I'll Be You(45)

My mother made a face. “Oh for God’s sake, just answer your phone. I’ll change her.” She started after her, but then stopped and turned to look back at me. “I knew this was a bad idea. I told your father, Sam’s not ready yet. I was just going to hire some help but he thought…” She didn’t finish but I already knew exactly what he thought: that twenty-five dollars an hour for a babysitter is ridiculous when you have an underemployed daughter who fits the bill. “He insisted we give you a chance, against my better judgment. And so here we are. I just don’t know if I can trust you, Sam. I don’t know that I trust your motivations. I don’t think you’re aware enough to even know what they are.”

At that, she turned and swept across the yard, in pursuit of my niece.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wanted a drink so badly.

The phone was still ringing. I ducked inside the house, where the air-conditioning hit my skin and transformed the sheen of sweat into a blanket of goosebumps. The caller ID showed an 818 number that I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t until I’d hit the Answer button and lifted the phone to my ear that it clicked into place.

818. Burbank.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line was a woman’s voice, high-pitched and ragged and breathy, as if she’d just run a race. “Is that—Sam Logan?”

“Yes. Is this…Michaela? Michaela Blackwell?” I dropped the diaper bag, leaned up against the cool stucco wall. “Thank you so much for calling me. I know that note must have seemed…strange.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t call?” Incredulity dripped from her words, stopping me short. I didn’t know how to answer this. I could hear the rush of her breath into the mouthpiece, so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “How did you find us?” she asked.

This was not the question I’d anticipated. “I found your address and I thought Elli—” I began, a little flustered.

She interrupted me before I could find a way to finish my sentence. “Don’t call her Elli. She’s not Elli. How dare you name her?” Her voice had ascended several octaves and was so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “You are not allowed to call! We were told. Do it again and I’ll call someone, the liaison, the authorities. Stay away from us.”

The line went dead. She’d hung up.

Fuck. I scrambled with the phone, hit Redial, but it went straight to voicemail. “Hi, it’s Sam Logan, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Maybe you could just call when you’re a little calmer and we can discuss it?” I regretted this as soon as I uttered the words. What if she did call the police? Had my sister done something wrong? “Actually, forget it. I’ll leave you alone.”

I hung up, the woman’s words—She’s not Elli—still echoing in my ears. It reminded me of something, something that nibbled at me as I stood in my parents’ foyer, listening to the sounds of Charlotte laughing in the garden. Through the front window, I could see my mother, calling after my niece, demanding that Charlotte “stay away from that bee,” “come out of the sun,” “we need to change your diaper” as the little girl squealed and ran through the lavender, lopping off flowers with her hands.

She’s not Elli. It reminded me of what that woman had said to me in Ojai, the day before. She’s not your sister anymore. She’s ours.

That was when it struck me, the possible common thread linking Michaela Blackwell and Carrie Miller and the Arizona address to my sister.

What if they were GenFem members, too?





13




I DIDN’T STAY FOR dinner that night. I couldn’t handle making small talk over chicken curry, knowing what my mother was really thinking underneath that tight, beatific smile. I would never redeem myself in her eyes, I realized; no matter what I did, I was always going to be the bad twin. Not to be trusted. To be kept at arm’s length. Well—fuck her.

I told my parents I was meeting an old friend for dinner and drove off into the night, heading toward Old Town. I found an Italian restaurant not far off State Street and settled in at a corner table. A waitress took my order while I fumed and a few minutes later a plate of ravioli materialized in front of me, cheesy pillows floating in a fragrant puddle of oil.

The smell made me queasy.

“You sure you don’t want something to drink with that?” the waitress asked. Her pen hovered over her pad, the tip quivering in anticipation. I stared at the ravioli, wavering. I thought of all the excellent reasons I had to not order a glass of wine, all the progress I’d made. I heard a strangled sound from somewhere deep in my throat. A voice in my mind whispered, Just one glass. You had a terrible day. You can handle one glass. I instinctively reached into my pocket for the sobriety medallion, but it was still buried somewhere in my parents’ garden, a treasure map fail.

“A bottle of pinot,” I said.

After the waitress walked away I picked up my phone and dialed Tamar. She’d talk me out of doing anything regrettable, I thought, just as she’d done a half dozen times over the last year. Tamar could always see what I never could. She’d warned me, hadn’t she, that this trip was a bad idea. That I wasn’t ready. All I needed was for her to talk some logic into me and I’d get up from this table and walk right out the door, get in my car, and drive back to the (relative) safety of my small life in Los Angeles.