A knock on the door alerts me that my Uber Eats delivery has arrived. I take the bag from my favorite deli and grab a Diet Coke from the fridge. I get comfortable on the sofa and pick up the remote to find something to binge watch.
I pause on the TLC network as I notice a logo in the bottom left displaying #LongLostFamily. The show features people looking for lost family members, primarily due to adoption. Even though I’m not adopted, I don’t know who or where my father is, so I suppose I’m lost. Or he is. After a few minutes, the show cuts to a commercial for a DNA testing kit. I pull up my Amazon account and place an order for one.
* * *
After a restless night spent tossing and turning, I get out of bed, shutting off my eight-a.m. alarm as soon as it starts blaring music. No one knows this, but I enjoy listening to modern country. When 99.5 changed its format from smooth jazz to country hits, I didn’t move the dial and have been listening ever since. I also have a closet crush on Blake Shelton.
After showering and dressing, I brush my teeth and begin my makeup regimen. I’m blessed with great skin, so I don’t put too much on it. As I apply some bronzer, I contemplate my face in the mirror. People say I look just like my mother, so I’m left to wonder what traits I got from my father. My dimples and blue eyes, perhaps? Mama’s eyes were brown. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a black man with blue eyes in my quest for my father since I’ve read it’s very rare for African Americans to have blue eyes, I tell myself, only half joking.
Chapter 2
Since Mama’s gone and my love life’s non-existent, I have plenty of time to focus on my business. After getting my fashion and business degrees at Columbia University, I borrowed money from everyone Mama and I knew, including the bank, and opened my own boutique. All through school it was a dream of mine to have my own store on The Magnificent Mile, alongside all the major designers and retailers. My shop is small and tucked on a side street off North Michigan Avenue, but it’s all mine. For the past fifteen years, I’ve worked hard to make Salynda’s Signature Style a sought-after place for the Windy City’s elite to shop. The day Oprah walked into my boutique I knew I’d accomplished my dream.
I’m in the process of closing up when I hear a jingle alerting me to a text message. I pick up my phone and see that it’s from the Ancestry site. My DNA results are in! The instructions with the kit indicated the turnaround time was about thirty days, so I’ve been waiting about a month. I resist the urge to run to the nearest computer to log on to the site, deciding instead to wait until I get home so I can get comfortable and review it on my laptop.
My mind is racing with excitement and anticipation about what I’m about to learn. So much so, I’m distracted as I place the cash bag in my purse, then set the alarm for the store. I lock up and walk the half block to the garage where I park my car. It’s winter in Chicago and already dark. I head into the structure, still preoccupied with getting home and seeing my test results and not paying attention to my surroundings. The sound of a shoe scraping along smooth concrete causes me to take notice. Unease slides down my back in a shiver and I quicken my steps to my car. Glancing around me, I don’t see anyone, but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up anyway. My heart begins to pound in my chest as adrenaline shoots through my veins. The sound of more footsteps echo through the garage around me. I’ve always found parking decks creepy, which doesn’t help keep me calm as I hurry to my vehicle, inwardly cursing the heels of my dress boots for slowing me down.
Nearly frantic now, I keep looking all around me, seeing nothing through the rows of cars bathed in dim, but garish, yellow lights from above. Sweat dots my brow and anxiety causes my hands to shake as I dig out my keys. I fist them, keeping the keys pointed outward between my knuckles. I vaguely remember reading about the tactic somewhere and I desperately hope my fear is unfounded.
I’m almost to my car when the shuffling footsteps grow louder and faster. Closer to me. I don’t think, I react, trying to run the last few feet to my car, but my ankle twists in the boots. I bobble to the side, but somehow manage to stay on my feet.
“Grab her!” A deep, male voice shouts from behind me. Seconds later, rough hands grab my upper arms, jerking me around.
“Don’t be a dumb bitch, hand over the purse,” another thick voice commands. I look up, confused by what I am seeing at first, but then understanding dawns. Two men stand in front of me, both wearing ski masks and black hoodies. They are tall and beefy, imposing. My keys dig into my fingers, reminding me of their presence. Jerking free, I swing my fist forward, catching the thug closest to me in the cheek. The sharp metal keys bite into my fingers painfully, but I hardly notice. His roar of fury is made louder by the echoing parking garage. He shoves me, his hands going to his injured face.
“You fucking cunt!” he screams. I turn, trying to run, but a strong hand grips my hair, jerking me backward.
“No! Let me go!” Searing pain burns through my scalp where he holds my hair tightly. I grip his hands, digging in my nails, hoping to force him to let me go. Thick gloves cover his skin and I scream in terror and frustration.
“You should have just given us your bag, now you’ve gone and pissed us off.” The man holding me shakes me harshly. The pain in my scalp is intense, forcing tears into my eyes.
