I thought about everything you told me: how I didn’t have to decide right away, how I needed to be sure of my expectations and reasons for wanting to know more about my past. I even made a chart of all the pros and cons like we used to do together. This time I put everything in neat little columns, but I still didn’t have an answer, so I stomped out to my workshop, cranked Sara McLachlan, and sobbed my heart out while I attacked an oak armoire. With each layer of paint I stripped off, I felt calmer. It didn’t matter whether she lied or where I came from. What was important was my life now.
I’d called Evan the minute I fled my reunion with my birth mother, so when he came home that weekend he brought me chocolates and red wine, an early Valentine’s surprise — that man’s no dummy. But smartest of all, he didn’t lecture, just gave me a hug and let me rant and rave until I ran out of steam. And I did — run out of steam. But then the depression kicked in. It had been so long since I’d had one I almost didn’t recognize it at first, like an ex-boyfriend you bump into and you can’t remember what it was about him that made you feel so awful, so angry at everything. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that I almost started feeling back to normal. I should’ve stopped there.
Evan had headed back to his lodge, and Lauren’s husband, Greg, who works for our dad’s logging company, had just left for camp, so Ally and I hightailed it over to Lauren’s for dinner. I do all right in the kitchen department if I’m not obsessed by my latest project, but Lauren’s roast beef and Yorkshire puddings put my stir-fries to shame.
While Lauren’s two boys — towheaded, with big blue eyes, just like her — chased Ally and Moose around the backyard, Lauren and I took our coffees and dessert to the living room. I’m glad we’re having a mild winter this year, although it never really gets cold on the island, but it was nice to curl up in front of her fireplace and catch up on our kids’ latest events. Her two have usually just broken something, while mine is generally in trouble at school for bossing the other kids around or talking when she’s not supposed to. Evan just laughs and says, “I wonder where she got that from,” whenever I complain.
When we’d scraped the last trace of chocolate from our plates, Lauren said, “How are the plans coming for the wedding?”
“God, don’t get me started. My file is
Lauren laughed, tilting her head back and revealing a scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike all those years ago. Of course, Dad gave me hell for not watching her properly, but nothing could spoil her natural beauty. She rarely wears makeup, but with her heart-shaped face, honey-gold skin, and lightly freckled nose she doesn’t need to. And Lauren is one of those rare people who are as nice as they look — the kind of person who remembers what brand of shampoo you like and saves the coupon for you.
She said, “I told you weddings are more work than you think. And you thought it was going to be so easy.”
“This from the woman who wasn’t stressed about hers at all.”
She shrugged. “I was twenty. I was just happy to be married. Mom and Dad’s backyard was all we needed. But it will be beautiful at the lodge.”
“Yeah, it will. But there’s something I have to tell you.…”
Lauren glanced at me. “You’re not getting cold feet?”
“What? Of course not.”
She let out her breath. “Thank God. Evan’s so good for you.”
“Why does everyone say that?”
She smiled. “Because it’s true.” She had me there. I’d met Evan at a garage while we were waiting for our vehicles — his was in for a tune-up, mine was on its last legs. I was worried they weren’t going to be able to fix my car and had no idea how I was going to pick up Ally, but Evan assured me everything would be fine. I still remember how he put the cardboard sleeve around my hot cup before he handed it to me, how relaxed and steady his movements were. How calm I felt around him.
Lauren said, “So what do you want to tell me?”
“Remember when I used to talk about finding my birth family?”
“Of course, you were obsessed when we were kids. Remember that summer you were convinced you were an Indian princess and tried to build a canoe in the backyard?” She started to laugh, then looked at my face and said, “Wait, have you been searching for real?” “I found my birth mother a couple of weeks ago.”
“Wow. That’s … huge.” Lauren’s expression changed from surprise to confusion to hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?” It was a good question and one I couldn’t answer. Lauren married her high school boyfriend and had the same friends she’d had in elementary school. She had no idea what it felt like to be rejected, to be alone. But the other reason was her husband. It was impossible to talk when Greg was around.
“I needed to process everything first,” I said. “It didn’t go very well.”
“No? What happened? Does she live on the island?”
I filled Lauren in on the whole mess.
She made a face. “That must’ve been awful. Are you okay?”
“I’m disappointed. Especially that she didn’t tell me anything about my biological father — she was my only chance of finding him.” Most of my daydreams growing up were of my birth father whisking me away to his mansion, where he’d introduce me to everyone as his long-lost daughter, his hand warm on my back.
“You haven’t told Mom and Dad, have you?”
I shook my head.
Lauren looked relieved and I stared at my plate, the chocolate now sour in my mouth. I hate the wave of guilt and fear that comes whenever I worry about Mom and Dad finding out, hate myself for resenting it.
I said, “Don’t tell Melanie or Greg, okay?”
“Of course.” I searched her face, wondering what she was thinking. After a moment she said, “Maybe your father was married and she’s scared of it coming out after all these years?”
“Maybe.… But I think she even lied about her name.”
“Are you going to talk to her again?”
“Hell, no! Pretty sure she’d call the cops on me. I’m just going to drop it.”
“It’s probably for the best.” Again she looked relieved. I wanted to ask who she thought it was “best” for, but she was already picking up our plates and moving toward the kitchen, leaving me alone and cold in front of the fire.
As soon as we got home Ally and Moose tumbled into bed and I tidied up the house — I have a tendency to let things get a little out of hand when Evan isn’t around. After my chores were done I wasn’t in the mood to hit my workshop like I usually do when I’m wired on coffee and chocolate, so I turned on my computer. I’d planned on just checking my e-mail, but then I remembered Julia’s words.
Had Julia told me the truth about anything? Maybe I could at least find her parents’ names online. First I Googled “car accidents, Williams Lake, BC.” A few results popped up, but only one fatality involved a couple, and they’d died recently — wrong name, too. I expanded my search to all of Canada but still didn’t find any accidents with my birth mother’s last name. If they’d died years ago the article probably wouldn’t even be online, but, not ready to give up yet, I Googled “Laroche.” Odd hits, random mentions here and there, but other than the university directory I’d found before, nothing connected to Julia.
Before I packed it in for the night, I decided to look up Williams Lake. I’d never been there, but knew it was in the heart of the Cariboo — the Central Interior of BC. Julia hadn’t struck me as a small-town girl and I wondered if she’d escaped as soon as she graduated. I stared at the screen. I wanted to know more about her, but
When I Googled private investigators in Nanaimo, I was surprised to see there were a few companies. I browsed their Web sites, growing more confident when I realized they were usually retired police officers. When Evan called later I ran the idea by him.
He said, “How much do they cost?”
