I.D. (3 page)

“Okay. So?”

“So, what if the couple had an older daughter? What if her name was Alexis?”

Sister.

Parents.

“Wait,” Eve said. “You think—this girl is my—?

Leave.

Now.

Don’t listen.

“
Look
at her, Eve.”

“Kate, that is so totally—?

Look.

The eyes.

I know them.

NO.

How could I?

A face. A name. That’s all. Chance.

“What?” Kate said. “What is it? Am I right? Are you remembering?”

She’s putting ideas in your head.

Go. Quick.

“Uh, Kate, I don’t like this—?

“You have to find them, Eve!”

“Who?”

“Your birth parents. The Wainwrights!”

“They’re not my birth parents!”

“Eve, it’s so obvious.”

“There are millions of faces, Kate. On millions of Web sites. And this one just happens to be my long-lost sister? From my long-lost family?
Does that make sense to you
?”

“Okay, I know you don’t
want
to believe it. I don’t blame you. Sometimes the truth is hard—?

“
I know
the truth already!”

You HAVE parents.

You are Eve Hardy. Not Eve Wainwright.

Eve bolted. Opened the door.

“But what if I’m right?”

Kate’s words stopped Eve cold.

What if?

Mom. Dad. For real.

A sister, too. And me.

A family.

Happy.

Once upon a time.

Eve sank against the doorjamb. “Kate, you don’t understand what you’re doing to me.”

“You have to know,” Kate said gently. “Knowledge is power.
You
once told me that.”

“What if they
are
my birth family? They didn’t raise me. They weren’t there for me. Why should I care about them? Why should I cross the country for them? So they can throw me out again? Or so they can fall on their knees and apologize? Either way, what do I get?”

“A family medical history,” Kate replied.

“A
what
?”

“Alexis died because of the disease, Eve. The disease could be genetic. You’re her sister!”

It makes no sense.

I CAN’T BE HER SISTER.

I CAN’T HAVE THE —

THE —

The eyes.

Again.

Following her.

Beckoning.

From the screen.

From the dead.

With a click, they would disappear from the screen.

But they would never leave Eve’s mind.

They know.

They live.

In me.

Nothing made sense.

But it didn’t have to.

Some things never did.

Eve stood frozen, indecisive, her hand on the doorknob.

Then, slowly, she shut the door. “Ski camp is coming up. We’ll be away from home for two weeks.”

“I can cover for you,” Kate said quietly. “Your parents don’t have to know where you really are.”

“Can your brother help us?”

“We’ll say he’s driving us to camp. He can drop you off at the train station.”

“I couldn’t lie. I’d have to write Mom and Dad and let them know.”

“Suit yourself.”

Eve scowled. “I just don’t know…”

“Don’t you?”

Eve thought about it. But this was beyond thought. Beyond reason.

This was instinct.

“I hope Cold Harbor isn’t too far away,” she said with a sigh.

Kate smiled.

Does this one have a chance?

As much as the ones who came before her. No more.

“F
RRRRRREEPORT NEXT!”

The conductor’s voice woke Eve from a deep sleep.

Her cheek was pressed against fabric. Wool.

A sweater. A stranger’s.

“Oh!” Eve jerked away, red-faced.

The elderly lady next to her smiled and dusted off her shoulder. “It’s okay, I didn’t have the heart to move,” she said sweetly. “They’re very lucky, your mom and dad.”

“They are?”

“You talked about them. In your sleep.”

“I did?”

The old lady chuckled. “I know quite a bit about you, Alexis.”

Alexis.

The Wainwright house.

Red brick. Big lawn. Lamppost with a swinging wooden sign.

I’m playing on the front lawn. Digging holes. Burying Ken because he dissed Barbie.

Dad is turning up the driveway in his car. He’s angry.

Not Dad.

Mr. Wainwright.

Eve shivered.

Stop.

It was a dream.

I am NOT Alexis.

She tried to focus. Her dreams were wild. Confusing.

Flashes from her childhood.

