Where We Belong

  “What, did you do research or something?” I ask. “Was it premeditated?”

  “No—it wasn’t premeditated,” she says. “I would have paid for it if they weren’t asking such a stupid price.”

  I say her name again, but she unmutes the television before her show even resumes, as if to make a point about just how boring she finds the conversation. More tedious than the long list of possible side effects being rattled off in a Zoloft commercial.

  I can feel frustration verging on anger as I speak as loudly as I can without yelling. “Belinda,” I sputter. “C’mon. Please just return the dress. Please.”

  She gives me an amused look, then imitates me in the same prim voice she uses to mock Sister Viola, the least respected teacher in our school. “Do you hear yourself? Since when did you get so high-and-mighty?”

  Before I can reply, she offers a theory. “Is that snob Marian rubbing off on you?”

  The statement doesn’t even make sense, yet it still enrages me enough to throw out an ultimatum—my first ever in our friendship. “Return it or I’m not going to prom with you.” As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back. But it’s too late.

  She shrugs. “That’s fine, Kirby. I don’t need you. I have a hot date. And a four-hundred-dollar dress that I got for free…”

  “Wow. Okay, then,” I say. “I’m out.”

  “Bye,” Belinda says with utter, cold indifference. I’ve watched her turn on the meanness many times over the years, but she has never treated me this way.

  I start to leave, but then stop and say, “And FYI … Marian isn’t a snob. She’s one of the coolest people I know.”

  “Well, it’s too bad you didn’t get any of her cool genes,” she says.

  I pretend not to hear her, but can’t help repeating her words in my head the whole four blocks home. And even worse, I can’t help believing them just a little.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I call Marian and give her the report. She answers right away, city noises in the background.

  “What’re you doing?” I say.

  She says she’s on the way to get a quick bite, then headed back to the office. “Did you talk to Belinda?” she asks.

  I say yes and give her the update, minus the final closing insults. “So looks like I’m not going to prom.”

  “Well. I’m sorry it didn’t go better,” she says. “Maybe she’ll come around.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, the seriousness of what happened starting to sink in. It’s not really that I’ll be missing prom, that dream was too short-lived to mean much, but the fact that I really could have lost my best friend. “Did you ever get in a fight this big with a friend?” I ask Marian.

  She tells me no, but that she has lost any meaningful touch with her best friend from high school. “We never had a fight, but we just grew apart.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A lot of reasons … But mostly because I wasn’t truthful with her…”

  “About me?” I guess.

  She hesitates, then says yes. “I think it’s so much better to handle things the way you did. You were straight with her.”

  “Yeah. Except now she hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you. Just give it some time … Maybe you could write her a little note that says although you disagree with what she’s doing, you still love her and hope she has a wonderful time at prom.”

  “What should I tell Philip?”

  “Most boys don’t care that much about prom,” she says. “You can make it up to him.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and then suddenly, I can’t stand it another second. I have to tell her. “So I looked for him,” I announce, cringing as I await her reply.

  “Looked for who?” she says, predictably.

  “For Conrad,” I say. “Ever since I left. I’ve searched everywhere. On Facebook, LinkedIn, Google, even high school reunion Web sites.”

  “And?” she asks, sounding worried.

  “And nothing. I thought I was close with the only Conrad Knight on Facebook—the profile photo was blank—but I waited a week for him to respond to my friend request and it wasn’t him.”

  I pause, then continue in a rush, “I was just wondering how you would feel about helping me … you know … find him. Maybe giving me some leads at least? The names of some of his old friends?”

  “Kirby,” she starts, but I interrupt her.

  “It’s totally fine if you don’t want to. I get it completely. And I’m totally cool—”

  “Kirby,” she says again more forcefully.

  “What?” I ask, holding my breath, waiting, mentally regrouping about what my next step will be, without her.

  “I already found him,” she says.

  I freeze in the shadows of my room. “You did? When?” I ask, my heart racing.

  “Last night actually.”

  “Where is he?” I say.

  “He’s still in Chicago. In the city. About thirty minutes from where we grew up. I have his address and phone number right here,” she says.

  “How did you find him?” I say.

  “He was listed in the white pages. He lives in Lincoln Park,” she says.

  I shake my head, wondering how I forgot to do the easiest, most straightforward search of them all: look in the freakin’ phone book.

  “Are you sure it’s the right Conrad Knight?” I ask, now pacing again, my feet cold on the hardwood floors.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “How?”

  “Well. I … I called the number. From my office. And his voice is the same.”

  “Did you talk to him?” I ask excitedly.

  “No,” she says. “I got his voice mail. But I didn’t leave a message.”

  “Oh,” I say, part of me relieved. The last thing I want is for her to somehow screw this up for me. Have him decide that he wants nothing to do with either of us because of the way she treated him. It has to be perfectly planned. Or a total surprise visit.

  “I was thinking … would you want to go see him together?” she says.

  “In Chicago?” I say, wondering if she’s kidding.

  “Yes,” she says. “I mean … only if you want to. You could meet my parents, too.… But maybe you want to go alone?”

