Finding Cassidy (9 page)

By the time I returned to town, school was out for the afternoon. I considered heading back and searching for Jason, but I didn’t want to run into Yvonne or Prissy, or any teachers, either. I wanted to be alone and call Cypress Hills.

“How’s it going?” Frank asked when I got home. Big Mac and Little Mac sat on the couch opposite. Papers and brochures littered the coffee table between them.

“Fine.” The lie didn’t bother me as much as Frank’s appearance. His hair was mussed, his skin ashen. He looked like a sick, old man. Just a few days ago, he’d looked like his old self. Or was I seeing him differently now? “You okay, Dad?” The old term slipped out before I could stop it.

“Sure, Cass. Fine.”

Yeah, right. “Where’s Mom?”

“At the store.”

Distracted, Little Mac glanced up from the Mayo Clinic brochure she was reading. “Was your father
right? Did kids throw that turkey baster? Did you find out?”

“I’m working on it.” I wasn’t ready to tell them yet.

Big Mac peered at me over his reading glasses. “Are you all right, Dee Dee Bird?”

I’m not all right, I’ll never be all right again, but you’re not my grandfather and you wouldn’t understand.
“Sure.”

Dad and Little Mac turned their attention back to the brochures, but Big Mac’s steady grey eyes studied me intently. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

Big Mac had a way of seeing past your face and your clothes and all the stuff you said and did for the rest of the world. He was probably the only one in the family who wouldn’t care if I pierced my eyebrows six times or tattooed a snake up my leg. Because he knew the
I
of me.

Or he had, before I’d become Cassidy the Separate.

“I’m fine.” I grabbed an apple from the sideboard and hurried down the hall.
He’s only pretending to care. His priority is Frank. It has to be Frank.

My knapsack landed in the corner with a thud. I tossed the apple onto the bed. I picked up the phone. Fingers shaking, I dialled the Cypress Hills Fertility Clinic.

The Imperial Parrot does not form flocks. It hides from others. It is very secretive.

Cassidy MacLaughlin, Grade Four Science Project

G
ood afternoon, Cypress Hills.”

This is it.
My gut clenched; I couldn’t speak.

“Cypress Hills,” the voice repeated.

I took a breath. “Hello, I’m looking for some information.”

“On our services?” The voice was butter-soft, sweet.

“Sort of.” I hesitated. “Not exactly.”

Silence yawned on the other end of the phone.

“My mother was a—”
A what? A patient? A receiver?

“A client,” the voice gently prompted.

“Yes.” I practically cried with relief. “She was a client there. In September of 1988. I’m—”

The woman didn’t wait this time. “A donor offspring.”

“Yes. And I’m trying to contact my…the…donor. His number is 1546.” I’d memorized the number the night before, saying it over and over in my head like a soothing mantra—the key to the puzzle of me.

“All donors are kept confidential.”

“But—”

“It’s standard procedure.”

Nothing about this was standard.
“I just want a name. A little information.”

“I can’t help you.”

Her detachment made me angry. “But I need some health history. Family illnesses, that kind of thing.”

“That was discussed between the doctor, the donor and the client.”

The doctor, the donor, the client.
“But what about me?”

“The agreement wasn’t made with you.”

No, the agreement just
created
me. “I don’t want to
meet
him. I just want his name, some genetic history.”
And to know if he has long fingers. Likes pasta. Has scientific leanings.

The butter-soft voice hardened. “I’m not authorized to answer those questions.”

A phone rang in the background. Panic rose. I
didn’t want her hanging up. “Did you work there in 1988? Did you see him?”

“I’m sorry, I have another call.”

She was my only contact with him; I didn’t want to let her go. “Do you have pictures? Can you tell me what he does? Can you give me a name? Please! I won’t phone again.”

The dial tone buzzed in my ear.

I fell backward onto my bed, stared up at the ceiling. The apple pressed into the small of my back. It was the only thing I could feel. I was numb everywhere else. Only that blood-red apple pushing on my spine reminded me that I was still alive. Still breathing. Still functioning. I would get a name, find him. I would figure out who I was.

Mom had to call the clinic herself. I’d talk to her about it after dinner.

Rolling over, I grabbed the phone and dialled Jason’s number. If I was lucky, his mom would still be at work. He answered on the first ring. “You’re not supposed to call here.”

The chill in his tone shocked me. “Hi to you, too.”

“Cass, I’m serious. I got supreme shit Sunday when you called after the…the rock thing. Mom saw your number on the caller ID. We’re supposed to cool it for a while, remember?”

Crap. “I’m sorry. I’ve had the day from hell. I need to talk for a sec.”

“I heard what happened at lunch.” His tone lightened. He chuckled. “Yvonne’s major pissed.”