When she used to think she
was
Alexis.

The fantasy Alexis. Not the possible-sister Alexis.

She couldn’t
be
her sister. That didn’t make sense.

Eve looked at the faces of the boarding passengers, the strangers she’d never seen and would never see again.

That’s what the Wainwrights are. Strangers.

I am barging in on strangers.

She began to shake. The whole idea seemed ridiculous.

Sneaking away. Lying.

Showing up at someone’s house unannounced. Without even the courtesy of a phone call.

I did call them.

Okay, I hung up as soon as I heard Mrs. Wainwright’s voice.

But I had to.

They wouldn’t have believed me.

Or they would have freaked.

I couldn’t have handled any of that.

I would have chickened out. The whole trip would have fallen apart.

I have to see with my own eyes. This is the only way to do it.

The train was beginning to move again.

Cold Harbor was the next stop.

She looked out the window.

Calm. Down.

Outside was an undulating countryside dotted with stone houses. A distant line of cross-country skiers glided along a ridge, and the smell of burning firewood permeated even the closed train car.

It was gorgeous. Perfect.

This is where I would have lived if
—

Stop.

She couldn’t think of that.

But they’re rich if they live here. Rich people don’t give up their children.

Maybe I was awful. Unbearable.

She glanced at her ticket. Round trip. Good any time.

Stay on the platform. Catch the next train back.

Don’t go. Don’t remind them. Don’t find out what you could have been but never will be
—

Soon the train began to slow. The loudspeaker crackled.

“CO-O-O-O-OLD HARBOR!” the conductor announced.

A station pulled into view. It was decked with holiday lights. Fresh-fallen snow coated the slate roof and gingerbread latticework. A small crowd of people dressed in winter coats gazed up hopefully at the train, their arms laden with gifts.

Stay.

Go.

Eve stood.

She grabbed her backpack from the overhead rack. Saying good-bye to the old lady, she numbly stepped into the aisle.

As she walked toward the door, she rubbed the back of her neck.

For some reason, it was throbbing.

Right where her birthmark was.

It has begun.

F
OUR SEVENTY-SEVEN.

Eve paused in front of the white-shingled house.

Forest-green shutters. A lamppost marked
WAINWRIGHT,
swinging in the wind. A cobblestone walkway, freshly snow-blown. Chimes on the front porch.

Perfect.

Cozy. Homey. A place she could have been happy growing up in.

To the right, tire tracks led up the driveway toward a closed two-car garage.

Somebody was home.

Snap.

A light. Through the left bay window. A dining room. A woman sitting at the table. Bathed in warm amber light.

Eve’s breath shuddered.

This is crazy.

What are you going to say to her?

Eve turned away.

“Can I help you?”

A car was gliding to a stop in the driveway. The driver, a man wearing a fur hat, was looking at her curiously through his open window.

“Huh?” Eve squeaked.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

The face was friendly. Open. Matter-of-fact. Kind.

Familiar.

Now or never.

Eve’s hand reached up to the brim of her floppy hat. She slowly took it off and looked him in the eye.

“Mr. Wainwright?” she said softly.

His face went slack.

The engine stopped. The man was opening the door now. Stepping out.

Eve backed away.

Mr. Wainwright stopped in his tracks. “Sorry,” he said, averting his eyes embarrassedly. “I—I don’t mean to stare—it’s just that you look…”

Eve swallowed hard. “Like Alexis?”

When the man glanced up at her again, his face was hollow, fearful.
“Who are you?”

“Eve Hardy. I think.”

“How do you know Alexis?”

“I’m not s-sure.”

Eve shivered. Her jaw was numb. She could barely feel her toes or fingers.

Mr. Wainwright gestured toward the front door. “Please, come in.”

As they approached, the door opened. The woman inside was smiling. “Hi, honey. How was—?

The words died in her mouth. Her face went pale.

Mr. Wainwright took his wife’s arm. “This is Eve.”

Yes.

I know them.

I’ve seen them.

