His boss.
* * *
The secret that makes them exchange Dark Looks, thought Genevieve, is that they are not haunted by Missy and Claire. Even now, they’re not referring to Missy and Claire as their daughters. Even now, they’re saying “it,” not “she.”
She looked hard at her father. “So Mom didn’t hold the other babies. Did you?”
He shook his head.
Genevieve was trembling. Her father was a bystander in his entire world. He didn’t even really work at his own corporation—he did a task on the edge of it. He had been a bystander at the birth of his own three children; he had not held two out of three. “I don’t see how you could have separated identical triplets, let alone given two away.”
“You weren’t identical when you were born,” said her mother peevishly. “You were totally different when you were born. The second baby was in trouble and I believed it was my fault for thinking bad thoughts. I kept my eyes closed and let professionals help her. Besides, the obstetrician kept placing demands, and it hurt, I don’t care what anybody says, it hurts, and then came the third one, and I was too exhausted to think about the others. Maybe I had too much anesthesia or something. I didn’t want to get involved.”
Emma had said that Genevieve had the least involved parents in New York State.
Nobody could have guessed how uninvolved. “In what way was your second daughter in trouble?” she asked.
Allegra flinched at the term “daughter.” “Low birth weight. They put it in intensive care.”
It, thought Genevieve. “How often did you visit your sick baby?”
Silence.
The pain Genevieve felt was like appendicitis. But you could cure appendicitis; you could operate and cut the appendix out.
One summer, a family vacationing down by the beach had given a cat to their children. The children loved this cat, and the litter of kittens it soon produced. When school started, the family drove away, leaving the cat and her kittens to fend for themselves. Ned and Allegra had abandoned their daughters as easily as those summer vacationers had abandoned their pets. On the other hand, Genevieve had found homes for the kitties and the doctor had found homes for the babies. When Genevieve had spoken to Missy on the phone, her new sister sounded fine. Missy wasn’t haunted by the life she’d ended up with.
Oh, Missy, thought Genevieve sadly. You’re in New York City right now. You’re there and I’m not. I’m hearing this awful story instead.
Why hadn’t Missy texted back? Was she mad at Genevieve for canceling? How was Genevieve going to make things right? How could she ever meet Claire now? She would have to tell these girls the truth, an ugly slimy thing they would not want any more than she did. “How much did the adopting parents pay you?” asked Genevieve. She was tired. She imagined that as the rain cleared, her father would golf after all and her mother would head for the mall.
“We don’t know a single thing about the parents,” said Ned firmly, “and nobody paid us a dollar.”
“You don’t know a thing about the parents? You didn’t ask? You didn’t set parameters or have somebody check on them and visit them?”
“They were private adoptions arranged by the doctor. The parents probably wanted the adoption secret as much as we did. We dealt with authorities on one of them but the other one’s paperwork came later, and your mother and I were back at work, and we kept postpoing it.”
Genevieve didn’t like the sound of that. “But you got to it,” she said.
“Well, not really.”
“One adoption isn’t complete?” Genevieve was aghast.
“It is from our point of view,” said her mother.
“But those poor parents are in some horrible nonadoption limbo?”
“Oh, I’m sure over the years it just cancels out or something,” said Allegra. “I don’t want to deal with it. I don’t want to deal with any of it. I can’t believe it’s come back to haunt me. How could that girl do that? What will people think? What will they say?”
“Let’s worry about what Missy and Claire are going to say,” snapped Genevieve.
“Vivi, you haven’t been in touch with them, have you?”
“Of course I have.”
“How could you!”
“They are my identical triplet sisters,” said Genevieve, in case Allegra had missed the point. “You didn’t let me have them. You didn’t let me know. You made me grow up amputated!”
“Don’t be silly. You never dreamed you had sisters.”
There would have been enough space for three in her poet’s attic. They would have had bunk beds and the closets would have been severely crowded and the drawers overflowing and the girls would have argued over the tiny bathroom and who got to choose the radio station—but they would have been sisters. Sharing thoughts and hopes and clothes and laughter.
“How do you plan to face Missy and Claire?” Genevieve asked. “Should we ask both families for dinner?”
“I’m not going to face them!” cried her mother. “They’re out of my life. I don’t want them back.”
The doorbell rang.
Allegra cringed. “It’s beginning, Ned. All the attention I don’t want. Somebody saw the video and they’ve come for details, they’ve come to gawk. Ned, what are we going to say?”
Her parents moved closer to each other. They were afraid. Not of her, the daughter they had raised. Not even of the daughters they had not raised. They were afraid of the censure of the world.
The doorbell rang again.
“We’re not home,” suggested Ned.
Genevieve stepped into the little hall to look through the narrow glass panel beside the front door.
Someone had hung a mirror over the glass. How strange. She would have to take the mirror down in order to see out. What was the mirror even hanging on?
The expression on Genevieve’s reflected face changed to a wide grin. Except she was not smiling. Genevieve touched her face, checking for a smile. In the mirror, no fingers moved.
She was not looking at her reflection. She was looking at her sister.
