She had rarely felt as removed from parental love. They were hugging each other. Why weren’t they hugging her?
I’ll look at Missy and Claire again, she decided. When I see the video, I’ll remember that at least one person wants my company. Which reminded her that Claire didn’t.
Genevieve brought up the video.
“Vivi, don’t!” cried Allegra.
“These are my sisters. I won’t turn them off. They’re not going away. Tell me who our parents are.”
“Vivi, think of me!”
“No. This is my life, not yours. My drama, not yours. Tell me who my parents are. Tell me who my sisters are.”
Ned handed his wife a small square box of tissues. Allegra bought tissue boxes with care, because color and design had to be perfect and so often tissue boxes were tacky. “You won’t understand,” her mother wept.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Genevieve. “Tell me anyway.”
Ned and Allegra exchanged one more look.
Genevieve lost the last shred of energy she possessed. She fell into a chair—across from her parents, of course, not next to them; nobody had patted the cushions to invite her to sit on the sofa—and texted Missy. Nightmare. Parents saw video and fell apart. I can’t come.
Her own message frightened her. She was shutting the door on the sister who was rushing to meet her. But Genevieve could not summon the will to send a correction. My parents don’t love me, she thought. Next to that, what matters? Her body seemed to break down, as if she were a chemistry experiment, separating into her original raw materials.
“Vivi,” said her father sternly, “texting in the middle of a conversation is rude under any circumstance. But now? What message matters now?”
“A message explaining who I am would be a good message now.”
Allegra looked away. Staring at her manicure, she whispered, “It’s like that mother. Oh, it was years ago. I’ve never forgotten her. I still weep for her. She drove to work one hot summer day and forgot that she was the one taking the baby to day care. She forgot the baby altogether, and left it strapped in its car seat in the back of her car. At the end of the day, when she finished work, she walked through the parking lot and unlocked her car, and there was her baby, cooked to death.”
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING
Connecticut
PHIL VIANELLO WAS framing an addition to an already large house. The addition would have an amazing view. Phil didn’t care about the view. When you have been out of work, work is what’s beautiful. Although his cell phone was attached to his belt, he paid no attention when it rang.
Around noon, he began to think of lunch, and assumed that Tommy was walking over to discuss lunch breaks. But Tommy said, “Frannie called. Some kind of emergency.”
A car accident? Claire was hurt? Frannie was hurt? Phil grabbed his phone. “Nobody’s hurt,” said his wife. “But we can’t find Claire or Missy and they’re not answering their cell phones.”
Phil had envisioned paraplegics and long-term comas. When his wife babbled about some school video, he was annoyed. “So what?”
“We don’t know where the girls are,” said his wife.
“Claire’s the most careful girl on the planet. Spontaneous is not her middle name. She isn’t doing anything reckless. Anyway, she’s sixteen. She gets to decide what she does on a Saturday.”
“Phil! The girls figured out that they’re adopted.”
“And didn’t I say from the first we should have been telling Claire the truth? You went along with your sister, because Missy’s adoption is a mess, and you two decided to hide the facts. I’m sorry we weren’t the ones to tell them. But I’m at work, Frannie.”
“Phil! They know they’re identical twins!”
“That’s a crock. You base that on badly focused photographs taken years ago. I’ve never once looked at my niece and thought she was my daughter. And Claire is older than Missy. We know she’s older! We were there!”
“Phil!” his wife yelled.
He was sick of her shouting his name. Who else did she think was on the phone? “Frannie, I have to get back to work.”
“Phil, what if they’re out there looking for their birth mother?”
“What if they are?” he demanded. “It’s a natural interest.”
“Phil! Are you listening?” shouted Frannie.
“I’m listening,” he said grimly.
“We think the birth mother saw the school video and put two and two together and called the girls.”
Women, he thought. Leaping from point A to point Z without a single fact. “What are you basing that on?”
“Not much,” admitted his wife. “Phil, please come home.”
“I’m. At. Work.”
“Okay, just look at the video on your cell phone. Please. Then call me.”
Phil had large hands and thick fingers. He had difficulty with the tiny buttons of a cell phone. He used the eraser tip of a pencil he carried in his shirt pocket.
There was his niece, Little Miss Perky, beaming at the camera as usual. Then his daughter, looking frightened and unsure. The girls turned toward each other. Even in miniature, he saw it: identical profiles and hair, identical shoulder width and the same deeply set eyes, identical earlobe shape and chins. Identical twins.
But emotionally, the girls were no match. Missy was all excitement. Claire was all shock.
Me too, baby, thought her father.
Claire had been his child from the first thrilling moment he’d held her in his huge hands—realizing that he, Phil Linnehan, was responsible for her life, her home, her safety and her future. He had smelled her sweet baby scent and a moment later the stench of her soiled diaper, and he had laughed, and kissed her tiny cheek, and never again did he consider that she was actually somebody else’s baby. Because she wasn’t.
On the video, Claire wept.
My fault, thought her father. I should have overruled Frannie and Kitty and Matt. I should have told Claire about the adoption myself. Long ago.
