Beach Plum Island (21 page)

“Oh,” she said, and then felt so dizzy that she had to press her head to the window, hoping the cold glass would at least help keep her vision in focus. “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you kept my card.”

She didn’t tell Gabe that she had tossed his card into the recycling bin without a moment’s hesitation.

It was only a ten-minute drive to his apartment, but the stops and starts of the cab made Elaine want to hang her head out the window like a dog. Ridiculous. She’d only had, what? Three glasses of wine at her place, and three or four at the bar. She shouldn’t feel this wretched! She had definitely been drunker than this before.

Yeah, and then you passed out,
she reminded herself.

Gabe, thankfully, didn’t live in a fifth-floor walk-up apartment, the sort of building she’d imagined he might occupy, with his do-gooder sandals and unkempt hair, but in a tidy brownstone in the South End. She couldn’t see much in the dark other than the red door and handsome black lanterns on either side of it. Maybe the brownstone belonged to his parents, or he was subletting from a professor. Yes, that was probably it. You could get furnished sublets for a song in Boston over the summer.

Elaine had followed him, meek and shivering, into a darkened living room and down a hallway to a blissfully silent bedroom. The white sheets and gray coverlet were turned down, as if she’d arrived at a boutique hotel. There was even a dark green cotton bathrobe tossed across the end of the bed.

“I imagine you’re tired. We’ll talk in the morning,” Gabe said before closing the door. “Bathroom’s across the hall, and don’t worry, you won’t run into me. The master bedroom has its own en suite.”

Now bright sun was trying to creep in around the drawn window shades as Elaine lay in bed wearing the bathrobe. She had abandoned her dress, heels, and obnoxious Spanx and underwire bra on the blue armchair in the corner. With her eyes still half-shut, she admired the color of the walls in Gabe’s guest room—somewhere between gray and lavender—and thought about how she’d been a little disappointed that he had left her alone in this bedroom without even trying to talk to her. What if she’d had alcohol poisoning?

Don’t be an idiot,
she told herself.
He could see you were well enough to walk up his front stairs. Nobody with alcohol poisoning does that. Plus, you woke him at midnight. He was a prince to come rescue you. Admit it.

Elaine squinted at the time on her phone, which was rapidly running out of battery since she hadn’t been able to charge it last night. It was after ten o’clock on a Monday morning. What the hell kind of man took a shower in the middle of a Monday morning? She hoped he didn’t have the day off.

In her best version of what happened next, Gabe would leave her a pot of coffee and a note on the kitchen counter, telling her to let herself out of the house and lock up, and asking her to give him a call sometime for lunch. In her worst version of the future, Gabe had the day off and was in the shower feeling optimistic that she might invite him into this admittedly luxurious bed with the five-hundred-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

She couldn’t let that happen. Elaine decided the best defense would be her own shower. She could stay in the bathroom a long time, long enough for Ava to arrive with her key and some clothes. Elaine would then have to apologize to Gabe about leaving in such a hurry, but she couldn’t keep her sister waiting around, could she? They’d have lunch later in the week. She’d promise him that.

Yes, that sounded like a plan. Elaine hopped out of bed, then realized it was a mistake to let her feet hit the floor so hard. It was as if a spike had been hammered straight up her spine and there were knives in her brain. Holy crap.

She hobbled over to the bathroom across the hall after first peering out the door to make sure the coast was clear. Gabe had laid out towels for her in the bathroom—thick white Turkish towels, freshly laundered—and the shower was well equipped with soap and shampoo. There was even a blow-dryer in the drawer of the vanity beneath the mirror.

Elaine stood in the shower until her fingers started to prune up, wondering who usually used this guest bath. Gabe’s mother? The wealthy parents of whatever lucky professor or medical student owned the place?

She’d brought her phone into the bathroom with her; she made sure half an hour had gone by before she finished blow-drying her hair and wrapped herself back up in the robe. Surely Gabe was gone now. Or, if he wasn’t, Ava would be here soon.