NOON ON SATURDAY
Long Island
MISSY AND CLAIRE got off the train in a beautiful town where green lawns shimmered with the jewels of fallen autumn leaves. It struck Claire that the identical triplets had grown up in almost identical settings.
Missy marched forward. Claire could step out of the way of some out-of-control vehicle, but she could not get out of the way of her out-of-control cousin. She felt like a puppy on a leash: leave this station, cross this road, follow this sidewalk. She had only puppy thoughts and puppy knowledge. She was aware of sun and scent, traffic and trees.
Her cousin planned to walk up to a house whose address she had found online, knock on the front door and say to total strangers, “Hi. Do we look familiar? Do we look like your little girl Genevieve? Can we come in? Can I have a glass of water?”
She’s not my cousin, Claire reminded herself. That’s my sister walking two paces ahead of me.
Claire would have liked a year or two to think about this. But no, they were bolting into the foreign territory of an identical triplet.
Missy came to a halt. She pointed across the street at an adorable little dollhouse. Much smaller than other homes on the street, its shade came from other people’s trees. The number 14 was visible on the red door with its white steps. There were two cars in the gravel driveway. They were home, these people who had adopted the girl who might be Claire’s sister. “Stop, Missy,” begged Claire. “Stop right here. This isn’t the way to do it. We can’t fool around with other people’s lives. Let’s go home.”
They’d catch a train going the other way. Trains were wonderful. They ran all the time. They always had room. When there were no seats, you could stand.
“It isn’t other people’s lives,” said Missy. “It’s our lives.” She crossed the street.
Claire backed up against a white picket fence with sweet-smelling flowers on
delicate vines. She wrapped her fingers around a post and watched. She could not knock on that door.
Missy glanced back, puzzled and disappointed. Claire felt a literal tug, as if Missy really and truly were yanking her chain.
* * *
Missy’s right foot landed on the bottom step of the tiny charming porch. Guessing who she was had been fun. Knowing might be a disaster. Missy swallowed.
So Genevieve’s parents had collapsed when they saw the video. Whatever. I’ll just walk around the parents. I’ll comfort the mother and father and tell them they don’t matter. My sister matters.
Missy took the second step. And then the third and final step. The little porch was so small she filled it, and it filled her. She felt Claire catch her breath at the same moment with the same fears, and then Missy Vianello pressed the Candlers’ doorbell.
* * *
On the opposite side of the street, Claire’s fingertip seemed to feel the pressure required to ring the bell. It was like a passing bell dividing class time in high school, but this bell would divide their cousin lives from their sister lives.
Let her not be our sister. Let none of this be true.
The front door opened.
There stood a girl who really and truly was exactly the same as Missy and Claire.
Missy and the girl touched. Their hands explored, testing hair and cheek and shoulder. It was like watching a zoo exhibit.
Claire felt like chopping off her hair, gaining twenty pounds, wearing thick glasses and smearing on orange lipstick—anything not to be the clone of a total stranger.
Missy and the girl began to hug. It was tentative. They were only half touching.
“Missy?” said the girl nervously.
“Genevieve?” said Missy, as if there could be a fourth girl inside, somebody named Estelle or Zoe.
Claire began to sob.
* * *
The girls were touching for the first time since before birth. Missy had known that she would know the moment they touched, and she had been right. Waves of knowledge passed through her. She and her new sister were laughing and crying, smiling and trembling. Then Genevieve saw who stood across the street. “Claire?” she whispered. “Missy, that’s Claire!”
“That’s Claire,” agreed Missy.
Genevieve’s touch turned to a grip. “I have to meet her. We have to be together. Hurry!” Pulling Missy with her, Genevieve took the three porch steps in a bound. They hurtled over the tiny front yard and across the quiet street.
Claire, be okay with this, prayed Missy. This is who we are.
* * *
Genevieve stopped at the sidewalk to give Claire a few feet of grace. To let Claire decide. She felt relatively sure that Ned and Allegra would not follow. She was not ready to bring parents into the mix, especially not these parents. And they were afraid of publicity, so a public street might frighten them into staying indoors.
Claire’s stare was so intense it felt like laser surgery.
Genevieve held out her hands.
After an eternity, or a minute, Claire edged closer. She was quivering. The hand that touched Genevieve’s cheek was cold. “Oh, Missy, you were right,” whispered Claire. “You said we would know the minute we touched. And I do know. Genevieve, I’m sorry. I was scared. I’m still scared. I sort of don’t want it.”
You really aren’t going to want what it turned out to be, thought Genevieve. “It’s okay,” she said. “We’re together now.” Genevieve had a sister to the left and a sister to the right. She could have stood here for hours, gazing at each sister in turn.
Missy put her arm around Genevieve. Carefully, slowly, Genevieve put her arm around Claire. A smile began to form on Claire’s face—the face that was also Genevieve’s face. All three of the girls’ mouths lifted in the same smile. Claire shifted, tugging at Genevieve until they were no longer a row. They were a circle.
Missy whispered, “I did a terrible thing, forcing Claire into going public when she didn’t even know yet. I’ve been cruel to our families. But oh, Genevieve! We have you!”
We were all three scared this morning, thought Genevieve. All three trying to look bland and tailored and able to shrug. She said, “I don’t really ever dress like this.”