“Come in,” Mrs. Wainwright said uncertainly.

The couple sank into the sofa. Eve sat in an armchair.

“I—I don’t mean to upset you,” Eve began. “I don’t even know for sure why I’m here. I live in Fayette—?

“Fayette?” Mrs. Wainwright said. “You traveled all that way alone?”

“How old are you, Eve?” asked Mr. Wainwright.

No. I can’t let this distract us.

“Almost seventeen,” Eve lied.

The Wainwrights didn’t flinch.

“I had to come,” Eve barreled on, “because I saw a photo of your daughter, and she looked so much like me.” She smiled weakly. “So I guess, what I want to know is…”

The words were knotted in her throat.

A tear fell softly down Mrs. Wainwright’s cheek.

Mr. Wainwright was looking at her expectantly.

Say it!

“I was adopted,” Eve said. “I’m looking for my birth parents.”

“Oh, my…” Mrs. Wainwright seemed to be receding into the sofa. Her husband shot her a look.

That’s it.

I was right.

“So…I guess that means—? Eve closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You’re the ones, right?”

“The ones?” Mr. Wainwright repeated.

“I mean, it’s okay and all,” Eve added. “I don’t, like,
hate
you or anything. I don’t want you to take me in or give me money or whatever. I guess I just wanted to know who you were. To see you. And also to ask about Alexis. To find out how she—?

“Eve,” Mr. Wainwright interjected. “We’re not your birth parents. Although I can understand how you might think so.”

“You’re not?”

Mrs. Wainwright shook her head. “Alexis was adopted, too.”

No.

“But the resemblance—between her and me—?

“Uncanny,” Mr. Wainwright said. He glanced at his wife uncomfortably.

“Eve,” Mrs. Wainwright said, “I’d be willing to bet your parents used the same agency we did—A Better Chance?”

“Yes…” Eve replied.

“So perhaps you and Alexis were…” Mr. Wainwright began.

Of course.

Sisters, yes. Just not
Wainwright
sisters. Not originally.

“From the same birth mother,” Eve said. “Is that what happened?
She gave us both away
?”

“That’d be my guess,” Mr. Wainwright said.

Eve felt her eyes welling up.

Now what?

A dead sister. No parents. A train ride for nothing.

Mrs. Wainwright stood up. She knelt next to Eve and put her arms around her. “Eve, it’s not a waste. Have dinner with us. Stay overnight. You’re tired. We’ll tell you everything you want to know about Alexis. We’ll even check the adoption records if you like, get A Better Chance’s phone number. Nowadays some of the agencies are freer with information.”

“I’ll prepare the meal,” Mr. Wainwright volunteered. “You two can look around the house.”

As he went to the kitchen, Eve followed his wife into the basement.

A small corner room was set up as an office. From the back of a metal file cabinet Mrs. Wainwright drew out a folder full of yellowing papers. She began sifting through them. “When Alexis died, I threw out a lot of things. Reminders. But I still have—ah, here it is.”

Eve could see the A Better Chance letterhead on the sheet. Mrs. Wainwright picked up her desk phone and tapped out the number. She pressed the
SPEAKERPHONE
button so Eve could hear.

“Hello?” said a gruff voice.

“Is this A Better Chance?” Mrs. Wainwright asked.

“Who?”

“A Better Chance? The adoption agency?”

“Never heard of them.”

Click.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Wainwright was reaching for the Yellow Pages now. “There is some sort of central bureau, someplace with a list of all the accredited agencies…
Voila
!”

She tapped out another number. Put on the speaker. Beeped through several minutes of voice mail.

Finally, a human.

Mrs. Wainwright asked her questions and was put on hold.

Eve felt fluttery as they waited. She nearly jumped when the voice crackled back on the line.

“Hello? The name was A Better Chance?”

Mrs. Wainwright smiled. “Yes. You found them?”

“Uh, not exactly. We have no record of that agency.”

“Which means it moved?” Eve asked.

“Which means,” the voice replied, “it never existed.”

California. Ohio.