She sneaked out of the bathroom and saw Gabe coming toward her, grinning, his curls bobbing along so happily that she felt nauseated all over again just watching them. It was like the man had springs for hair. And P.S.? The seventies were dead. Today he had on a T-shirt that was even worse than Habitat for Humanity: a white shirt with “www.savetibet.org” on it in small lettering.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” he said. “I was afraid I might miss you.”

“My sister’s coming in a few minutes.”
Please, Ava, get here soon.

“Great. I’m looking forward to meeting her.” Gabe smiled down at her—she’d forgotten he was so tall, over six feet—his brown eyes doing that thing she loved at the corners. It was almost possible to overlook the funky black glasses when he smiled at her like that. But not the Save Tibet T-shirt. Oh no.

“I don’t want to hold you up,” Elaine said. “You should just go ahead and do whatever it is you usually do on Mondays.”

He burst out laughing. “You don’t have any idea what I do, right?”

“Um, I might have forgotten.”

“So how did you get my phone number? You obviously didn’t have my card, since my title is on there.” He was still smiling down at her. He wasn’t trying to trick her, Elaine realized. He genuinely wanted to know.

“Internet,” she mumbled. “I used my phone. You’re the only Gabriel Blaustein in the Boston white pages.” She lifted her head. “I can’t believe you still have a landline.”

“Lucky for you, right? Come on. I’ll make some coffee.”

She didn’t want to sit with him over some pseudo-postcoital coffee, especially when Gabe would probably interrogate her about last night. But what choice did she have? And Elaine did want coffee. Oh, how she wanted coffee.

The kitchen was painted a soft spring green and copper pots hung from hooks on a Peg-Board. There was a huge spider plant in one window—she hadn’t seen one of those since college—and an enormous ginger cat curled on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. Again, Elaine thought about how much Gabe and Ava would like each other. Gabe’s kitchen felt like her sister’s: a place where you could imagine spending entire lazy Sunday afternoons.

But not Mondays. This was all wrong, being here. Elaine had called work and left a voice mail for Tony, saying she was out sick today, but he would know. Tony always knew when she was on a bender. Tony used to go on benders, too. Then he’d given it up, said he didn’t want to be an old man with a double chin and a map of red veins across his nose.

There was a phone app now that showed what your face would look like if you kept drinking; some of the younger account managers in the office had used it last week and were shrieking with laughter. Elaine hadn’t dared try it.

Jesus, how had she reached this low point in her life?

Gabe went to the stove and Elaine sat down at the kitchen table, unable to stand any longer. The cat immediately left his chair and jumped onto her lap, making himself entirely too comfortable. She didn’t dare dump him off. Everybody she knew with a cat acted like it was a child. A royal child at that. She noted a ceramic bowl on the floor with “Psycho Kitty” written across it. Not a good sign.

Gabe handed her coffee in what seemed like no time at all—really, those Starbucks kids needed to take some tips from this guy; it was like an entire pierced Prozac Nation working behind those counters—and then, damn it, he was scrambling eggs and making toast, zipping around on the other side of the counter like he expected her to eat something after the hellish night she’d had.

Admittedly, the food smelled good. Then Gabe was sitting across from her at the table and looking at her with those warm brown eyes again, telegraphing his need to see her eat. What choice was there but to pick up her fork?

“Tommy certainly is glad you’re here.”

“Tommy?”

Gabe gestured at the cat. “He doesn’t usually trust visitors enough to sit on them right away.”

“His voice has a hitch in it. He sounds like his purr is broken.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that’s about. Tommy was a rescue from the MSPCA. He eats funny, too, kind of tipping his head sideways.” Gabe demonstrated with his own plate of eggs, something she really didn’t need to see.

“Thank you again for looking after me,” she said. “This is more than I deserve, after waking you in the middle of the night.”

“You didn’t wake me.”

“No? What were you doing up at midnight on a Sunday?”

“Working.”

“Oh. Is that why you have the day off today?”

“What do you mean?”

Elaine eyed his T-shirt. “Not exactly a business suit.”

Gabe laughed. “No, thank God. I don’t think I could survive a day in a suit and tie.”

