The women had their backs to Blair, so Blair watched as Margot took a folder from her lap, opened it to a piece of paper bearing two black, inky commas.
Footprints.
Iris didn’t say anything, just sighed and wrapped her arm around Margot. They sat that way for a long time, until Margot rose to go.
After, Iris pulled a throw pillow into her chest and wailed into it, ugly bleating sounds that filled the empty room.
Blair had never seen her mother cry like that and she stood paralyzed on the steps, wondering if she should go to her. Even though her mother and Margot were close, she was shocked at her mother’s grief, terrified of it.
Does Margot know her mother’s secrets? Does her father? Or is it just Blair? Her burden to carry, to decide what to do with it.
The idea comesto her in the middle of calculus. She doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this before. Her mother didn’t come from no one, from nowhere, even if she doesn’t like to talk about it. The photos are one kind of proof, but she can find another.
In between classes she pulls up the website for the genetic testing company. Her friend Allegra’s mom did it, and she found this second cousin on her dad’s side who she met once before at a family barbecue when they were four. But there was some falling out between the parents so they hadn’t seen each other since, and turns out they live twenty minutes away from one another so now they meet for coffee all the time.
Genes are a story, the website says.The most powerful story on Earth.
It gives Blair the shivers to read that. To think of unlocking the promise of something so basic, so elemental and taken for granted, this narrative she’s carried around in her body for every minute of her life.
Her mother has always found a way to bat away her questions about her childhood. Her father always took her mother’s side.There’s a lot of pain there, Blair Bear. Your mom prefers to focus on how lucky she is now, how much she loves you and your brothers. A spike of anger in Blair. How can her mother keep all of this hidden? This story is Blair’s story too.
In study hall she orders the kit using her Dad’s credit card, which is saved on her phone. Her mother is more meticulous about checking the statements, more careful with money in general, while she can get away with slipping some things on her dad’s bill without him noticing; or if he notices, he doesn’t ask. And if he asks, she will just tell him the truth. She wants to—deserves to—understand where she comes from.
And, she could end up doing some good. What if she finds her mother’s lost sister? What if she changes the story for the better? Shecan picture it now, her mother and aunt hugging, their mannerisms so similar across all these years, their faces still the same, aged in the same ways, that it is like a woman looking in the mirror at herself. They will laugh and cry and wonder at the thought they were never going to see one another again, if it hadn’t been for Blair. Blair will have another aunt blowing through the front door like a brisk wind; she’ll get to listen to them talk about their fights and their school days and what they liked to do for fun. Another aunt who will take her out for pedicures, let her have sips of champagne on New Year’s while her parents are in the other room. Another aunt who will stand shoulder to shoulder with her and show her how to be a woman in this world.
The box isdelivered on a day when her mom leads her volunteer group at the library—she’s relieved that she sees it come off the back of the UPS truck, recognizes the branding right away, the blue tree against the white background, branches reaching to the sky. She’ll even have time to do the test and ship it back in town before anyone gets home—her father works late in the city on Wednesdays. And after her volunteer session with the senior citizens, her mother drives a few of them home with foil-wrapped single-serve dinners that she and Blair make together the night before. Eggplant parm or macaroni and cheese—simple, dense foods that are easy to reheat. Blair likes to do this alongside her mother—besides it being good for her college applications, she likes to watch her mother’s hands work, the quick, sure motions of her chopping and stirring and cinching foil around the containers, even likes to clean up and compost their scraps. It makes her feel like everything in the world can be put in order, every mess resolved.
Blair opens thepackage in the dining room, reads through the test instructions twice to make sure she understands. She spits in the tube, adds the vial of stabilizer fluid, screws the cap on tight, sealsit up in a bag that she’ll slip into the return envelope. The biohazard symbol on the plastic bag gives her pause for a moment—it is dangerous-looking, menacing—before she reminds herself that this is only spit.
