After a while, Kitty packed the photographs in shoeboxes. Frannie slid the scrapbook materials back into the handsome paper shopping bag and retied the curly bow. There was a useless closet in the dining room. They put the paper bag on the top shelf and closed the door. But they could not close off their guesses.
Every now and then the four parents talked about it. They could go for months or even years without a discussion, and then the topic would blow up on the horizon like a storm, a hurricane requiring them to nail plywood over the windows.
Claire’s mother would say, “The girls come together like magnets. Is that proof they’re twins?”
Missy’s father would be irritated. “It’s because we bring them together every week. They’re used to each other. They’re not twins.”
Claire’s parents would say, “Experts want adoptive parents to tell the truth right from the beginning.”
Missy’s parents would erupt. “We don’t know the truth! And you’re not in our situation! You’re legal! Anyway, all four of us made the same promise. We promised never to tell.”
“It was a stupid promise,” Frannie would say. “We have to tell eventually. Especially you guys. It’s unbelievable that you’ve gotten away without proper papers for so long. What happens when you run up against a school official who won’t buy into your lies and postponements?”
The lies and postponements had been amazingly easy.
Way back when it was time for Missy to attend kindergarten, her parents had enrolled her with a promise to bring in identification. They were lucky. The woman in charge of such things was not competent, and forgot. Every now and then at parent conferences a teacher would say, “We don’t seem to have all of Missy’s paperwork,” and Matt would say, “I’ll get on it,” and incredibly that would suffice. The school ran from kindergarten through fifth grade, giving them six years of grace. There was a sticky moment when the school demanded a social security number prior to Missy’s shift to middle school. Matt replied sharply that this demand was totally unwarranted and he did not intend to hand out such an important number for no reason. The school pressed. Matt demanded to know why they were making an already tough transition from sweet elementary school to the rigors of middle school even more painful for a sensitive child. The Vianellos had their rights, he explained, and privacy was crucial to them. If the school kept up with its invasive nonsense, they would take Missy out and homeschool her.
This was no empty threat. Matt and Kitty were former teachers. They could homeschool Missy if they had to. But Missy—all friendship all the time—would have been crushed by the isolation.
Schools hate homeschooling, so this was an effective tactic. Whenever a clerk phoned or e-mailed to ask again for the missing data, Matt would threaten to file an official complaint. Did the office want to be investigated for incompetence? The poor clerks were dealing with a thousand students. They didn’t have the time or energy to fight about one nice little girl saddled with combative parents.
And in middle school, Missy had had her own worries. Was she popular? Was she smart enough? Good enough? Pretty enough?
The answer was no. Missy was gawky in middle school. In body, speech and style, she did nothing but stumble. Then suddenly, in ninth grade, Missy became an independent young woman, at ease with herself, good at anything she felt like being good at. By sophomore year, she was elegant and accomplished.
Where had the years gone? her mother wondered now. It was already time to discuss college.
Maddeningly, Missy wanted to attend whatever college Claire chose, and therefore saw no reason to discuss anything. She explained that after Claire was accepted, Missy would know where she was going, too. “You cannot base your college choice on what is right for Claire!” Kitty yelled at her daughter.
“Of course I can,” said Missy, not being rude, just stating a fact.
This Friday, Kitty Vianello was eager for the weekend. She straightened up, eager for a nice snack, too. Then she saw that on the fridge door, along with reminders of dentist appointments, the endlessly updated grocery list, the photographs and the phone numbers, was the strange little paragraph her husband had torn out about black swans.
The black swan that could bring doom into her life beat its wings in Kitty Vianello’s heart.
Her sister felt that if the birth mothers had wanted Missy or Claire, they would have come by now. But Kitty knew that the ways of the heart were mysterious. Years might pass, but sorrow and regret could swell instead of vanishing. If the birth mother contacted Missy now, Missy was too old to be taken away. But Missy might choose to leave the parents who had lied to her all these years.