“Many men do.”

“Ah. But I’m not many men.”

No, Gabe was not like many men, Elaine thought, finishing her piece of toast and wishing she didn’t want another. She’d never known a man like this one, so comfortable in his own skin that she felt like she could say or do almost anything she wanted around him.

Maybe she and this cat with the broken purr had more in common than she’d realized. She stroked his fur. The stroking calmed her, made her feel sleepy. And her headache seemed to have receded to a place where she knew it was still there, and could come roaring back out at any time it chose, but for the moment she’d beaten it.

The coffee was perfect. So was the food. Maybe the cat, too. She scratched Tommy under his chin and he flipped over on her lap, nearly sliding off it in the process and making her laugh.

Oops. There was the headache again. She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Do you have any ibuprofen?”

“Of course. Just a sec.” Gabe got up and went to the kitchen cupboard over the sink, rummaged around, and returned with a bottle and a glass of water.

“Thank you.” She skipped the water and swallowed the pills dry. Where the hell was her sister? Surely Ava should be here by now.

“Want to tell me about last night?” Gabe asked.

He sensed her restlessness. She’d have to be on guard around this man. Her emotions were as plain to Gabe as if she’d written them out on the tablecloth between them in black Sharpie.

“Not really.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t feel like you owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t,” she said. “So don’t feel like you can use any tricky reverse psychology.”

“Fine with me. We’ll just be honest with each other. I’ll ask you what the hell happened last night, and you’ll tell me.”

She snorted. “All right. I started drinking at my house and decided it was a good idea to look for an easy hookup. I kept drinking at this bar I know in a hotel and met some guy. We danced, we almost went to his room, and I changed my mind. Then, for being such a good girl, I got mugged.”

Gabe cocked his head at her. “Interesting that you equate being a good girl with not sleeping with somebody.”

“My sister thinks it’s a terrible habit.”

“The sister I’m going to meet this morning?”

“I only have one sister.” Elaine winced, feeling a sharp pain in her temple. Maybe she was going to be like Pinocchio now, feeling her face bulge every time she told a lie. “Actually, I also have a half sister. But she’s much younger and we didn’t grow up together.”

“And that’s a problem for you.”

“I never said that!”

“No. But it’s in your voice.”

Elaine tried to stare him down, but the pain in her head and the truth in his eyes were both too much. She lowered her glance. “All right. Yes, it’s a problem. I don’t like her much. But I don’t have to see her much, either, thank God.” She raised her chin at him. “What the hell are you, a shrinky dink? I thought by now you’d be trying to sleep with me.”

She’d said that last bit to shock him. She’d succeeded, judging by the way Gabe’s face reddened and he shifted in his chair. “Guilty as charged. I do want to sleep with you. But I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think you really want me to answer that question,” he said.

The doorbell rang, making them both jump. Gabe didn’t look at her as he left the kitchen to answer it. Elaine stroked the cat without being able to stand up, trying to process what had just happened.

Ava entered the kitchen ahead of Gabe, her face set in a deep frown. “Sorry it took me so long to get down here,” she said breathlessly, her eyes taking in Gabe’s bathrobe on Elaine’s shoulders, Elaine’s face, her bare feet, assessing for scrapes and bruises. The irritation so evident earlier on the phone had disappeared, replaced by her usual concern. “What happened?”

And of course Ava would apologize, despite the fact that it was Elaine who had disrupted her schedule, her day, her life.
The good sister is here,
Elaine thought,
my savior,
but that thought, instead of comforting her, only made her furious. She stood up so fast the cat had to scramble to land on its feet. Poor Tommy, betrayed by yet another human.

“I’ll tell you in the car.” Elaine reached to take the bag of clothes from Ava.

“I bet you’d like a cup of coffee after that long drive,” Gabe said. “Can you stay a minute?”

As Ava turned to answer him, Elaine was struck by two things: by how pretty her sister was, with her windblown blond hair and clear green eyes, and by how right she’d been about Ava and Gabe being perfect for each other. A pair of do-gooder optimists in sandals.