“Hold her still,” the man whom I’d hit commands, still holding his cheek with one gloved hand. I stare back in helpless fear, my stomach a tight knot of despair. I note his icy eyes, the only part of him I can see. The look reflecting back at me from the depths of the cold irises chills me to the bone. His fist slams into my cheek, snapping my head to the side and ripping my hair from his partner’s grasp. I fall to the concrete in a heap of agony. My uninjured cheek rests against the frigid floor as stars dance around the edges of my vision. I feel adrift, outside myself, noting the jerk of my arm as my bag is torn free. I look on, dazed, as a big black boot flies toward me. Grunting, I gasp as the kick lands at my stomach, followed by another to my ribs. I curl up, retching as bile is forced up my throat.
“Stupid bitch. Should’ve just done what we said.” The hate-filled words barely register. My whole focus is on trying to draw air into my lungs; the pain is so sharp and intense. I gasp, my vision going dark as my deprived lungs struggle for the oxygen my body desperately needs. Something wet splatters onto the floor near my face. I jerk back, wanting to get away from the nasty saliva of my attacker.
“You’re lucky we’re in a hurry, otherwise I’d fuck you like the dumb whore you are.” Another kick smashes into my ribs, and I groan in pain. My body goes limp and the world turns dark.
Chapter 3
After spending hours being checked out at the emergency room and talking with detectives about the mugging, I’m finally able to head home, minus my purse and its contents, except for my keys I had grasped in my hand and my cell phone, which was in my coat pocket. Unfortunately, my cash bag with the day’s receipts, as well as my wallet with my driver’s license, personal cash, and debit and credit cards, are gone forever. And I look like I just went several rounds with a professional boxer. Thankfully, my ribs are only sore and bruised, and my cheek bone isn’t broken, but the skin is hot and swollen, the bruising already reaching toward my eye. Since I had my phone, I was able to contact my bank and credit card companies to get my cards cancelled fairly quickly.
I’m still pretty shaken up, but I’m anxious to get home so I can lock the rest of the world away and nurse my wounds. I know it’s going to be a long time until I’m able to go into a parking garage without fear paralyzing me.
Once I get inside, I kick off my leopard print high heeled boots, which managed to stay intact, and gingerly change into my favorite Chicago Bears sweats. My entire body hurts, pain throbbing through my abused stomach and ribs with each breath and beat of my heart. I have zero appetite but decide to make a cup of tea to help me relax. I don’t want to think about the mugging anymore tonight and the DNA results are just what I need right now to keep my mind occupied and off my fear, so I fire up my laptop.
I log into my account and the first thing I see is my ethnicity estimate. It indicates that, geographically, my DNA hails from East Africa, England, Wales, and Northwestern Europe, as well as Ireland and Scotland. The East Africa DNA doesn’t surprise me, but the high percentage of European DNA does. I take a breath to calm myself before clicking on the DNA Matches tab.
The tab yields a list of matches with the strongest at the top. Not all the matches have photos, but some of them do. My eyes immediately go to the first match, a person with the username of bjpatrick. I click on the name and am stunned by what I see. Two circles appear side-by-side. One circle bears my photo and next to it is an image of a striking, younger woman with blonde hair. I cover my mouth in surprise. My closest DNA match, with a first cousin relationship, is a white woman about half my age! This can’t be right! Can it? Did my kit get mixed up at the lab? There’s got to be a logical explanation for this.
I wasn’t able to construct a family tree while awaiting my DNA results since I have no information about relatives other than my mother and maternal grandparents. But I see that one can be constructed by linking to the trees of matches. I pull up the family tree for bjpatrick but most of the blocks are marked private, meaning that bjpatrick would have to agree to share it with me. Realizing that I’m not going to get any answers by staring at the screen, I click on the message button to send a private message to my possible first cousin.
Dear bjpatrick: My name is Salynda Jones and you are my closest DNA match. I’m not sure how we’re related since I have no knowledge of my family history, especially on my father’s side. I’m forty years old, from Chicago, Illinois, and African American, as you can see from my photo. I would appreciate any information you can give me and would be grateful if you would share your family tree with me. God bless.
I close the laptop and lean my head on the back of the sofa as my eyelids close. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted, and aching from head to toe, so I crawl into bed after quickly and carefully brushing my teeth, washing my face, and taking some pain meds.
Chapter 4
Isilence my alarm and gently turn my head away from the blinding sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window. Lying in bed, I try to muster up the energy and enthusiasm to get up and face the day. As I recall the events of the previous twenty-four hours, I have no desire to go out and face the world. I retrieve my phone from the nightstand and punch the speed dial number for my assistant, Brandie.