“Me either,” said Claire. “I like lemon and turquoise and hot pink.”
“Oh, yes!” said Genevieve. “And lime. Anything green.”
“Why did we wear beige?” said Missy.
“To fade,” said Claire. “I didn’t want anybody to see. But it’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
It was beyond cool. It was amazing that identical triplets could exist at all, never mind that she, Genevieve, was one of them. She couldn’t laugh and she couldn’t cry; she was stuck somewhere in trembling joy, feasting her eyes on her sisters.
Claire said nervously, “Your parents are standing in your doorway, Genevieve. They’re staring at us.”
Genevieve remembered reality. She had her back to a woman who had wanted to knife herself because Missy and Claire existed. “There’s a little park down the block,” said Genevieve. “We’ll walk down there. They won’t follow us.”
“Shouldn’t we say hello?” asked Missy.
“Not now.” Genevieve set a fast pace. Their steps matched, as if they had had dancing class together and run up to bed together and learned songs together all these years.
They were one lawn away from Genevieve’s house. Two lawns, then three.
Missy looked over her shoulder. “This feels rude.”
Genevieve did not look over her shoulder. And then hedges and shrubs and branches bending low hid the man and the woman in the door of the little white house with the sweet little porch.
Missy said, “Genevieve, I’m desperate to know. Who are our parents? Did you find out? Do you know anything?”
It was the worst possible topic. Genevieve wanted it to come later. But it was the big question, and Missy and Claire needed the answer. They walked the whole block before Genevieve found the courage to tell them.
She said to her new sisters, “Be brave. That man and that woman standing in the doorway of my house? They are not my mother and father. They are our mother and father.”
* * *
Claire could not make sense of this. How could Genevieve’s parents be all their parents? The middle of her back still felt the pressure of those parents’ eyes. From the back, she thought, they probably can’t tell which of us is which. In fact, from the front, they probably can’t tell.
The sidewalk went up a slight hill, passed several houses and headed down again, curving around.
The middle of her back relaxed. The eyes of the people in the doorway could not pierce the dirt of the hill. “Genevieve, don’t talk about them,” said Claire. “Talk about you.” I’m not walking past that house again, she thought. I’ll circle the whole town to reach the railroad station if I have to.
The park was a corner garden, with a little fountain and a small statue, some grass and a tall tree. It had one bench, wet from the rain. Genevieve swooshed her hand down the slats, removing most of the water, and mopped up the rest with her jacket. Not great for the jacket, but now they could sit.
Genevieve took the middle. Claire sat on her left while Missy sat on her right. Missy opened her cell phone, stretched her arm out in front of her and caught the three of them on its camera. They stared at the proof of their identical identities.
Claire thought, Only other people will know what identical triplets look like. I’ll see the three of us just in pictures. That’s why I never believed that Missy and I could be identical—I can’t see us both at one time, except in mirrors. Now I have a new sister who is a mirror.
“We could have lived together,” said Genevieve. “We could have been sisters all this time.”
“It’s not too late,” said Missy. “We’re not dead or anything.”
They were laughing now, and it was the same melody, the same harmony, on the same pitch.
“I ca
n’t sit in a row like this,” said Claire. “I can’t see.” She turned sideways, tucked her feet up on the bench and hugged her knees, giving herself a fine view of Genevieve. A split second later Missy did the same. We even sit alike? thought Claire.
“What did you mean about having to be brave?” Missy asked Genevieve.
“It’s a bad story.”
“How bad?” asked Claire. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“I want to know everything,” said Missy.
“I’ll make it quick,” said Genevieve. Her mouth trembled. She put her hand up to steady the lips and chin that would have to deliver the news.
Claire took Genevieve’s hand. I wonder if our fingerprints match, she thought.
Genevieve held tight and began to talk. The story of Allegra and Ned was not believable, so it didn’t change Claire’s life. It was just stuff, as if Genevieve were reading from a Weird News column. Claire had been thinking only of the birth mother. When she thought of adoption, she assumed the biological father was offstage somewhere; that he didn’t know, didn’t care, wasn’t home, went to sea. But this birth father—her birth father—was down the block, standing still. Neither parent had been a sad, frightened teenager or a desperate, drug-using loser.
They had just been busy.
Again Claire felt brainless. What did that even mean—how could you be too busy to bring your own daughters home from the hospital?
“But they just stood there,” protested Missy. “In the doorway. Claire and I were created by a man and a woman who didn’t even cross the street for us?”
Genevieve nodded.
“They didn’t run over to meet their other two babies? They aren’t thrilled to find out that we’re fine? That we turned out well? That we came?”
“I think they were hoping nobody would ever know,” said Genevieve. “They were hoping it was a flub, like a bad golf score, and it wouldn’t matter.”
“It?” repeated Missy. “Having triplets is an ‘it’?”
“I’m quoting.”
Claire watched Genevieve’s hair puff as the sun came out and the humidity changed and realized that she was watching her own hair, as it were. She and her sisters were breathing at the same tempo. Their foreheads wrinkled at the same time and their hands made the same gestures. Claire let herself merge with Genevieve, in just the way she had previously feared. It was a good fit.