“’Scuse me one sec,” she says to Noah, then pulls me around the corner into the dining room. “Omigod! So how was it? How was she? Dad said she’s a producer!”
“Yeah. And the head writer on the show.”
“Wow. That’s crrrazy! So did you, like, meet anyone famous?”
I tell her I didn’t meet any actors, explaining that the show is in preproduction, but that I saw the television studio where she works and met all the writers for the show. “They were all so smart and funny … It was really cool.”
“Wow,” she says. “You’re so lucky.”
It is the word that Belinda kept texting this weekend—but it carries more weight coming from my charmed sister. I consider the cute boy in the next room with his sexy five o’clock shadow and varsity letter jacket thrown over the back of his chair, and try to convince myself that she is right. That even though the weekend wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped it’d be, maybe I am the lucky one for a change. After all, I’m related to someone kind of important. Which might make me a little bit important, too, at least in the eyes of my friends and sister.
“So?” she says. “More details!”
I take a deep breath, knowing that I can’t possibly explain the complexity of my feelings about meeting my birth mother, but wishing I could at least convey the feeling I had as we sat in the writers’ room watching the storyboard slowly fill with ideas, or stood at the top of the Guggenheim gazing down at tiers of masterpieces. “New York—her world—is so glamorous and interesting,” I say.
“And she’s cool?”
“Very,” I say. “So sophisticated. Like … nobody else I know…”
“Wow. That’s so great, Kirby!… And what about your father?” she asks.
For a second, I feel the familiar tinge of resentment, thinking that my father is her father, but I know what she means and decide to cut her a break.
“He’s a musician,” I tell her.
“Omigod, that is so freakin’ badass,” she squeals. “You’re like, the daughter of two artists. A writer and a singer. This explains a lot.”
I smile, a warm feeling spreading inside me.
“Is he famous, too?” she asks.
I shake my head and say, “I don’t think so. His name is Conrad Knight. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“But maybe he changed it. Like a stage name?”
“Maybe. I guess it’s possible,” I say, not wanting to tell her the truth—that Marian has no idea where he is. That he doesn’t even know I exist.
“Anything is possible,” she says. “This proves that.”
“Yeah. I guess so,” I say, then return the attention to her, where it has belonged for so long. “So Noah Smith, huh?” I say, pointing toward the kitchen.
She grins and raises her eyebrows. “I know, right?! Isn’t he freakin’ hottt?”
“Yeah. He’s really cute,” I say. “Are you dating?”
“Not yet,” she says, raising her crossed fingers in the air. Her nails are long and painted lavender. Last week I would have thought they looked pretty, but now I think of Marian saying she only likes neutral colors on her hands, and think I agree with her. “But give me a week.”
I smile, admiring her confidence, but for once, not begrudging her for it. If anything, her quest to date Noah seems simple and dull in comparison to what I’ve just experienced.
“So how upset is Mom?” I say.
She winces and says, “Um. Yeah. Very.”
“She told you that?” I say, thinking that it would be par for the course if my mom had confided in her about me.
But Charlotte shakes her head and says, “Nope. Dad did, though. He sat me down and got all serious and told me everything that was going on … Said Mom’s feelings were hurt that you hadn’t talked to her about it.” She shrugs and says, “I told him that’s just the way you are. You do things your way. I mean, I’m not pissed that you didn’t tell me—and I’m your sister.”
I nod, wishing I had.
“You’re independent and strong and you know exactly who you are and what you want.”
“Thanks,” I say, thinking that it is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. And it’d be even nicer if it were actually true.
* * *
“I want to start by saying we’re glad you’re home safe,” my father says later that evening in what is clearly scripted dialogue. We are seated in the family room, my mother and I on the couch, my father in his La-Z-Boy recliner.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mumble.
“And we understand why you wanted to meet your birth mother,” he continues. “We even understand why you’d want to do it alone. But, we don’t appreciate being lied to.”
“Not at all,” my mother chimes in. “Lying is the one thing in this house that we do not—cannot—tolerate.”
“The one thing?” I say, giving in to a smirk that I know will infuriate her.
Sure enough, she looks chafed as she says, “It’s a big one.”
“We’ve always tried to keep the lines of communication open,” my dad says.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“So why didn’t you come to us?” he says, still calm, although I notice his clothing is even more wrinkled and disheveled than usual, as if he’s been pacing and sleepless for days. Then again, maybe it’s just how he seems in contrast to Marian and Peter, all pressed and perfect.
“Um. I guess because I didn’t want to?” I say.
He ignores my flippant reply and says, “Why not?”
“Well. For starters, I heard what you guys said about me,” I say, staring them both down as they pretend to be confused, and I prepare to drop my bomb. “I overheard you talking in the kitchen that night. About my birth mom and stuff.”
My mother asks what in the world I’m talking about so I keep going. “About how you don’t really know the true story of where I came from. Or who I am. And that my birth parents might be to blame for my problems. The root of all evil.”
My parents exchange a guilty look and my mom says, “Nobody ever used the word ‘evil,’ Kirby.”
