The Vanishing Year(32)

Cash half stands and I wave him down, blubbering and gasping like a fish out of water. I pull a paper towel off the roll and blow my nose in it, ungracefully. The whole outburst can’t last more than a minute. When I’m done, I feel better. Cash looks worried.

“Honestly, Zoe, you don’t seem okay.”

“God, Cash, I can’t explain it. I have no one. Not one person to call. To talk to. My ex–best friend thinks I’m pathetic. I have no family. My husband has chosen today of all days to be MIA. Do you have someone? Do you have people?”

He nods, slowly. “I have friends, yeah. My mom lives in Jersey. I have seven brothers and sisters.”

“Seven! I can’t even fucking imagine that!” I slam my hand down on the counter. Cash smiles. Dropping the f-bomb while wearing Chanel linen pants feels good.

“It was crazy growing up. We were all shoved in a three-bedroom duplex in Jersey City. I couldn’t hear myself think half the time.”

“I’m so tired of hearing myself think.”

“That’s why you want to find your biological mother?” Cash peels the label off his water bottle. He’s a fidgeter, it makes me feel at ease, all his outward discomfort.

“Yeah, I guess? I just can’t take this. I have no roots in the world. At all. It’s disconcerting.”

“You have Henry.” He rolls the label around his thick index finger and avoids my eyes.

“Do you see Henry?” I throw it out there, even though I know it’s irrational. But honestly, where the hell is the man? It would be nice to have another person to call.

“Zoe. I have to tell you. In that feature I wrote? Very rarely did the biological parents remain in the picture. In most cases, they had already moved on. They had new lives, new families.”

“I know all that.” I dismiss it, although I’m not entirely sure that I do know all that. “I can’t explain it. I have no roots. I just want a root. I feel . . . untethered. If I just floated away, who would notice?” I don’t mention that I’ve already done it once before, floated clear across the country and no one cared. Except maybe now, maybe now someone cares and they care enough to try to kill me. Or scare me. I’m still unsure, and the wine revolts in my stomach.

“Okay, well, I was thinking. Probably 60 percent of all domestic adoptions are in-state. But you said you were raised in California. Your birth certificate is from Connecticut. Of those 40 percent out of state, I’d guess that more than half of them were because the adoptive mother knew the biological mother. A cousin, or a sister, or something. So, those are decent odds. I’d start there. Try to find a link between your adoptive mother and the name on that memo.”

The birth certificate and memo are shoved in my purse. The room is taking on a soft blur, the wine doing its job, and I feel hot and lazy and tired. So incredibly tired. I sink down onto one of the stools at the island and rest my temple on my hand. I want to sleep. I think about the living room with the ruined sofa and overturned end tables and I want to sleep for days. Which might be fine. Penny can clean up the mess. The one thing about having no one is that no one expects anything from you.

“Will you help me?” I ask him, pathetically, running my index finger along the lip of the glass. It hums.

“I said I would help you. Give me all the information you have. I’ll help you.”

I reach over, clumsily grab at my purse, and hand him the crinkled paperwork. “Evelyn Lawlor. My adoptive mother’s name was Evelyn Lawlor.” Then, even softer, “I miss her.” I’ve passed the point of loosening and am starting to feel unraveled, like no moment after this one will be the same. Like I won’t be able to go back now and be the Zoe I used to be. Which makes me laugh, a gurgling, wet sound in the back of my throat. Who is the Zoe I used to be?

“Zoe, what the hell is going on?” Henry’s voice booms above my thoughts, echoing in the austere kitchen. Cash and I both visibly jump.

Everything snaps to sharp focus. Henry stands in the kitchen doorway, his hands on his hips, his chin jutting. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cash shove the paperwork into his back pocket. Cash’s eyes go from Henry, to the bottle of wine, to me.

“Who the fuck are you?” Henry demands. “Did you do this to our home?”

“Henry! No! This is Cash Murray from the New York Post. He did the article on CARE. I met him this morning to go over the article and I left my wallet at the coffee shop. He returned it.”

“Drinking wine with my wife?” Henry crosses the kitchen and swipes the half-empty bottle away, holding it away from me, like a snappy parent.

“Henry. Stop. You’re embarrassing me. I was the only one drinking. See?” I point to the single wineglass. “I was rattled from the break-in.”

“I’m sorry, Zoe, Mr. Whittaker, I should probably go.” Cash stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans. Henry gives him the once-over, with a raised eyebrow and a small smile. I love how Cash calls him Mr. Whittaker.

Then, it’s like a switch. Henry smiles. Cash hesitates, his mouth flickering up to return the smile, but dubiously. Henry crosses the room in two long lopes and extends his hand. Cash shakes it.

“I’m sorry, Cash, was it? Listen, please accept my apology. I’ve been rattled, my home is torn apart, my wife is drinking wine with a man I’ve never met, I’ve had a hellish day—” His smile widens and I wonder if his face will crack, split wide open. His eyes are steely in a way that maybe only I notice.