Switched at Birth: The True Story of a Mother's Journey (3 page)

“Oh, and by the way,” Toby said, reaching into the fruit bowl for a red delicious. “Can you get those paint cans out of the driveway? I nearly broke my neck on them when I was carrying my amp into the studio.”

“Too bad you didn’t break the amp,” Bay tossed out in her famous deadpan tone. “That would have put us all out of our misery.”

And that was that.

Or so I thought.

But I was soon to discover that my children could surprise me in ways I’d never dreamed.

John wanted to kill somebody.

Anybody.

Maybe everybody.

He was letting his anger take over, as though being angry would be easier for him than this sickening cocktail of confusion, devastation, and heartbreak. What he wanted was to
blame
somebody.

That night, we told the kids we were exhausted and just wanted to turn in. But we lied. I knew we weren’t going to be sleeping at all that night. For all I knew, I might never sleep again.

I watched as my husband paced around our bedroom; he moved like the athlete he was, in long strides, with an easy, masculine grace. He looked like an athlete is supposed to look: ready to fight, ready to win. But this wasn’t a game. The stakes were too high.

What John wanted was to see justice served. He wanted to make somebody pay. And I suppose I saw his point.

But right then, I wasn’t thinking about retribution.

I was thinking about Bay.

Bay, the teenage girl down the hall, sleeping in her room in her big bed under the Frida Kahlo quote stenciled on her wall.

And the other Bay, the infant I held only once, when she was still bloody and screaming from the doctor’s slap on her backside. Where was
she
? Where was
her
room? Would I ever know? Did I even want to?

“I’m going to call Harrison Burke,” John said, grabbing the phone. “He’ll know how to handle this.”

“Harrison represents professional athletes,” I reminded him. Harrison had been John’s attorney since his Kansas City Royals days. He was a brilliant, and intimidating, man, but I wasn’t sure this situation fell into his area of expertise. “We aren’t negotiating an endorsement deal with a sneaker company. And besides, you can’t call anyone now, it’s after midnight.”

Calmly, I took the cordless receiver out of his hand. It was the fourth time I’d taken the phone away from him since we’d closed the bedroom door behind us. In that short span of time he had threatened to call the
Kansas City Herald
and demand they do an exposé on the hospital. He’d dialed the first six digits of the local police precinct before he realized that as far as we knew no actual crime had been committed. He wanted to call the FBI or the CIA and put out an APB on a missing girl who was born Bay Madeline Kennish in October of 1995 and now, sixteen years later, could be anywhere—
anywhere
—in the whole wide world.

“What about Aaron Silvers, then? I’ll call Aaron. He might know—”

Aaron was a personal injury lawyer we knew from the tennis club. I may not have been a legal genius, but I did know that this situation went way beyond personal injury.

He reached for the phone again, but I intercepted.

“It’s after midnight,” I repeated. “You can call Aaron in the morning.”

For a second, John looked like he might lunge for the phone again, but he surprised me by sinking down onto the bed. The scruff I’d noticed on his chin in the genetic counselor’s office was darker now, and his eyes looked tired.

“Why?” he asked in a hollow voice. “Why did this happen?” He covered his face with his hands and asked the question again.
“Why?”

And suddenly I was reeling back in time to when Bay was little. Whenever she’d ask me for something that I, in my maternal wisdom, did not see fit to provide—a Popsicle right before dinner, permission to swim during a thunderstorm—naturally I would say no.

Then she would ask, “Why?”

And I’d say, “Because.”

The reason for my succinct reply was that after a long day of baking cupcakes for the teacher appreciation luncheon or helping Toby rig up his model of the solar system for the science fair (the neighbor’s dog had eaten Saturn, a major setback), I just didn’t have it in me to explain to my precocious four-year-old
why
a sugary snack would spoil her dinner, or
why
, given the fact that water and lightning are a deadly combination, she needed to get out of the pool and come into the house
immediately
without doing one last cannonball off the diving board.

As far as I was concerned, “Because” was a perfectly acceptable response.

But, of course, Bay would persist. She’d scrunch up her angelic little face and demand to know, “Because
why
?”

And with my hands planted firmly on my hips, and my own face as stern as any marine drill sergeant’s, I’d state (Moms, you know where this is going, right?): “Because
I’m
the mommy,
that’s
why!”

Bay didn’t always like it, but that’s where the conversation about “why” would grind to a halt. And then I’d be free to go back to frosting cupcakes or positioning Toby’s Mercury in its proper place in our little mock heaven.

But now my husband—the strongest, most confident man I knew, a man used to having more answers than questions—was asking me why.
Why
was he suddenly in need of legal advice in the middle of the night?
Why
was someone telling us that the beautiful young woman we had loved for every second of every minute of every day of the last sixteen years did not belong to us?

“Why, Kathryn? Why?”

In lieu of an answer (which I didn’t have then and still don’t have now), I wrapped my arms around him and held him close. He was aching inside. He had no idea how to protect us from this, and protecting us was his reason for living.

He sat there on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, and the room went still. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak, he didn’t cry. He just sat there and let the pain have its moment.

I, on the other hand, wanted to sob. I wanted to give over to the pain and dissolve into tears. Instead I drew my husband closer and held on tighter. Tonight would be his turn; my turn would come soon enough, and, I suspected, it would come with a vengeance. But tonight I would be the one to stay strong, to keep it together, to protect him, to protect Bay, to protect us all.

Why?

Because I’m the mommy, that’s why.