“Whatever. I got the gist of it. So I thought I’d go find her. See if you were right about your little theories.”
“Kirby. You misunderstood us,” my dad says, running his hands along his bald spot.
“No. I think you were pretty clear, Dad. You basically accused them of being junkies and criminals.”
“We said nothing of the sort!” my dad says, now officially shouting.
I win, I think, feeling smug. “And instead of her being the loser you think I take after, I meet this amazing, successful, smart producer,” I say, knowing that I’m twisting the knife. “So I guess we can scratch that theory off the list. Gotta come up with another reason I’m such a screwup.”
“Kirby!” my dad says. “Nobody thinks you’re a screwup.”
“Oh, no?”
“We just think you’re an underachiever.”
“Compared to who? You and Mom? Charlotte? Or my amazingly successful producer birth mother?” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I know that I’m being mean but can’t stop myself. After all, they compare me to their biological child every day; what’s the difference?
“Hey! I don’t appreciate your tone, young lady!” my dad says.
I stare at him. “Well, Dad. I don’t appreciate the way I always feel like an outsider around here.”
“You try to make yourself an outsider,” my dad says, pointing his finger at me.
“How so?” I ask with a calculated smile.
“By not joining the family more,” my mom says.
“At swim meets?” I say, glaring at her. “No offense to Charlotte, but I hate them. They’re long and tedious and … And I don’t like sports, period. I like other stuff. Like films and art and music. I’m not like the rest of you.”
“See? The ‘rest of you,’” my dad says. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I like movies and music,” my mom chimes in, looki
ng wounded.
“Okay—first, I said films, not lame blockbuster action movies and stupid, cheesy chick flicks,” I say. “And two, Barry Manilow doesn’t count as music.”
“Hey!” my dad bellows, wagging his finger at me. I’ve obviously crossed a line bashing Barry.
“You used to love Barry Manilow,” my mother says mournfully.
“When I was five. And you could still brainwash me,” I say. “Look. I’m sorry I went to New York without telling you. I just needed to meet her. On my own. And I did. And that’s that.”
“Is it?” my dad asks, adjusting the back of his recliner. “Do you feel better now?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.” I close my mouth and cross my arms, uncertain why I’m not more willing to simply wave the white flag when they are obviously trying to be nice. And at the very least, they haven’t threatened to ground me, a sign of a subtle and surprising shift of power.
“So. Are you going to stay in touch with her?” my mother asks.
I shrug as if it makes little difference to me when I’ve already checked my phone twenty times since I’ve been home, hoping for a reply to my “Made it back safely!” text.
“Well,” my dad says. “On that note, we had an idea.”
“What kind of idea?” I say, worried.
“We’d like to meet her,” my mother says, looking like she’s just eaten something sour.
My dad nods. “What do you think about inviting her out here? Maybe for graduation?”
“Yeah. Um … I don’t think so,” I say.
My mother looks shamelessly elated.
“Why not?” my dad says.
“She’s really busy.”
“Well, then she can decline,” my dad says. “But we’d like to extend the invitation. If it’s okay with you?”
“We’d like to at least talk to her,” my mother says.
“You have nothing in common,” I say.
“We have you in common,” my dad says.
“And I bet we all think you should go to college,” my mother chimes in, tipping her hand too early.
“Oh. So that’s what this is about,” I say, snapping my fingers as if a lightbulb just went off. “Get her on your side. Three against one?”
My mother shakes her head too quickly and vigorously, further blowing their cover.
“Okay. Look. I’ll think about it,” I say, wondering if I’m more agitated because they’re so transparent about their intentions or because I know that Marian wouldn’t want to come.
“Thank you,” my dad says. “We appreciate it.”
“Can I go now?”
“Yes,” my dad says reluctantly.
I stand and head to my room so I can continue my search for Conrad Knight. I have no idea if he went to college, but I’d bet all the tuition in the world that he’s not down with Barry Manilow.
12
marian
A few days after Kirby leaves, I’m at Peter’s loft in TriBeCa where he has lived since Robin kicked him out of their Upper East Side brownstone. We are on his couch, watching television, talking about work and Aidan, who will be coming over soon. Everything appears perfectly normal, but I can tell something is slightly off with us, and I have the strong feeling that it has something to do with Kirby. As much as I tried to turn the page when she left, I feel different now. Maybe I miss her. Or maybe I’m worried that Peter feels differently about me now, even less likely to want to marry me. Or maybe it’s that I know I haven’t yet told him the full story.
I wait for him to bring her up, but when he doesn’t, I start to worry more, until I finally blurt it out. “For what it’s worth,” I say, resting my hand on his. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her sooner … I really wish I had.”
“I wish you had, too,” Peter says. “For your sake. Not mine.”
“Are you sure this doesn’t change … things?” I ask, looking in his eyes.
“Because you had a baby and put her up for adoption when you were eighteen years old?” Peter asks. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?”
“I don’t think that would make you shallow,” I say, knowing I’m avoiding the real issue. “Necessarily.”