“I’ll just go change,” she said, knowing they’d be fine without her.

A
va had just come in from the studio when her cell phone rang, startling her. It was midmorning and she was clammy with clay, sweaty, and hungry. At the sight of an unfamiliar number, she started to silence the noise without answering. She wouldn’t be in a fit mood to speak with anyone until she’d had another cup of coffee and a snack.

Then she remembered the adoption registry. Heart racing, she pressed the talk button. “Hello. This is Ava Barrett.”

The caller didn’t introduce herself, only said she was with the International Soundex Reunion Registry. Then, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barrett, but we haven’t been able to find a match to your request,” she said.

The woman had the sort of unhurried, melodious voice you seldom heard anymore. Midwestern, probably. Ava dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs with the knees of her muddy overalls drawn close to her chin, her chest constricted with disappointment. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes. Our organization leaves no stones unturned, even tiny pebbles.”

“I see. Well. Thank you.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” the woman said in her silky tone. “There are other avenues.”

Ava wiped a damp hand across her face, leaving her skin gritty with bits of clay. “Like what? I’m looking for my older brother. I don’t have my mother’s written consent and she’s been dead for ten years. I’m only the adoptee’s sister.” She stumbled a little over the strange words: “adoptee’s sister.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone, as if the woman was holding her breath. Then she said, “Let me call you back.”

Ava hung up and stared at the phone, bewildered. It rang a few seconds later, a different number on the screen now. “Hello?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t talk from the volunteer line in the office,” the woman said. “They don’t like us giving out additional information. But I had to do a search for my own son, so I know what it’s like. It’s a scary process and can get very involved.”

“Yes,” Ava said, her eyes brimming. “I’m really not sure what to do next.”

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On how determined you are,” the woman said. “People say adoption records are hermetically sealed, but that’s bureaucratic BS. You can always find somebody who’ll let you have a peek. But first you need to gather as much information as you can. The most useful thing is the baby’s birth date. Do you have that?”

“No,” Ava admitted. “I spoke to another relative, but she could only guess at the year. She thinks he was born in 1971.”

“Well, dearie, you won’t get far without a better date than that. Over 1.5 million babies were relinquished between 1945 and 1973, so you’re fishing in a big pond. I’d start with the town where your mother was living when she had the baby. The town clerk may have a copy of the long-form birth certificate on file.”

“But wouldn’t he have a new birth certificate on file, listing his adoptive parents on it?” Ava had discovered this bit of information while calling every adoption agency in Maine, searching for the one that had handled Peter’s records.

“Yes, of course.”

“So how would I know what name to ask for, since I don’t have any way of finding out who adopted him?”

“Was the father’s name listed on the original birth certificate?”

“No.” Ava felt herself wincing on her father’s behalf. “Only my mother’s.”

“Then I suggest going to the town clerk and asking for the birth certificate that way. You’ll have to pray for a bit of luck, of course,” the woman added, “but, in my experience, most small towns don’t typically have enough staff to thoroughly clean out their files. The old birth certificate may still be on file even if a clerk filed a new one with the adoptive parents’ names on it. If you can get the original, it’ll at least tell you exactly what day your brother was born and where. You’ll even find the name of the doctor who delivered him on that certificate. Then you can try to find him to ask if he had anything to do with the placement.”

Ava doubted this, since Peter had gone to Aunt Finley first; on the other hand, the doctor may have had a hand in helping unwed mothers put their children up for adoption and could have acted as a family resource. The doctor might also remember whether Peter had any other disabilities beyond being born blind.

“But how will finding the birth date help if I still don’t know my brother’s new last name?” she asked.

“Even with just a birth date, a place of birth, and a first name, you can find a lot on Google,” the woman said. “Do a death records search. Try high school yearbooks, too. Don’t rely only on the birth date, though; even if your brother did enter his information into our registry, if his parents gave him an incorrect birth date, it wouldn’t match up with what you gave us.”

Ava bit her lip, thinking hard. This was all so confusing. “Why would his parents record the wrong birthday?”

