A Different Blue(110)

that he had turned out well. His father was a copper in Belfast. He and Wilson hit it off. I

think they still talk every now and again. Jenny Woodrow and Bert Wheatley, I think their names

were. I can't remember Jenny's maiden name.”

I lay in the dark, my thoughts whirling like pinwheels in a storm. And a hurricane was brewing.

I felt betrayed. Wilson was adopted. Adopted! And he hadn't said anything at all. No words of

wisdom or encouragement when Tiffa and I had broken the news to the family. No “adoption is a

wonderful thing, look at me” commentary. He had stayed silent; there had been no revelations.

Tiffa was apparently unaware of the gathering storm. She hadn't said anything for several

minutes, and before long I heard her breathing change, and knew she had fallen to sleep, lying

beside me. My hips ached. My lower back had been killing me all day, my ankles were swollen and

I was too uncomfortable, too pregnant, and far too angry to sleep.

Redemption, resolution, revelations. The 'R' words just kept stacking up. Reno was just full of

secrets. I was ready to go home.





Jack flew into Reno Friday morning for the medical conference and Tiffa stayed with him, sending

me and Wilson on our way in her Mercedes. They would fly home on Sunday evening, which meant I

was trapped in tornado ally with Wilson for eight long hours. Accusations were buzzing in my

head like angry bees, threatening to break loose and swarm Wilson with a stinging barrage. I sat

in angry silence, giving curt responses to every question, not looking at him, not laughing with

him. He seemed flummoxed, but tried harder and harder the meaner I got, until I finally pushed

him too far and he pulled off the seemingly endless highway into a rest area. Shoving the car

into park, he turned toward me and threw his hands in the air.

“What is wrong with you, Blue? Did I do something? Are you in pain? For God's sake! What is the

matter?”

“You were adopted!” I shouted and promptly burst into the kind of tears that squirt out of

your eyes like a hose and make your nose run. I grabbed for the jockey box, but Wilson was there

with his damn hanky, blotting my cheeks and shushing me like a doddering old man.

“Tiffa has such a bloody big mouth.”

“She had no idea you hadn't told me! Why wouldn't you tell me, Wilson?”

“Would it have helped you?” Wilson wiped my eyes, his gaze penetrating, his brow wrinkled in

consternation.

I angrily pushed his hands away, shoving the door open and hoisting my awkward body from the

confines of the car, furious in a way I had never been before.

My back was on fire, and my neck was sore and my heart hurt like it had been dragged behind the

car. I waddled toward the restrooms, needing space and, frankly, needing to pee. I was nine

months pregnant, after all.

I used the toilet and washed my hands, trying to stem the angry tears that wouldn't quit. I held

a cold, wet paper towel to my cheeks and wiped the mascara away. I looked miserable. Even my

nose was puffy. I looked down at my ankles and tried not to wail. I used to be hot . . . and I

used to be thin. And I used to trust Wilson. The tears flowed again, and I held the towel to my

eyes, willing them away.

“Are you all right, dear?” A little voice spoke just to my right. An old woman who barely

reached my shoulder stood looking at me with a frown etched on her thin lips. Wrinkles rimmed