Girl One(90)

“What was all that bullshit about your family? Your deadbeat dad that you never met?”

“A white lie. Barely a lie. My father was never around. He was always at the Homestead or on conferences and trips. Sometimes months would go by and the only way I’d see my father was in a newspaper with one of you. I was only thirteen when he died. I barely have any real memories of Dad. So, yes, my mother was a single mother. Same as yours.”

“But you still had his money,” I said. “You still had that.”

“There was no money,” Junior said, impatient. “My dad had sold everything to pay off debts we knew nothing about. My mother was traumatized. Her husband had just been murdered. She always waited for him to have time for us, always next year, next year. Then he was gone for good. Your mothers wanted to be part of the Homestead; they were willing participants. My mother didn’t ask to be part of anything. When Mom first married Dad”—he stumbled a little over Dad, the plain tenderness of it—“he couldn’t get a job cleaning pipettes. He was an outcast. She stuck by his side through everything, and once he got famous, the Homestead took over his whole life.” His face turned older and younger at once. “Bobby was always distant, so it fell on my shoulders to help Mom. I spent a lot of time with her as a kid. I favor her. I guess that’s why none of you recognized me. I kept waiting for somebody to say, it’s him, it’s that boy. Bellanger’s son. But I looked too much like her, and neither of us ever mattered much.”

I looked at him more closely. I realized I couldn’t even remember Mrs. Bellanger’s face enough to recognize hers in Junior’s.

“Emily,” I said. The betrayal was so sudden, so intense, that I could feel it rising inside me like a sickness. “Emily French. She said you’d lead me to my mother. Junior,” I said. “If you know where my mother is—if you hurt her in any way—”

I would kill him. Right here in this motel room. Nothing that had passed between us, no kindness or familiarity, would save him.

“What are you talking about?” Junior asked, sounding genuinely confused. I was gratified to detect the fear in Junior’s voice, the way his face was touched with both reverence and terror.

I explained about Emily’s prophecy in the attic, what felt like a thousand years ago.

Junior was silent. “I think I know what she meant,” he said slowly. “I promise, I haven’t seen your mother since I was a child. That phone call is the only contact I’ve had with her. Listen. Emily was … I think she was remembering the past. I helped you find your mother once. Don’t you remember?” He looked into my eyes, seeking forgiveness: I didn’t have any to give. “It was your birthday. It was a big day, visiting dignitaries. My suit was stuffy and hot and they had you in some stupid dress. You looked so miserable and scared. I felt bad for you. It wasn’t a kids’ party at all. Your mother was in some other room, stuck with the reporters. I noticed you crying. Nobody else saw it. So I went over and I took your hand and I brought you away from everybody, and I helped you find your mother again.”

A hand in mine, leading me away from the crowd, bringing me back to the one person who mattered. Emily’s prediction had kept me going for weeks and it had never been a prediction at all, just a fragmented memory. For a second my anger cooled into sadness, but then I focused again. “Is it your brother, then? Is he the one who’s been following us?”

“I haven’t been in touch with Bobby in a long time,” Junior said. “I don’t think he cares about any of you enough to even look you up, much less come after you. He has a wife and kids now. They don’t know anything about his past. So, no. I don’t know who’s after us.”

We stood there in the drowsy morning light that came through the thick motel curtains. Making a decision, I moved for the door.

“Where are you going?” Junior asked, sounding like he didn’t know whether to be scared for me or scared of me.

“I need to talk to Cate and Isabelle. They deserve to know about this too.” I opened the door and stepped outside. “Either you tell them or I do.”

In the motel parking lot, Cate was leaning against the Volvo, her expression unrecognizable. Over her shoulder, I could see the bar where Tom and I had been laughing just a handful of hours ago, now a deserted shell of itself, parking lot empty. Cate was reading something. A stack of papers. When she looked up, she wasn’t even surprised. She’d been waiting for me.

Over my shoulder, Junior inhaled tightly. “That’s my book,” he said. “She found my book.”





40

Excerpt from The Man, the Myth, the Miracle-Worker: The Shocking True Story of My Father, Dr. Joseph Bellanger, by Joseph Bellanger Jr.

But despite all I’d learned on the road with the “Miracle Babies,” my true crisis of faith occurred when I was forced to contend with rumors of a tenth pregnancy, one that my father was allegedly not involved with. If a true “virgin birth,” then this tenth pregnancy obviously threatened to upend my father’s legacy. While there is no doubt that the original nine Girls are the results of my father’s work, this tenth pregnancy apparently happened without his oversight or involvement.

Conveniently, the tale of Lily-Anne’s pregnancy was one that nobody else could corroborate. The woman who relayed this story to my companions was too ashamed of where she came from to share the history with her own daughters. In light of this, I had to ask: Is it possible that she was inventing things?