I didn’t want to talk about Yvonne. “I called the clinic, Jase. They wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

“So forget it. I told you that.”

I guess I’d reached my breaking point, because I started to cry. “I can’t forget it. I have to find him.”

There was silence and then, “I gotta go. Mom’s pulled in.”

Had she? Or was Jason lying?

For the first time in nine months, I wondered if he was telling the truth.

The thought made me sick to my stomach.

Eventually I pulled myself together long enough to spread out my pictures of Cassidy the Separate. Once I was satisfied that I could see them all from the bed, I grabbed my scissors and started in on another album.

“Cass?” There was a quick knock before Quinn poked her head around the door. “Your dad said you were in here.”

He’s not my dad.
I slapped the album shut and covered the cutouts on my bed. “Haven’t you heard of waiting until you’re invited into a room?”

Quinn ignored my grumpiness. “Whoa!” Gawking at the group of Cassidy the Separate on my desk, she came in and shut the door. “Some statement that is.” Her gaze travelled from surface to surface, taking in all the cutouts. “You’ve taken the term ‘paper dolls’ to an entirely new level.”

“Whatever.” My eyes were glued to her massive green sweater, the multi-coloured beret slipping off her head. She looked like an elf on acid.

“Here.” From somewhere under all that green, she removed a newspaper and a handful of worksheets. “Mr. Edwards said to do these and he’ll let you off the hook for today.”

He probably knows, too.

“And class starts earlier tomorrow because the scientists are coming again.”

“Thanks for stopping by.” I glanced meaningfully at the door.
You can leave any time.

But Quinn ignored the hint. “Nice place,” she said, openly assessing my bedroom.

“I like it,” I muttered defensively. Quinn had never been in this room. She’d never been in this house. Our last fight had taken place the week before we moved. “What do you want?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she perched on the edge of the bed and pulled a Cassidy the Separate out from
under the photo album. “Another one?” It was me at ten standing on the Santa Monica pier. Mom’s and Dad’s hands were still on my shoulders, but I’d managed to cut the rest of them away. “You’re holding a flag from Disneyland.” Grinning, she looked up. “Was that your trip to California?” When I nodded, she said, “You saw your first white-winged dove and you reached three hundred on your species list.”

She remembered. I’d called her all excited from the hotel. Still holding my image, Quinn glanced at the group of Cassidy the Separate by my computer. Her eyes travelled. Desk. Bookshelf. Windowsill. Assessing. Thinking. Finally she said, “You planning on cutting yourself out of your whole entire life?”

Her comment hit a nerve. “Piss off!” I snatched the picture out of her hand, laid it upside down. “You can leave now.”

She made no move to get up. Instead she handed me the newspaper, pointed to the main story and said, “Check it out.”

I read:

Rumours are flying around town about Deputy Mayor Frank MacLaughlin. He ended up in hospital Thursday evening, allegedly from falling down stairs. The Deputy Mayor has had three fender-benders in the last six weeks.
Breathalyzers were not administered. One wonders if our friendly constables are being just a little too friendly. Meanwhile, unnamed sources suggest this isn’t the first time Deputy MacLaughlin has taken a tumble on dry land. One source even suggests that the misplaced feet are going to cost him heavily in the upcoming civic election.

“Three fender-benders? He’s only had two.” Disgusted, I chucked the newspaper down. “And they’re trying to imply that Frank has a drinking problem.”

“Frank?” Quinn raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t you call him Mr. MacLaughlin and pretend you’re a boarder?”

I glared. “You’re an uninvited guest. Don’t push it. Besides, he’s not my father. That’s been established.”

“I know—I heard.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “You know how stuff gets around school.”

“So is that why you’re being nice to me all of a sudden? Because you feel bad?”

“No.” She pulled her beret off, fiddled nervously with it. “But when you enrolled in environmental studies, I figured you were back to being the old Cassidy. I thought we could—I don’t know—start over or something.”

“Well, we can’t start over, and I’m not the old Cassidy.” I wasn’t a new Cassidy, either. I didn’t know what kind of Cassidy I was.

Quinn frowned. “Just how long are you going to hold onto this stupid grudge, anyway?”

“As long as I want to.” With a vicious kick, I sent the newspaper under the bed.

“Now, that’s mature.”

She was really pissing me off. “I think you should go,” I said again.

She still didn’t move. “Your parents were always so upfront.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe they kept it from you all these years.”

At least she wasn’t disgusted or cracking jokes.

“Remember grade three?” she asked.

I hardly wanted to go down memory lane with Quinn. “What about it?” I asked warily.

“You insisted you were adopted. Said you were related to some rich dude in Bavaria or Latvia or somewhere.” Quinn snickered. “For a while all you would eat was rye bread and sausage.”