A thrill runs through her as she walks the package down the street, to the blue mailbox at the corner of Elm Court and Rodham Road. George Bingham found out he was related to some British king. Maybe her mother’s family was exiled royals who had to cut all ties if they wanted to live. Maybe one of them has turned out to be a movie star. Most of all, she pictures her mother’s face when she tells her about the results. How grateful she’ll be, hugging Blair in close.
The brochure promises she’ll get an email with the results in four to six weeks. Blair has the feeling that once she gets these results back, a story will fill itself in behind her mother, behind her, like the scenery of a play slowly lit up.
CALLIE
Christmas Eve. She takes the eight to four patrol shift so she can give one of the guys off. Handful of DUIs, reckless driving. Paperwork. The station is decorated with garlands of pine laced with antique sleigh bells in a weighty cast bronze—Della’s handiwork. On her patrol route some of the seasonal décor struck a grimmer note, one guardrail wrapped in pale-blue tinsel where there had been a fatal crash three years ago. A road sign with a wreath zip-tied to the post, a plywood sign underneath it,RIP MARK WE MISS YOU, scrawled with spray paint. The missing posters that Callie put up all those months ago are gone or tattered beyond recognition, damp with rain and snow. In the ones that remain Jenna’s face is reduced to a featureless white oval.
On the wayhome she detours to the Stop and Shop to pick up some food—Adrian is out of town visiting his family and her pantry is empty. She’s restless. The drug trade has quieted down a little bit, the weather forcing everyone out of sight, into their houses or in the back rooms of bars or wherever her shadowy dealer is going to conduct their business. Still, a paramedic she’s gotten to know texts her to say there’s been two OD calls in the last week. Luckily they got to these ones in time.
She’s been working more lately, end of the year budget forecasts, preparing employee reviews, getting ready to tell the guys that bonuses will be light this year. She hasn’t been around to watch Opal or help with errands as much. The last two times she offered to do agrocery run for Damien he told her not to worry about it. She texts Jane:
How are you doing?
Fine,Jane says. An ellipses to indicate she was typing, then nothing more after that.
Tell me, J, she thinks at her phone. But whatever Jane had been about to say, she’s decided to keep to herself. Callie still hasn’t worked out what Fauver might have been doing at their place—or really, if he was even there at all. She thinks back to that conversation she had with Damien and Luke outside after dinner back in the fall.Opal’s started to lie.Maybe the snake man was another one of her stories, something she imagined into the world. It would probably be a relief, as a little kid, to have your own version of the bogeyman who comes and makes your parents fight. Better than the more likely reality: that her parents fight because there’s trouble. Because there’s something broken that might be hard to fix. Maybe her childhood is careening toward the kind of girlhoods Jane and Callie endured: unpredictable, characterized by want and chaos. History repeating itself.
She’ll confront Jane about it next time. That vow they made when they were still teenagers to take care of each other, be there for each other, has another party to it now: Opal. Before she goes to bed at night she sees the heart of Opal’s face, her gray-blue eyes the same as Jane’s, full of wonder and trust.
She’s studying packages of shredded cheese when someone says her name.
It’s Wren, Della’s daughter. She’s older than Callie but Callie remembers seeing Wren around when Callie was in high school and Wren was home from college working as a lifeguard at the lake. Callie always liked her, even though the two couldn’t be more different. Wren’s got a sleeve of tattoos, flowers twisting on their vines, a split-open pomegranate, quotes from poems and novels Callie’s never read. She works for an arts organization in New York, writes for magazines,and publishes short stories—Della keeps a file of everything she’s done at her desk and is always eager to brag about Wren’s latest publication or byline.
“Hey, Wren. You in town for the holiday?”
“Yeah. Mom and Dad sent me out to pick up a few things.” Wren rolls her eyes at her cart, which is nearly full: cartons of eggnog and bottles of rum, two dozen eggs, frozen puff pastry, packages of butter, a sack of oranges.
“Your mom goes all out, that’s for sure.” The kind of holiday Callie would have killed for once. She went through a phase of cutting tablescapes from magazines in the fourth grade: candles glowing on the table, a centerpiece of pine and red berries, red-and-green glazed plates.
