I'll Be You(73)

I stared at my hands, so pale and bony as they twisted uselessly in my lap. “Yes, but it’s kind of pointless to think about it, isn’t it? They’re gone.”

Iona dug her fingers into my shoulder and pushed me backward, so that I had to look up at her. She shimmered in front of me, her pale features in vibration, filled with rage on my behalf. “They’re not gone. You just don’t know where they are. It’s simple: You need to find those babies. Just to see them. Have a real-life Confrontation. That’s what Dr. Cindy would tell you to do, right? Look your pain right in the eye, put a name and a face on it, tell it to go away. Don’t let yourself be victim to it.”

I let myself sink into this idea. The temptation was strong. Just to see them—maybe then I could let go.

“How would I even find them? I can’t exactly ask Sam. Dr. Cindy forbade me to talk to her until I reach Level Ten.”

Iona shrugged. “The donor agency Sam used would know where they are.”

“But they’re not going to tell me, though, are they?” I asked.



* * *



—

Where is the line between destructive and healthy? I found this question on a website for cult survivors recently, and it made me try to pinpoint the moment when this line was irrevocably crossed. When GenFem stopped being a tool for growth for me, and instead became a weapon of self-destruction.

There were so many moments I might choose—from my very first visit, even—and yet I kept going back to this particular one: my hypothetical question, and Iona’s answer. The long hard look she gave me as she studied my features with a frightening intensity, and then the gleeful malice in her voice as she responded.

“You’re right, they’re never going to tell Eleanor Logan,” she said. “But what if they didn’t tell you?”





24




I LOCATED SAM ON Instagram. She wasn’t that hard to find. A few months back my mother had casually dropped the name of the café where Sam worked and of course it had a social presence. Three pictures in, there Sam was, pouring a heart into someone’s cappuccino. She had a new tattoo of a bird on her forearm and her hair was a little shorter than the last time I saw her, but otherwise, she looked mostly the same. I studied her face, looking for signs of a relapse, but she appeared healthy enough, no puffiness or dark circles, her hair clean, a bemused smile lifting the corners of her lips.

A hard knot blocked my throat; I could barely breathe. For a minute I forgot that the loss I was supposed to be confronting was that of my hypothetical child, not my real sister. I rubbed my eyes, pushing back against the pressure building there, then studied Sam’s outfits instead. According to the photos, her wardrobe these days generally consisted of a tatty white T-shirt and tight black jeans, accessorized with a red bandanna that she used to yank her hair out of her face.

If you went by Instagram, my sister could be found at the café most weekday afternoons. So I drove down to Los Angeles on a Tuesday and found the place on a quiet stretch of Third Street, not far from the condo complex where Sam and my mother and I once lived. I parked out front and sat in my car, peering through the plate glass window.

Sam was behind the counter, in conversation with a customer. From that distance, I couldn’t quite see her face, but I could tell it was her anyway: the way her body was loose and animated as she looped back and forth across the coffee bar, pouring drinks, making change. She held the stage so easily; she always had. And I’d always hated her for it a little. I’d worshipped her for it, too, of course, but in that moment I homed in on my lingering anger. There she was, my sister, the woman who had given away our babies, tried to sleep with my husband, taken my money and thrown it away like it meant nothing.

Sam suddenly looked up and straight out the window, as if she’d sensed my presence. I shrank a little behind the wheel of my BMW, my heart beating a sharp staccato. But the afternoon sun, with its sideways slant, blinded her. She lifted a hand to shade her face, trying and failing to see past the glass. And then she turned back to her customer.

I left her there, pulling an espresso, and drove to her apartment.



* * *



—

Sam lived in a midsize courtyard building on a side street in Hollywood, a featureless beige cube of indeterminate age. I checked myself in the rearview mirror and adjusted the red bandanna that was tying back my hair, stretched the neck of my T-shirt a little more. I was a pale imitation of my sister—the white T-shirt too tailored, the jeans too loose, everything lacking Sam’s effortless cool—but it was a close enough resemblance if you didn’t look too hard. I got out and stood lingering near the entrance of the building, pretending to text on my phone.

After a few minutes, a man about my age appeared at the door, dragging a geriatric beagle on a leash. When he saw me, he flashed a distracted smile. “Hey there, Sam.”

I smiled back, a queasy victory, and grabbed the door for him, waiting until I was safely inside to turn around and call after him. I softened my throat until my voice went laconic and hoarse, then gave a loose cock to my hip. I’ll be you, I told myself and smiled. “Hey, I’m a moron. Can you remind me of the super’s apartment number?”

He frowned. “Three?”

My laugh sounded more manic than relieved. “Oh God, of course!” And I released the door so that it swung shut behind me, leaving him on the other side of the glass, looking vaguely puzzled. I waved, as the beagle conveniently lunged after a passing poodle. The man was jerked away, having already forgotten me.