But long ago, he had more or less forgotten. It passed through his mind occasionally, but without meaning. Claire was his daughter. Period.
The video ended.
He phoned his daughter. She didn’t answer. He had the sense of something evil crawling up out of the vast galaxy that was the Internet, something evil watching that little video of Missy’s and setting its hooks. He looked dizzily around the construction site. Work had just moved to second place. “Tommy,” he said thickly. “I have to get home.”
* * *
The train entered darkness. They were now under New York City, and would stay underground for miles, and would still be underground when they reached Forty-second Street. Missy pressed her face to the window to stare into the dark creepiness of tunnel and track. Claire did not like thinking about the underbelly of the city. Were they about to face the underbelly of their own existence on earth?
The train slowed, crawling into the terminal. Passengers lined up in the aisle to get off quickly. Claire did not move.
“We’re here,” said Missy, jabbing her. “Hurry up! Get going!”
“There’s no rush. Genevieve texted that she’d be late.”
But Missy needed to collide with their past and embrace their sister, and she needed to do it now. She stepped over Claire and butted into line. Claire could not catch up because hundreds of passengers were getting off their train and a second train across the platform, tossing newspapers, trash and recyclables into immense containers without missing a beat. Some of them were probably dealing with dread diseases and horrid divorces and difficult jobs. All Claire had to face was another person who wanted to be loved.
This did not increase her enthusiasm. She almost hated Missy for rushing on and not looking back. She followed Missy up an escalator. Now the famous high ceiling soared above Claire, azure blue with stars of gold. It always reminded Claire of a cathedral. It was, in a way: a sacred seat of New York. Balconies a
nd stairs and banks of escalators wrapped the great space. Ticket windows and track entrances faced each other across the crowded floor. In the center was the charming circular information booth, like a gazebo in a marble park. On top was the clock, marking the meeting place of choice for visitors to New York and their hosts.
Missy was already across the floor and taking up a search position.
Be late, Genevieve, thought Claire. Be really late. Or never. Never would be good.
* * *
Missy checked her watch. One minute had passed. Now what? Stand around and read train schedules? Why had Genevieve let mere parents get in the way of meeting her missing identical triplet? They could pick up parent pieces later. Right now they had to do sister pieces.
She listened to yet more messages from her mother and father. “They don’t know about Genevieve,” she said to Claire. “I think they’re still holding back, though.”
Claire busied herself examining the ceiling.
The girls had dressed similarly. In stressful situations, they both chose to fade. Their clothing did not match, but presented the same idea. What would Genevieve wear? Would this complete stranger also lean toward beige and layers and ironed creases in pants?
Missy’s phone buzzed. Another text from Genevieve. Perhaps Genevieve had caught her train after all! Maybe she was on her way over from Penn Station! Maybe she’d be here in a minute!
Missy held the tiny screen so Claire could read with her.
Nightmare. Parents saw video and fell apart. I can’t come.
* * *
Claire had gotten up her courage, caught the train, arrived in New York, and Genevieve was not coming? She scanned the crowds anyway, as if Genevieve were crouching out there, biding her time. Maybe Genevieve, like Claire, was hiding from the truth. Or maybe Genevieve was indeed a fake, and couldn’t face what she had started.
Missy stamped her foot. “Genevieve has to come! So what if her parents are upset? Everybody’s parents are upset. Who cares? Nobody cares! Parents are beside the point! The point is, we are sisters. Triplets. Identical. We have to meet! We have to meet now.”
Claire waited for Missy to run out of steam, but she didn’t. “Fine!” snapped Missy, as if the world were arguing with her. “If Genevieve can’t come here, we’re going there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I made plans. I’m keeping them.” Missy spun around and strode away.
Claire had to run to keep up. Missy was moving so fast that Claire knew her only by her black puff of hair. High over the wide hall into which Missy hurtled were carved letters that read SHUTTLE. Claire threaded desperately through the crowds. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I have to see Genevieve. Just the way I have to see you, Claire. If I don’t see you every week, I feel as if I’m peeling off. Friday night was torture. Right now, I’m skinless. There’s no person left to me. Only meat.”
Well, that was the most sickening analogy Claire had ever heard. But at least Claire was needed. And to the exact same degree, apparently, Genevieve was needed. Of course it’s the exact same degree, thought Claire. Because the three of us are exactly the same.
Missy bought a subway pass at the ticket machine, swiped it through a turnstile and handed the pass back to Claire so she could swipe. Missy didn’t wait. She galloped down the stairs to the brightly lit shuttle station.
I could catch a return train, thought Claire. Bail out and go home.
Missy had reached the bottom of the stairs and was hurrying toward a mostly full car. Its doors were still open, but the conductor was looking out his window, assessing departure time. In moments the doors would close. The train would leave.
Claire was as unable to detach from Missy as if they were still sharing a womb. She swiped through the stile and took the stairs two at a time, raced past subway musicians and bounded into the last car as the door was closing. The shuttle jerked out of the station and gathered speed. When they reached Times Square, Missy found the southbound #1 line, and they went one stop to Thirty-fourth Street and got off.