“Marian. What you did took courage. I admire it. I admire you.” He shakes his head, as if he’s still digesting the magnitude of the story. “But I guess I just don’t fully understand … why you wouldn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“But I’m not just anyone.” He puts his feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at his ankles. “Look. I understand that this is a very personal and private matter. I get why you wouldn’t bring it up at cocktail parties … But we’ve been together for two years. We’ve discussed marriage.”
I hesitate and then say, “I’ve discussed marriage.”
He sighs, as if this is a technicality, and says, “So if she hadn’t come, and we got engaged, would you have told me then?”
I feel myself start to squirm as I tell him I don’t know.
“Yes, you do.”
“Okay. Maybe not,” I say. “Probably not.”
“And you think that’s okay?” he asks. “To keep a secret this big from the person you want to share your life with?”
“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my knees up under my chin. “I thought so … But now that I’ve met Kirby … It feels like a betrayal.”
“You didn’t betray me. You just didn’t trust me,” Peter says, as I realize that the people I really betrayed were Conrad and Kirby.
As if he senses this, he stares into my eyes and says, “So is that everything? Do I know the whole story now?”
“Well … There is a little more to it,” I say, wiping my palms on my jeans.
He gives me a look that says he knew it, then gestures for me to continue.
“Kirby’s birth father doesn’t know about her,” I say, my voice quivering.
He remains stone-faced as I tell him about the pregnancy test—that first lie to Conrad. And how I walked out the door, never to return, never to speak to him again.
Peter’s expression finally changes, his face covered with judgment. “So this guy doesn’t know he has a child?” he says.
I shake my head, my face burning, shame welling in my chest.
“Why?” Before I can answer, he continues, animated. “Why didn’t you just tell him the truth? Why didn’t you just say, ‘Oh, shit. We have ourselves a little problem here.’”
He makes it sound so easy, and yet I have no answer.
“Were you in … denial?” Peter presses. “Is that why you lied? Is that why you kept the secret?”
I cringe, catching the way he has just used the words “secret” and “lie” interchangeably. “Maybe. I really don’t know. I just—I just didn’t think there was a point.”
“You didn’t think there was a point?” he says. “In telling a man he’s conceived a child?”
I try another angle. “I felt as if I were sparing him.”
“How so?” Peter fires back. He squares his shoulders to me and holds my gaze.
“What teenager wants to hear that they got a girl pregnant? It’s the ultimate nightmare, Peter. Remember—we were eighteen. Kids.”
“Well, don’t you think he deserved to know? Don’t you think that was his choice to make? Not yours?”
“Obviously not. I obviously thought it was my choice. You know … pro-choice,” I say, even though I know I’m obfuscating his main point.
Peter’s way too smart for this. “Right. I know it’s your body—your choice … But we’re not talking about whether to have the baby. We’re talking about knowing about the baby.”
“Well, if you think I had the right to abort the pregnancy … Why couldn’t I give her away? What’s the difference to Conrad?”
“I’ll tell you the difference,” he says crisply. “One makes him a father. The other does not. Doesn’t this guy have a right to know about his own child? As a father … God … I can’t imagin
e…”
“But it wasn’t like we were going to get married and start a family and a life together. I was going to college. He wasn’t.”
“Right. I got that,” Peter says. “He was a loser in a band. Going nowhere. I got that part.”
“He wasn’t a loser,” I say, feeling oddly defensive of Conrad, although it occurs to me that nobody could have treated him worse than I did. “We were just different. We wanted different things. But neither of us wanted a baby.” I bite my lip. There is nothing I can say to defend myself, but I try anyway. “Giving Kirby two stable, loving parents was better for her than anything he could have given her alone. His father was an alcoholic. He was broke. And yes, he wasn’t going anywhere. What if, for some reason, he wanted to keep her? What would I do then?”
“I don’t know,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I guess you would have had to make a choice.”
“I did make a choice. And it was the right one for everyone involved,” I say. But for the first time ever, I wonder whether this is true.
A few seconds later, in the worst possible timing, par for the course for Robin, I hear the sound of her voice in the hallway. Whether to irritate Peter, spend more time with him, or simply catch me off guard, showing up early—or completely unexpectedly—is one of her signature moves, and I should have prepared for this possibility.
“Shit. They’re forty-five minutes early,” Peter says to himself. And then, because he knows this annoys me, “I’m sorry.”
I nod and consider hiding in Peter’s bedroom, but instead I gather myself as Robin saunters in without knocking, Aidan trailing behind. Peter stands, smiles, gives his son a high five, then musses up his swooping boy-band bangs that don’t seem to go with his somber personality.
He turns to Robin and says, “When is he getting a haircut?”
“This is the look now, Peter,” Robin says. “You’re in television. You should know that.”
“Hi, Aidan,” I say.
“Hi, Marian,” Aidan says back politely, shaking his hair from his left eye. He’s a sweet, well-mannered kid, but we sadly have little rapport, perhaps because I really don’t see that much of him. Sometimes it doesn’t seem as if Peter sees that much of him, which you’d certainly think was the case if you listen to Robin complain about her ex’s schedule.