  “No. I want you there,” I say, thinking of the photo of the two of them, how much time has passed. My entire lifetime and exactly half of theirs. I feel a chill pass through me as I say, “When can we go?”

  * * *

  The next evening, right after dinner, my parents suggest that we go to Ted Drewes for frozen custard, the one family tradition I would never buck—the ice cream is that good. Charlotte asks if she can bring Noah. My mother hesitates, then looks at me, as if it’s my call. I shrug and say sure, but my father overrules the decision.

  “Char—do you mind if we make it just the four of us this time?” he says.

  My sister looks disappointed but agrees without pouting, pulling out her phone to text Noah. I try to remember the last time she caused any sort of trouble in our family but can’t think of a single instance. It’s abnormal. She stands to help me clear the dishes, but my mother, in her version of spontaneity says, “You know what? The messy kitchen can wait! Let’s go now!”

  Moments later, we are all in the car, my parents chattering away, my sister still texting Noah, but trying to be sly about it, her eyes downward, her thumbs moving a mile a minute whenever my mother turns to look out the front window. At one point, I catch a glimpse of her screen, littered with smiley faces, exclamation points, and one red heart.

  As we pull into the parking lot off Chippewa, there is already a long line that reaches back to the street. And it’s not even summer. We spill out into the muggy spring evening, squinting up at the menu as if we haven’t memorized it long ago and don’t already have our tried-and-true favorite concrete—the name given the custard mixed with toppings. Sure enough, we all go with our usuals and wander around the bui
lding, leaning on the black metal railing for a few minutes, before migrating back across the lot to our car. We are mostly silent, all of us rapidly working our red plastic spoons. My mother finishes her mini Frisco first and reaches for my dad’s.

  He pulls his Grasshopper out of her reach and says, “Honey! I told you not to get a mini!”

  “But I’m on a diet,” she says. “I have to lose ten pounds before Kirby’s graduation!”

  “And calories from my cup don’t count?” my dad asks, laughing.

  “C’mon! One taste!” she says.

  I tune out their banter, wondering how to broach the subject of Chicago, until I finally just clear my throat and come out with it. “So I talked to Marian last night,” I say.

  Charlotte interrupts, all grins. “How’s my birth aunt doing?”

  The question does not go over big with my mother, who looks instantly downcast. As smart and pure-hearted as Charlotte is, she can be pretty clueless about stuff. In fact, it might be the one thing that I’m better at than her—although it doesn’t really get me very far.

  “She’s fine,” I say. “Good.”

  “Wonderful!” my dad says, a little more loudly than his usual loud voice. He stirs his ice cream, takes a bite, and then says, “I think it’s just wonderful that you are talking to her.”

  “Did you tell her we invited her here?” my mom says.

  “And that she’s welcome to stay with us?” my dad adds.

  “Art, I’m sure she’d be more comfortable at a hotel. It might not be the Plaza, but the Chase Park Plaza is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “Well. We were actually talking about taking a trip … together,” I say.

  “When?” my mom asks.

  “Next weekend.”

  “But that’s prom!” she and Charlotte say in unison, both looking aghast.

  I shrug and say I changed my mind. The dress can be returned.

  “Did you and Philip get in a fight?” Charlotte asks.

  I shake my head and say everything is fine with him.

  “Is this because we said we had to meet him first?” my dad guesses.

  “No,” I say. “And believe it or not—you’d actually approve of him. He’s clean-cut. And smart. Maybe his parents wouldn’t approve of me—but you guys would be fine with him.”

  My parents don’t know what to make of this comment, exchanging a glance.

  “Well, where are you planning on going?” my mom says.

  “Chicago.”

  “Why Chicago?” my dad asks, as if it isn’t obvious. As if they hadn’t signed adoption papers there.

  “Um. Because that’s where my biological father lives,” I say, resisting the urge to add a well-placed “duh” at the end of my sentence.

  “Omigod! How awesome! He’s a musician,” Charlotte eagerly informs my parents.

  “Oh?” my dad says. “Is that right?”

  “He was a musician,” I say. “We don’t really know what he’s doing now.”

  “We?” my dad asks.

  “Me and Marian. She hasn’t spoken to him in a pretty long time.”

  Approximately eighteen years.

  “That’s pretty typical of high school romances,” my mother says with a knowing look to Charlotte. She might as well just say, Don’t go getting yourself knocked up by this Noah character or else you, too, might have a teenager at your door someday. She turns back to me and says, “They were in high school, right?”

  “Yeah. They had just graduated,” I say, thinking that Charlotte must have fed her this information; I’ve been careful not to give her any details.

  “And where did he go to college?” my mom asks, trying to sound casual, despite the controversial subject.

  I feel a smug rush as I take my last bite. “Actually, I don’t think he went to college.”

  “Really?” my dad says.

  I can’t resist my next sarcastic dig. “Yeah. And somehow Marian loved him anyway.”

  Once again, Charlotte misses the point. “Why wouldn’t she love him for that? You might not go to college and we love you!”

  “Right,” I say. “Thanks, Charlotte.”

  “Of course we love Kirby no matter what she decides,” my mother says. “But because we love her, we want her to go.”