Around three that morning (because I couldn’t even close my eyes to rest, let alone sleep) I was bringing an armful of freshly folded towels up to the hall bath, two doors down from Bay’s bedroom. Some people, when they’re anxious or overwrought, do crossword puzzles, or read the Bible, or hop on the elliptical;
I
do laundry. And I’m glad, because if I’d been downstairs feeling the burn, or pondering a five-letter word for “large waterfowl,” I would have missed it.

Toby was in Bay’s room. They were talking. At three in the morning.

I didn’t panic. I’d gotten used to the vampire-esque nocturnal habits of teenagers long ago and assumed Toby had merely wandered in to borrow her calculator or show her some idiotic video on YouTube. I was sure it was no big deal. Still, I did what any other mother worth her salt would do in such circumstances:

I tiptoed away in the opposite direction to give my beloved young adults their rightful privacy....

Um,
no
. I absolutely did
not
do that, and if you believed for one millisecond that I did, then you are not yet the mother of teenagers. Because in certain situations, eavesdropping is utterly permissible, even advised. (Refer back to the “I’m the Mommy” clause, above, for clarification.)

First, I quickly deposited my neatly folded towels in the linen closet, then I flattened myself against the wall and crept quietly in the direction of Bay’s slightly open door.

I could tell from the occasional metallic creak that Toby was sitting in Bay’s wicker swing, swaying slowly back and forth.

“Let’s be real,” he was saying. “Nobody was buying Mom’s Italian grandmother story.”

“Yeah,” Bay agreed. “I always knew that was a pretty feeble explanation. I was just so thrilled that I’d escaped the ginger curse, I never bothered to question it. You on the other hand … I’m sorry but that whole Ron Weasley vibe you’ve got going on must seriously suck.”

There was a muffled
whumpfh
, and I guessed that Toby had probably flung a pillow across the room, no doubt aiming for her head.

I figured that friendly fire marked the end of the conversation, and I was just about to head back downstairs to start hand-washing some delicates when Bay said, “It’s weird, isn’t it? That we don’t share any DNA.”

“Oh, please. Like you ever shared anything! You
always
took the last ice cream sandwich, you
never
let me have a single prize from fifteen years’ worth of cereal boxes, and the only time I ever got to ride shotgun in my whole life was that summer you busted your ankle and had to ride in the back with your cast up on the seat. So why would I expect anything different when it comes to chromosomes? You, little sister, are not a sharer.”

“That’s very true.” It got quiet for a moment. Then Bay said, “What about the little sister part?”

“What about it?”

“Am I … I mean, ya know … do you still think of me as …
that?
As your little sister?”

In the hallway, I held my breath.

“Duh. How else would I think of you?”

“I dunno.” I could picture Bay’s face—she would be giving him her “I’m acting like I don’t care, but really, I do” expression. “As a stranger. An interloper.”

“
Interloper.
Ooh. Good word.”

“Yeah. I go to prep school, remember?” She sighed. “It’s just that this whole thing is, like, so
freaky
. So maybe now …
I’m
freaky.”

“You’ve always been freaky.”

“Shut up!” I could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m serious, Toby.”

“So am I.” The swing creaked louder, which I think meant he’d stood up and was walking toward her. “Bay, listen, I honestly don’t care about some stupid ‘switched at birth’ thing.”

I closed my eyes and pressed myself against the wall.
Some stupid switched at birth thing.
If only it were that simple.

“You’re still my sister. You always will be. Hell, I came to terms with that punishment a long time ago.” There was a pause in which I imagined him quirking an eyebrow in pretend thought. “Although, I don’t suppose there’s any chance this kid they switched you with could be a boy? ’Cause a brother would be a major upgrade....”

“You do know that I
will
kill you, right?” (I knew Bay was narrowing her eyes at him, giving him her trademark smirk.) “With all this ‘extreme emotional distress’ I’m currently experiencing, there’s not a jury in the world that would convict me!”

“You’re my sister,” Toby said again. “We’ve got history. I’m used to you.”

Bay let out her breath in a long rush. “So it’s not gonna be creepy and miserable around here, then?”

“Not any more than it’s ever been before,” Toby answered without missing a beat.

They laughed, and it was a sound I recognized in my heart: My two children laughing … together.

I figured I’d pushed my luck far enough, and if I didn’t go then, I’d blow my cover. So I left, with the sound of their collective laughter lingering in my ears.

I don’t really know what else they talked about that night, but I like to think that maybe Toby offered Bay a hug, and Bay—the little girl who once dreamed of being Mrs. Justin Timberlake—accepted it gladly. Of course, when the hug ended, she probably said something like “Dude, can you please get over the spiky hair thing, ’cause you almost just blinded me with your bangs.”

To which Toby would have replied, “Jealous, Morticia?”

But it doesn’t matter what they said. It’s what they
felt
. And that in their own way, in their unique, clever brother-sister shorthand, they were working it out. It would get weirder, I knew that, and it would take time until we all understood this new world of ours. If that was even possible. At the time, I didn’t know.

But I did know this: Thanks to two amazing kids and a freshly laundered load of whites, I’d gotten my Hallmark fix.

It’s funny how the darkest moments of your life can bring about the best ones.

In the morning, John did call Harrison Burke, but when push came to shove he couldn’t bring himself to tell the elderly attorney, who had seen him through the complicated legal dealings of professional sports, what had happened. He merely hinted to Harry that we might be needing his services in the near future and got off the phone as fast as he could.

And that was when I realized that somewhere in the last twenty-four hours a decision had been made: This was a secret. A secret with a capital S. A secret that we, as a family, would attempt to keep out of circulation for as long as we could. Our town is not known for the kind of mean-spirited gossip that perhaps other affluent communities are subject to, but I understood that it was simply human nature to find fascination in a story like this, and I suspected even the kindest-hearted citizens of Mission Hills would be curious at the very least.