* * *
Missy had been texting Claire on and off all day. Claire hadn’t answered. Missy kept remembering her cousin’s closing statement last night: “I won’t be your toy twin.”
She did not listen as the history teacher read aloud from an ancillary text. She felt as restless as bubbles in soda, little pieces of her surfacing and breaking through.
The person she cared about most on this earth had been the victim of her hoax. The two people she cared about maybe as much—maybe more; how did you quantify love for your own parents?—sat at their computers, not dreaming that Missy had toyed with their lives. Missy had not had the simple decency just to ask them for the truth. She had seen an opportunity and seized it with no more thought than a toddler seizing a cookie.
The largest thing in life—Who am I? Who are we? Who are you?—and Missy had made it a game.
There was no escape. The video blocked every exit.
And yet at the same time, Missy thought the video was perfect. Her parents, Claire’s parents and Claire herself also had no exit. They were locked in that video, and somebody had the answers and would have to tell.
Missy checked her phone again, but Claire still had not replied, by text, voice or e-mail, which she checked last because it was the least likely. She opened the Facebook e-mail.
“We need to confirm that you know Genevieve in order for you to be friends on Facebook. Genevieve says, We have to talk. Here’s my cell number. It’s a matter of life and death.”
How peculiar. Not at all what a person wrote when she wanted to friend somebody. Missy read it again. Wait. It didn’t say “life and death.” It said “life and birth.”
This is about my birth. Somebody who knows my history saw the video! I bet Genevieve Candler is the doctor who delivered us. Or the nurse. Maybe the aide. I know, I know! It’s the social worker who split us up!
Wait.
It couldn’t be the doctor who had delivered the twins. It couldn’t be a nurse, an aide or a social worker. Even if they could separate in memory a particular set of newborns, they would never remember the names of those babies sixteen years later. And if Missy and Claire were adopted, they hadn’t had the names Vianello or Linnehan at birth anyway. A person who had been in that delivery room and then sixteen years later saw a weepy reunion between two cute girls would not connect the video to the birth of one scrawny and one healthy twin.
Except for one person. One person in that delivery room might make such a connection.
The mother.
The real actual biological mother.
Missy was stricken. She had daydreamed about being identical twins as if the idea were a party favor, sparkly and silly and sweet. This message was more like a fire eating a house, suffocating a family.
Missy’s family.
Claire’s.
The birth mother wanted to be her friend.
Missy’s phone sat in her lap like a hand grenade. If she touched it, their lives would explode.
* * *
Aiden said eagerly, “What did you find out, Claire? Have all the parents met each other now? Do you know who you really are?”
Thirty-six hours ago I knew, thought Claire. Now I know nothing.
Claire thought about church. She loved church and yet it bored her. The music predated her grandparents, never mind her parents
. She generally read the pew Bible to keep herself going for the whole hour. God and Jesus were always telling people to do things “in my name.”
Names mattered. You had to know your name. Of course, all parents have to choose a name because no baby arrives with a tag, like a collectible doll. But if a baby is adopted, its name is more made-up than other kids’ names.
How are Missy and I going to get out of this? thought Claire. What happens when our parents see that video? What names will they give us then? The names of our real parents?
I don’t want real parents! I want my parents. I want Missy to be a nasty mean interfering manipulating cousin.
In front of Aiden, she hid behind Missy’s story. “It was a hoax. I should have told you yesterday, Aiden. Missy had an assignment. I think we got carried away.”
“A classroom assignment?” said Aiden in disbelief. “To do a hoax?”
Claire nodded. Her neck was stiff. She was paralyzed from anxiety. “The hoax was supposed to involve science. I guess the science in our hoax is the psychology of fooling people.”
Aiden’s face fell. “You’re not her identical twin?”
“No. We’re cousins. There’s a strong family resemblance.”
