk the three-house distance to
Jules’s without having to interact with anyone else.
Just as she promised, the porch
light is on and I open the front door without knocking. Inside the foyer, I
kick off my shoes and call out, “It’s me!” I’m immediately swarmed by tweenager
John, and eight-year-old twins Jerrod and Justin.
“Hey Aunt Monica!”
“Did you bring something yummy?”
“Where’s Ranger?”
Opening my arms wide, I try to hug
them all at once. “Sorry, boys. Only me tonight.” It’s pretty rare for me to
come over here without some kind of food offering for the rug rats.
“Guys, give Aunt Monica some breathing
room.” Jules leans her five-foot-nine-inch frame over the boys, bracing one
hand on Jerrod’s head, and plants a kiss on my cheek. Then she looks back down
at her sons. “Head upstairs. Now.”
The three grumble in unison, but
they don’t argue. It makes me wonder what Jules said to them before I got here.
Did she tell them we needed to have a big-person talk? Or did she warn them
there might be crying? The threat of experiencing female emotion would be
enough to scare them away for at least the rest of the night. Possibly till
puberty.
Jules links her arm through mine
and pulls me through the house. We pass the room they use as an office, and a
voice calls out. “Hey, Monica.”
“Hey, Jackson,” I call back to her
husband. Apparently, he’s also been warned about the high likelihood of
hysterics.
“You want a drink?” She asks as we
walk through the kitchen.
“What have you got?”
“Everything we need for killer root
beer floats.”
“Ooh, the hard stuff.” I shake my
head. “Maybe later.”
When we get to the family room, my
eyes immediately fly to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall, but it’s not
even on.
“In a second.” Jules pats my back.
“First, you need some details. Let’s sit down.”
We settle on the worn, chocolate
brown sectional. I was with her when she picked it out. Chocolate was my
suggestion, because I thought it would hide stains. She angles toward me and
puts one hand flat on the seat cushion, right next to a big, dark spot of
something. As it turns out, the antics of three young boys can’t be hidden, no
matter how hard you try.
We look at each other, and I
realize that for once my strong, take-charge friend is at a loss for words. So
I get us started. “What was she doing on TV?”
Jules tucks a piece of blond hair
behind her ear, but her hairstyle is so short, it just looks like she’s
stroking the top of her ear. “You know that reality show I watch? Last Family
Standing?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s the one with the
hot-but-snarky host.”
She sighs, but her mouth quirks up
into a grin. “Why is that the only thing you remember about the show?”
Because I only watched it once,
just to please her. And since I didn’t know who any of the contestants were or
what was going on, all I had to concentrate on was the host. Who was pretty
memorable.
“The basics are simple,” Jules
says. “The season starts out with eight teams made up of two family members.
All the teams are dumped in a remote location and have to rough it while they
compete against each other until only two family teams are left. Then the
audience votes to decide the winner.”
I hold my palm out to her. “Forgive
me if I’m not fascinated, but what difference does it make? What does this have
to do with my daughter?”
“Tonight was the season finale, and
at the end, they introduce some of the contestants for the next season. She was
one of them.” Jules looks down for a second, rubbing her finger along the edge
of the cushion stain.
Now that I’ve had some time to
process the news, questions begin to bubble up in my brain. “How do you know
it’s her? You don’t even know what she looks like. Heck, I don’t even know what she looks like.”
“She looks a lot like you.”
I immediately picture a younger
version of myself: dark auburn hair, blue eyes, and an upper lip that I’ve
always thought was a bit too thin. Does she feel the same way? Does she ever
look into the mirror and give it a pouty smile, making her lips as prominent as
possible?
What am I doing? I shake my head,
banishing the daydream and pulling my focus back to reality.
“But that could be a coincidence. I
have one of those faces, you know? People are always asking if they know me
from somewhere.” I sigh. That’s it. That has to be it. “It’s just a mistake.
She must be someone else’s –”
“She has your picture.”
The blood in my veins immediately
converts to ice water. “My picture? Are you sure?”
Jules offers up a gentle smile.
“Yes. It’s your graduation photo. And it has your first name and the date
written on the back.”
My spine seems to have lost the
ability to hold me upright. My shoulders slump and I plop back against the
cushions. I don’t understand any of this. I chose the birth parents from a book
full of hopefuls, and we even met once. But I never gave them my name, or a photo,
or anything that would tie us together.
“Hey,” Jules grabs my hand and
squeezes it between both of hers. “Are you okay?”
“No.” Only a handful of people know
about this chapter of my life. Looking into the concerned eyes of my best
friend, I’m glad she’s one of them. “I’m about as un-okay as you can get.”
She understands. The consummate
nurturer, Jules also understands the importance of what we want to do versus
what we need to do. She leans over and snatches the remote from the coffee
table. “You ready?”
Can I ever be ready for this? Half
an hour ago I was living a happy, uncomplicated life. My biggest worries were
wondering if I should take Ranger to the vet for a teeth cleaning, and keeping
the eggs from curdling in my custard. Now, I’m a woman with a past. A past
that’s about to come to life before my eyes.
God
help me. Please help me. I’m so not ready.
Without waiting for me to answer,
Jules pushes a few buttons, bringing the TV screen to life.
Ready or not, here she comes.