“Until Mom told me Latvians ate peas and sour porridge.” When Quinn rolled her eyes in remembrance, I had to grin. There was comfort in having history with a person.

“That was your intuition talking,” she said softly.
“You knew something wasn’t right.”

Her compassion made me uncomfortable. I avoided her eyes.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.” I got up, put the worksheets on my desk, gathered up the photo albums.

“You need to educate yourself. Network with people. Find some organizations. The government passed a reproductive technology bill a while back. There’s bound to be a ton of information out there.”

That was Quinn—throwing herself at life. Only this was
my
life to handle
my
way. “I don’t want to get involved with any groups.” I stashed the albums in the closet and collected up my sizable display of Cassidy the Separate. “I don’t need a ton of information.”
All I needed was one name.
I put the cutouts in the closet beside the albums. “I should start my homework.” Turning around, I looked pointedly at the door.

Quinn ignored me. “It probably
is
like being adopted,” she mused. “There will be records. Stuff on file. This isn’t the Dark Ages.”

“You need to leave.”

“But I haven’t told you about my plan to get around the egg-addling thing.”

“Later.” I opened my bedroom door and stood beside it. “I have stuff to do.”

With a tiny but unmistakable huff, Quinn rose. She slapped the beret on her head, belted her sweater and talked to herself as she headed for the door. “Thanks for bringing me that homework, Quinn. You’re welcome, Cassidy. It was my pleasure. See you tomorrow, Quinn. Sure, Cass.”

I giggled in spite of myself. Now she not only looked like an elf on acid, she sounded like one. “Yeah, all of the above.” I shut the door behind her.

Soon after Quinn left, I tried to tell Mom about the clinic, but she put me off. We’d talk tomorrow afternoon at the counsellor’s office, she told me. Now
there
was a treat to look forward to. But I couldn’t hold it against her. The phone was ringing off the hook about the newspaper article. Everybody was in a panic.

Everybody except Frank.

Eventually, he called the newspaper and told them everything. Well, not everything, but everything about Huntington’s. The fact that it was still in the early stages. His plans to run in the next election. The doctor’s prognosis that he had a number of good years left.

Later that night, Little Mac went all motherly and told Frank that she didn’t think he should be running for election. Not with the disease and all.

He finally turned to her and said, with more determination
than I’d ever heard, “I’m going to die soon enough. And I’m going to do as much living as I can until then.”

Clearly, I was the product of another, more cowardly man. Frank had more guts than I could ever hope to have.

The next morning I woke to bright spring sunshine streaming through my bedroom window. It was the kind of day that used to make me bounce out of bed. But with the newspaper article and the phone call to Jason uppermost in my mind, I had to drag myself from under the covers and force myself to get to Circle Lake on time.

Walking into the nature house with two minutes to spare, I saw Prissy sitting alone in the back row. Prepared to confront her, I headed back, only to be waylaid by Quinn.

“Oh good, you’re early.” This morning she looked like an oversized bumblebee: black Goth coat, yellow sweater and fuzzy black and white scarf. She plopped into a chair and pulled me down beside her. “I went online last night and got some great stuff for you.” She pulled an envelope from the folds of her billowing coat and presented it to me with a flourish.

That’s when I noticed her fingerless gloves. Purple. “Do you
try
to dress weird, or do you just have a knack for it?”

“I base my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.” She grabbed the envelope back, removed a few sheets, shoved them at me. “Did you know there’s a site in the States that sells sperm from Ivy League donors? Guaranteed brains before birth. Is that weird or what? And there are way more sites devoted to parents and donors than to offspring, which is also weird.”

“Sssssh! You don’t have to tell the world.” Even if the world already knew, I didn’t want to remind them. I slid down in my seat.

Quinn lowered her voice, but only a notch. “The world needs to know this, Cass. Donor offspring are practically ignored. People are walking around not knowing their medical history and stuff. It’s disgustingly unfair, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” I muttered. And I didn’t ask her to do a search for me, either. I didn’t want to know stuff. I just wanted to know
him.

But Quinn was on a roll. “I found two sites with great potential. One that tells you everything you need to know about finding your donor. And this one“—she tapped the top page—”is an amazing
message board and chat room. You need to go there. People are giving each other tips, Cass. Sharing info.”

Quinn matched Jason in being bossy-stubborn. “I’ve got friends I can share with. I don’t need a chat room.”

“Yeah?” She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t see your
friends
crowding around to help you.”

I shoved the papers back at her. “Here. Take them.”

“They’re yours,” she said stiffly. “If you’re not interested, recycle them.” She squared her shoulders, turned away.

I guess I could have said thanks.
Thanks for not minding your own damn business. Thanks for pointing out how useless my friends are.