“Oh, who knows why people do what they do?” The woman said this as dismissively as if she were talking about toddler misbehavior in a sandbox. “Maybe they wanted him to remember the day they adopted him as his special day. Maybe they wanted to ensure he’d never find his birth family. Or they could have done it just because.” The woman sputtered to a stop.

“Just because what?” Ava asked, mystified.

“Many parents keep adoptions secret for social reasons. More so back then, of course, but even now, some people are ashamed not to be able to produce their own biological children. Or they’re afraid the adopted child will feel bad about himself if he finds out his ‘real’ family gave him up. This doesn’t make them bad people,” the woman added hastily. “Just misguided.”

“So Peter might not even know he’s adopted?” This possibility made Ava feel better. Maybe her brother hadn’t tried to find them, but perhaps he wasn’t deliberately trying to avoid being found, either.

“That’s right.” Ava could hear the smile in the woman’s voice. “Now let’s see what else we have to work with here. On your form you said your brother has disabilities. What sort?”

“He was blind. My aunt thought maybe there were other things wrong with him, too, but I don’t know what.”

“All right, then. Now we’re getting someplace.” The woman’s voice was brisk now. “How many blind babies are born in a year? Can’t be many. That narrows your search right there. And your brother’s adoptive family probably put him in school or a training program. That could have been stipulated as part of the surrender process with social services, for a family to provide that sort of thing.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Ava cradled the phone against her shoulder and went to her laptop, still open on the kitchen counter, where she’d been scrolling through news headlines at breakfast. After hastily wiping her hands on her overalls, she started a Google search. “The American Printing House for the Blind estimates just under sixty thousand visually impaired children in the U.S., with schools for the blind enrolling about five thousand students,” she read aloud to the caller. Her knees were trembling; she had to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs. There couldn’t be many schools for the blind. This was an avenue she hadn’t yet considered.

The woman’s excitement matched hers. “Easy as A-B-C! If you find your brother’s actual birth date, you’ll have a good chance of tracking him down through one of those institutions.”

“But would the schools give me any information? Wouldn’t that be illegal?” Ava’s hand had started to ache; she forced herself to relax her fingers. She’d been clutching the phone like a lifeline.

“There’s always somebody who’ll leave a file on a counter and walk away, pretending to be busy.” The woman chuckled, but it was laughter without mirth. “Remember: more of us have given up babies than you’d think. Be patient and don’t give up. Okay. Gotta go. My break’s over.” She hung up before Ava could thank her.

Ava sat for a few minutes, trying to slow down her frantic breathing as she imagined herself getting into the car one more time and driving north to Maine.

•   •   •

The flicker of memory had come to Gigi in the middle of the night: her father had a cousin.

Cousin Mildred was the only relative on Dad’s side that she knew of. His parents and brother were already dead by the time Gigi was born; truthfully, she’d never given Dad’s extended family any thought before he died.

Gigi sat up in bed, thinking how odd it was that, her whole life, she’d been the center of her own universe. Learning about Peter was forcing her to see Dad as a person apart from her for the first time, as a man who’d been a teenager, fallen in love, and made mistakes like anyone else.

Mom, too. Her mother had always seemed so perfect, blond and pretty and well dressed, plenty of money. But now Gigi could see Mom’s glaring mistake, the one she’d made by getting involved with Dad, a married man with a damaged wife and two daughters. Mom had pulled the ultimate skanky move. Yet Gigi knew she was a good person, too.

The adults in her life were diminishing before her eyes. No, that was wrong. They weren’t disappearing. It was more like these tall, sheltering adults around her suddenly appeared to have cracks in them, as if they, too, could shatter into a million pieces, their hearts and bodies and minds gone, just like that.

Terrified by her own tunneling thoughts, Gigi forced herself to think about Dad’s cousin, Mildred. She lived in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a small city half an hour north of Newburyport. Gigi had gone on a school field trip there in sixth grade, to some kind of boring living history museum. They’d toured a bunch of old houses and watched people dressed up in Colonial clothes do things like make candles and cook in blackened pots hanging over open fires.