  “But it’s up to you, Kirby,” my dad says. “We’re not going to push.”

  “Although the deposit deadline is right around the corner,” my mother says. “Just as a little reminder.”

  “Because the big sign on the fridge isn’t reminder enough?”

  “We’re just saying, honey … you’re running out of time,” my dad says. “And no decision is a decision.”

  “Maybe your biological father will be able to shed some light on the subject,” my mom says. “Give you some good advice.”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” I say. “Marian said he’s really smart.”

  “Well, that’s great. Just great,” my dad says with the same trace of worry that’s been in my mother’s voice all along. “I bet he’s very excited to meet you.”

  I consider telling my dad the truth—that Conrad has no idea that I exist, but instead I simply say, “Yeah. It should be a fun time.”

  Then I say a silent prayer that the whole plan isn’t a total disaster. That Conrad is an example of a successful—or at least happy—person who didn’t go to college. That he doesn’t resent me for what Marian did. And that, in Mr. Tully’s words, it isn’t too late for either of us.

  22

  marian

  The following evening and with Kirby’s permission (after her usual balking that it isn’t their business and that she’s eighteen and can do what she wants), I call her parents. As the phone rings, I feel more nervous than I thought I would, especially after Kirby’s dad answers, his full-bodied and exuberant “Hello, Art speaking!” doing nothing to put me at ease.

  “Hello,” I say, staring out my office window. “This is Marian Caldwell. Is this Kirby’s father?”

  “Yes! Of course! Hi! I’m Arthur Rose,” he says. “But you can call me Art. Everyone does.”

  “Thanks, Art,” I say. “So … I guess you’re … aware of all … the activity in recent weeks.” I close my eyes and shake my head, thinking that for someone who writes scripts for a living, I’m pretty pitiful at my own opening.

  “Yep, yep! We sure are,” he says. “It’s really something. My wife and I are real happy for you and Kirby. To have found each other and … all that good stuff.” He laughs as I suddenly sense that he is overcompensating—and is probably as uncomfortable as I am.

  “Yes. It’s been wonderful,” I say. “And I guess Kirby told you about our idea for this weekend? A trip to Chicago?”

  “Yes. Yes, she certainly did,” Art booms. “To meet your folks, I assume?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And … what should we call the fella? I’m sorry, I just never gave him much thought until … lately.”

  “I know, Art. The terminology can be … troublesome. I don’t really know what to call him, either. Her biological father? Her birth dad? Perhaps we should just stick to names. That might be easier on everyone.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “I like it … What’s his name, anyway?”

  “Conrad Knight,” I say, feeling my stomach drop, the reality of what I’m about to do coming into sharp focus. “So the plan is to try to see him.”

  “Well, my wife and I are a little concerned about all of this … but we just want what’s best for Kirby, and we really want to support her. And we’re so glad Kirby told us about this trip rather than just running off like she did to New York.” He chuckles, as I hear Kirby say something terse and sharp-tongued in the background. She then shoots me a text that says, Sorry. He’s a rambler.

  “But yes, we’re over that one,” Art says. “We understand why she did it—and we always supported her finding you if that’s what she wanted. We’re so happy for her. And for you. Both of you.”

  “Thank you,”
I say.

  “And goodness gracious! My wife and I feel lucky that you turned out to be such a sharp lady. Wow.” He whistles, a long one that rises and falls. “A producer. Wow!”

  “Well, thank you, Art,” I say. For some reason, talking to him feels more surreal than the moment I met Kirby, perhaps because my connection to him, while significant, is utterly random. I got pregnant and had a baby; they wanted one; an agency made a match; and here we are.

  “Really. What an amazing accomplishment,” he says. I can tell he means it—and that he’s a really nice man, but I still wish he would change the subject. But no such luck.

  “Kirby’s so proud of you,” he says. “As she should be. That’s really a neat thing—producing a show and living in New York City. The Big Apple. Man. My wife and I went once.” He unleashes another whistle. “That place is overwhelming. We had a blast but I don’t know how you do it … Wait. Hold on one sec … would you, Marian? I’m sorry…”

  I say yes, straining to hear a whispered exchange, likely a corrective interview from Kirby. When Art returns, he has mellowed one drop.

  “So anyway. Here. Let me put my wife on. She’s dying to talk to you.”

  I take a deep breath, bracing myself, thinking that Art is one thing, but Kirby’s mother is another. My heart pounds in anticipation of her voice, the woman who raised my baby.

  “Hello?” she says as I realize that I am already scrutinizing her, both wanting to like her and find fault with her.

  “Hi,” I say, sure that whatever confusing mix of emotions I’m experiencing must be double for her. “I’m Marian.”

  “I’m Lynn.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, swallowing. “Over the phone.”

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  Our conversation comes to an abrupt standstill as I search for the right thing to say, something to put her at ease, assure her that I’m a responsible adult, but that I’m not trying to take her place.

  “I really appreciate you and Art letting Kirby come to Chicago,” I finally say.

  “Well, she’s eighteen. We don’t have to let her do anything,” she says with a hint of snippiness that surprises me; I wonder why I expected her to be a doormat. “But you’re welcome. We support her. And we support you.”