Aiden lost interest and walked away. Claire could not figure out how to call him back. She had the oddest sensation that she could not call herself back either. The girl named Claire Linnehan was gone. In her place was a child of unknown origin, waiting to be identified.
* * *
FRIDAY
Three p.m.
WHEN SCHOOL ENDED, Missy had to take evasive action to get away from Rick; Mr. Shemtov, the excited fraternal-twin physics teacher; and Mrs. Conway, who was even more irked today, having fielded questions from national media.
Missy didn’t go near the buses. She didn’t go near the student parking lot. She slid through the cafeteria and exited onto the loading dock. She passed trucks, a little tractor and some dollies to emerge on the maintenance road, and sneaked off the school grounds.
I expected it to be like confetti, she thought. A parade. Welcome home, identical twins! But I opened the gate and now Genevieve Candler wants to come in.
This time when Missy phoned, Claire answered. “Yes?”
“Are you coming over tonight?”
“Melissa, I told you. I’m ending that. It’s twisted us. We’re entertaining sick thoughts. Have a nice weekend.”
“Wait! Did a Genevieve Candler want to friend you? Did you read the message?”
“Yes, I read the message. No, I’m not going to be the woman’s friend. Who can she be, Missy, except the birth mother? I don’t want one. What are you trying to do—destroy our lives?” Claire hung up.
I wanted to be twins, thought Missy. Instead, I’ve lost my best friend.
Missy was home. She unlocked the front door. From the top of the stairs, her father shouted, “Miss?”
Missy usually liked her nickname. She was the only Missy in the entire school system. Her mother always called out “Mih-see” on two different pitches, but her father often shortened it to “Miss,” as if she were a saleswoman and he was trying to get her attention: “Oh, miss, can you tell me the price of this jacket?”
“Miss” was what you called a stranger.
Am I a stranger in this family?
Her parents clattered down the stairs from their offices, happy for an excuse to take a break.
“Uncle Phil called,” said her mother. “He wants to know which direction you girls are going tonight.”
Uncle Phil was the biggest man Missy knew. He could still pick Missy up as if she were a toddler and toss her in the air. Missy had always wanted to be a cheerleader who got thrown into the air and caught by adorable boys in front of great crowds in the gym, but she had never made the squad. Sometimes when her uncle tossed her into the air, her skull would barely miss the ceiling and Mom would yell, “You give my daughter a concussion and you’re history!” and Uncle Phil would yell back, “I am history. I’m legend. I am lore.”
He’ll still be my legend and lore, Missy told herself. Even if we’re not related.
She was shocked by this thought. If she wasn’t related to her parents, she wasn’t related to anybody else, either. Not Uncle Phil and not Aunt Frannie. Not her aunts and uncles on her father’s side, not her cousins in Ohio. Not her grandparents in Florida and not her grandparents in Ohio.
“Am I driving you to Claire’s?” asked her father. “Kitty, did we get the oil changed in the car?”
“I don’t know, but do you want some decaf, Matt?”
“I’m having a Coke. Miss, you want a Coke?”
“Missy,” said her mother, “you didn’t happen to see my yellow purse, did you? The one I bought on sale that time and it’s too small but I love the color?”
“How about a brownie?” said her father. “Your mother and I had a domestic attack. We used a mix and even remembered to set the timer.”
“First we had to find the timer,” said her mother.
Missy set her book bag down and headed into the kitchen for a brownie. “No sleepover tonight,” she called back.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“You’ve been begging us to spread our wings and find other weekend activities,” said Missy. “Ta-da! It begins tonight.”
Her father followed her into the kitchen and had another brownie. “What’s Claire doing instead?”
“I didn’t ask,” said Missy.
“I don’t believe that,” said her mother. “You always know every single thing Claire does every single second. You send a hundred texts a day.”
“We’re going cold turkey. Sort of like cigarette addiction. We’re going to de-cousin for a weekend and see how we do. If we go into spasms of agony from withdrawal, there’s always Saturday.”