Portsmouth would be easy to get to from Newburyport by bus. She could go on her own, ride her bike to the bus station, if Ava wouldn’t take her. All she needed was Mildred’s address.

Gigi snapped on her yellow table lamp, the one with the cutout stars in the shade she’d had all her life, and sat up against the pillow. Mildred was older than Dad, so she must know about the baby. What if she was the one who adopted him after Finley gave him up?

She climbed out of bed. It was still dark outside, not even four o’clock in the morning. But she couldn’t wait. Gigi had to find that last birthday card. Mildred sent them every year, inappropriately flowery cards on lavender or yellow paper, always with the name of some charity stamped on the back.

Gigi had no actual memory of Mildred, other than a squinty vision of a white-haired woman as tall and rawboned as Dad. She hadn’t visited since the summer Gigi turned ten. Gigi remembered because that year she had found a crisp ten-dollar bill in her birthday card—Mildred always sent a dollar amount corresponding to Gigi’s age—and that summer they’d taken a vacation to California while Mildred stayed at the house and watered Mom’s garden.

She slid open her closet door and started pulling out the big plastic boxes stored on the shelves along the back wall, shelves that had probably been meant for shoes or sweaters. Since Gigi always wore the same T-shirts and jeans, her mother kept all of Gigi’s school papers, artwork, and birthday cards in here, sorted into these plastic containers by year.

She found last year’s box and pried open the plastic lid with such force that she tore a fingernail. She ignored the burning sensation and began flipping through the papers, laying out the cards, still in their envelopes, in a neat grid until she spotted Mildred’s purple envelope with the tight blue letters. Her address in Portsmouth was printed in the corner.

Now she just had to wait until morning.

Gigi couldn’t go back to sleep. She drew in her sketch pad and read a graphic novel about zombies without absorbing the words. Finally, at seven o’clock, she dressed and went downstairs, the envelope folded in half and tucked into the back pocket of her cutoffs. Mom was already in the kitchen, her hair pulled into a ponytail, and wearing her gardening clothes, those black Lycra shorts that showed off what Dad called her
Dancing with the Stars
legs.

From the back, standing at the stove and jouncing her toned butt to some Kiss 108 FM song, Mom looked like a teenager. Gigi hoped like hell her mother wasn’t really listening to it; the lyrics were so sexed up.

“Hey. How did you sleep, honey?” Mom asked when she noticed Gigi in the doorway. Without waiting for an answer, she wrinkled her nose and said, “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to wash those shorts. Look at the stains!”

“No point. I’m just going to the studio.” There, Gigi thought: she’d managed to lie without flinching. She felt bad about that, but Mom would flip if she knew Gigi’s actual plan. “What smells like heaven in here?” A quick diversionary move.

Mom laughed. This was such an unusual sound that it stopped both of them for a second. Mom’s eyes were a faded denim blue in the bright light, wide and surprised. “Pancakes and bacon,” she said. “I thought you might want to eat before you leave for a change.”

Gigi didn’t have the heart to admit that Ava left breakfast on the counter for her the same way she did for Evan and Sam: a stack of bowls, a row of glasses, a plate of muffins and boxes of cereal. Or, sometimes, a plate of pancakes or waffles for them to microwave.

She sat down at the counter. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you, Mom.”

Her mother folded her arms, the spatula still in one hand. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

Panicked, Gigi deliberately rolled her eyes. “I mean it! It’s really cool that you’re cooking me breakfast.”

“For a change, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that!
God!
Don’t be so freakin’ annoying!” Gigi bounced up from the stool and went to the fridge, holding the door wide open to hide her expression as she took out the juice. “Will you eat with me?”

Her mother hesitated, probably still trying to figure things out, but Gigi was damned if she’d tell her some other mother had been cooking for her all summer. Especially when that other mother was Dad’s daughter. It hadn’t been an issue before, when Mom was taking those pills and sleeping all the time, but who knew? It might matter now.

She needed to distract her mother before she asked any more nosy questions or offered to drive her to Ava’s. “Come on, Mom. I poured you some juice. Let’s sit outside. Your flowers look really sick.”