Claire found New York only mildly interesting, except for when she found it overwhelming. There was always too much to think about in New York. But Missy adored the city and loved navigating through the crowds. She led the way down long underground corridors lined by every fast food in world cuisine. The mixture of smells Claire normally found enticing made her gag. In no time, they were in the station for the Long Island Railroad, and Missy was buying tickets from a wall machine, and ten minutes later they were headed out of New York.
The train window was dirty and scratched. Outside, rain fell in patches. There were stops. People got on and off. Claire felt as thick and misty as the weather. The speed at which Missy and the trains were changing her life reduced Claire to a puddle.
“Next stop is ours,” said Missy. Missy was trembling, but Claire did not think it was fear. Claire didn’t know. This time Claire did not share the feeling. “I didn’t bring the map,” said Missy, eyes glued to the window, “but I memorized it. Fourteen Bayberry Lane is kind of near the train station. We’ll walk if there’s no taxi.”
“Missy, the parents flipped out at the mere thought of us. Is this wise? I mean, should we ask first?”
“Of course we’re not going to ask. They’d flip out even more or else say no. Who cares about them, Clairedy? Genevieve wants to see us or she wouldn’t have started this. And I have to see her. I am ninety-nine point nine percent sure Genevieve is our identical sister, but I’m not one hundred percent sure. I have to know one hundred percent. The minute I see her, I will know.”
Claire had always accepted the family belief that Missy was the little one, the lightweight. But in fact, for years now, Missy had been the leader and Claire the follower. And back in the TV studio, Claire had been certain that Missy was older. What about Genevieve? What order were the girls in? Was Claire the baby of the family?
What family?
I don’t want to know, thought Claire.
Next to her, Missy expanded with joy while Claire shrank with horror, in some ghastly identical twin equation.
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING
Long Island
GENEVIEVE CIRCLED HER chair and stood behind it, gripping the upholstery with both hands. The vision of an infant absent-mindedly left by its own mother to bake to death made her ill. “You didn’t do that to me,” she said to Allegra, unable to say “Mom.” “I didn’t cook in a backseat. Neither did Missy or Claire. We’re all three alive.”
“I did do it,” cried her mother.
Suddenly her father was glaring at his wife. “Allegra, don’t dramatize!”
Since normally Ned thrived on Allegra’s drama, his wife was hurt and amazed that he wasn’t keeping up his supporting role. He turned his back on her. “The truth is dramatic enough, Vivi.”
“And what is the truth, Dad?”
He wavered. He looked at his wife.
“I thought it was all gone,” Allegra moaned. “And here it is on a video! Online! People will know.”
“I’d like to be one of the people who know,” said Genevieve. “Was there some crime involved? What are you afraid of? It’s just adoption!”
“It wasn’t criminal,” said her mother defensively. “People do it all the time. We both decided. Your father and I. Together.”
“I don’t care who’s to blame. I just want to know who I am.”
Allegra Candler reached for her handbag. She got out her compact and checked her face. She powdered. For Allegra, makeup was body armor. Her moment of weakness was gone. Allegra Candler was not going to tell Genevieve anything.
“Dad,” said Genevieve.
“The truth is ugly,” he said at last. “I apologize for it, Vivi. We never wanted children. When we found out we were going to have a baby, though, we decided it would be okay. We were the right age, our friends were having children, it didn’t look that hard. And then we found out we were g
oing to have three. We couldn’t stand it. We gave two away.”
Genevieve let go of the chair. She stepped back. After a moment, she stepped farther back. Then she turned to stare down the little front hall into the darkness. She could not tolerate these people in her field of vision.
The concept of being adopted had shocked her. The sight of two identical sisters had shocked her. But more shocking was the truth. She was not adopted. She had been born to this man and woman: married, successful, well-to-do, attractive suburbanites. Who had kept one child out of three. As if their daughters had been a litter of kittens.
That was shock.
Her parents were not charitable. When there was no escape, they might write a tiny check to a neighbor collecting for a cause, or put a single dollar in the church offertory plate. Last spring when Genevieve sold grapefruit to raise money for new high school band uniforms—her parents had bought her a good flute, although they almost never saw her play—Ned and Allegra were grumpy about the cost even when they got grapefruit in return.
But they had given away one thing rather easily.
No.
Two things. Their children.
Genevieve moved all the way into the dark little hall. She stayed in the center, as if even touching the wall her parents had painted would infect her.
I can’t ever meet Missy and Claire now, she thought. How could I face them? I’m the one our parents kept. They’re the ones our parents—
Genevieve’s heart stopped. She walked back. Her eyes were opening wider and wider. A cold, hideous fear was filling the back of her head.
No, she thought. No, no, no, no, no. “You didn’t charge a baby fee, did you? You didn’t get paid, did you? You didn’t get the down payment on this house by selling my sisters, did you?”
LATE SATURDAY MORNING
Long Island
ALLEGRA CANDLER HATED remembering the year she’d turned thirty. The brilliant career was plain old work. Eight or nine hours a day, plus a commute, and for what? Yes, she had terrific clothes and shoes. Yes, she was slender and beautiful. But she was old! One morning she found a gray hair. She yanked it out and the next day there was another.