Her father was laughing. “Miss, I’m tickled pink. What shall we do as a family, then, just the three of us on a Friday night?”
The correct answer was watch a video, but Missy didn’t suggest it. She had dragged Claire into Rick’s studio to expose the secret. Now she wanted the secret back.
FRIDAY EVENING
The Linnehan house
CLAIRE DID NOT turn on the lights in her bedroom. She stood in front of her full-length mirror staring at her shadowy reflection.
Claire could imagine Missy in Mrs. Stancil’s class deciding to use the hoax idea. What Claire could not see was the benefit. Wouldn’t it have been better to wait for the weekend when the two families were together?
But parents who kept secrets all these years might not yield. Missy’s dad might roll his eyes. “Come on, Missy,” he might say. Claire’s own father might say “Huh?” while he helped himself to more food. Her mother might say, “Missy, don’t be annoying. There are enough annoying people in my exercise classes. I don’t need it from you.” Missy’s own mother would not have been listening. “Do you like this salad dressing? I don’t usually use lemon juice, I usually use vinegar, but I was out of vinegar and I saw this once on TV and I thought, it’ll be mild, but maybe people will like it.”
And what would she, Claire, the identical twin in question, have said when Missy presented her theory?
It wasn’t our parents Missy needed to convince, she thought. It was me.
Okay, Missy. You did it. I’m convinced.
Claire reached for her cell phone.
Missy answered instantly. “Thank God you phoned! I missed you so much. Don’t call me Melissa again. I don’t even know who she is.”
“I don’t know who she is either, Missy. Okay, two things. First, I lied. I knew the instant I left your high school foyer and turned right and looked down that long dim hallway and saw that pale pink blur. I knew who you were. I knew who I was. I just couldn’t admit it. I can be a twin instead of a cousin, I guess, but I can’t be adopted. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.”
They didn’t giggle. But there was a softness in the silence.
“And the other thing?” asked Missy
.
“The Genevieve person. I’ve decided that it’s some Internet junkie trying to invade our lives. But it’s making me nervous. Let’s look at her page together. We’ll have a good laugh and go to sleep friends.” Claire knew Missy wanted to go to sleep identical twins. But Missy let it go. “Let’s get our laptops,” she said. “I feel the need for a large screen.”
Claire put on her bed light. She got her laptop and arranged herself comfortably in bed. She plumped the pillows. Balanced the laptop on her knees. Tilted the lamp so it didn’t glare on the screen.
“Ready?” said Missy.
“Ready,” said Claire.
But of course she was not ready.
Who could be ready for this?
Genevieve Candler’s Facebook page featured album after album of little square pictures to click and enlarge.
There was Missy standing on white-painted steps leading to a red front door. Claire had never even seen white-painted steps. How did you keep them white?
There was Missy admiring a Christmas tree decorated with mauve and violet silk flowers. Their families celebrated Christmas in green and red. Where were these places? Who had Missy visited? Had this Genevieve person been stalking Missy, secretly taking pictures the way somebody took pictures of every house and road in the nation for Google Maps?
Claire had never met anybody named Genevieve. Did this girl pronounce it French: Zhan-vee-ev? Or American: Jenna-veev?
She clicked photograph after photograph. Who were those people gathered around Missy, their smiles proud and happy? And where were they? There was no wallpaper in Missy’s house, let alone with striped pink roses. Missy had never sat in a golf cart, waving a club at the photographer. Missy had never celebrated a High School Bowl victory.
The cell phone fell out of Claire Linnehan’s fingers, making a tiny thud on the thick carpet of her room.
These were not pictures of Missy. These were not pictures of Claire, either.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, I don’t want this.
She shifted her laptop to the blanket. Without taking her eyes from the screen, Claire reached down with one hand and felt around on the floor for her phone. If she slid off the bed, she would be in water over her head. She would drown. Claire hauled herself back to safety. She put the cell close to her mouth but could not summon speech.