“You have to talk to her.”
“To who?” he asked.
Honestly, he wasn’t listening. The boys were being treated like criminals and he hadn’t even reacted.
“Do you think they could have done it?” he asked, irritated.
“No.”
“So, why are you afraid of the police?”
The boys finally came home, looking sleepy. I could have confronted them, but I knew they wouldn’t answer my questions. Something in them still resisted.
They had grown up a lot over the summer. They looked like two young men now, and they looked less and less alike as they got older. It was now easy to tell them apart, to the extent that people who didn’t know them couldn’t guess they were twins. Their facial features were now distinctive; everything about Vanya was hard and sharp, while Daniil was more delicate. They were the same size and body type, but their movements were unique and their gaits easily distinguishable.
“You have your last appointment at the hospital tomorrow, Vanya. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
I put my hand on his arm and felt the muscle tense beneath my fingers. I lifted my hand and turned to Daniil.
“Do you want to come with us?”
Daniil refused. Vanya turned suddenly toward him with a questioning look, but said nothing. I observed their silent exchange. They clearly understood each other without speaking. Shouldn’t I be able to as well? Some time ago, it had become clear to me that my sons didn’t love me. Even as babies, they hadn’t needed me to console or reassure them. They were enough for each other.
The visit to the hospital gave me a chance to talk with Vanya. I picked him up from Harbord College at the appointed hour and let him settle into the car before gently initiating the conversation.
“Did you have a good day? What class did you have this morning? Swimming?” I said, looking at the gym bag he carried.
“No. Tech.”
“Ah. And what did you do?”
“Some design.”
“Design? Like Daddy?”
“No.”
“Did you know I was a designer too, before?”
“Yes, I know.”
The discussion dragged. I realized I had no idea what his interests were.
“Do you know what old Aïda told me? She thinks there are robbers going into her house while she’s asleep—she’s losing her mind, poor thing.”
It was obvious that I was testing him. Vanya shifted a little in his seat. A moment passed before he spoke.
“Yes, Aïda’s losing her mind,” he said, turning suddenly toward me.
He looked me straight in the eye. I could only hold his gaze for a few seconds. He kept looking at me for another moment before turning away. There was nothing else I could add. I drove in silence to SickKids. We didn’t say another word as we waited for the consultation.
“How’s my friend Vanya?” cried the doctor.
Vanya made a disgusted face and said nothing. The doctor didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, anyway. He was already putting on the sleeve to test Vanya’s blood pressure.
“We’ve got a real athlete here,” he continued in the same tone as he put away his gear.
He filled in the file as he examined Vanya’s wound. Everything was healing well. He seemed pleased.
“We’re just going to finish with a little blood test to make sure there’s no anemia.”
He handed Vanya a form that he needed to bring to the lab. Vanya nonchalantly handed me the paper. I thanked the doctor on his behalf, and we left.
As we passed the door, I glanced at the form. My son’s name appeared at the top. The doctor had checked the test he needed from the list and indicated his blood type: AB-.
It had to be a mistake. Vanya was O+, like his brother. I told Vanya we had to go back, but the doctor had already started a new consultation, and the secretary said he wouldn’t be able to see us before the end of the day. Neither my protestations nor my anger would change her mind. Extremely annoyed, I sent Vanya to get his blood taken, and stood outside the examination room, determined to intercept the doctor between appointments. The door soon opened and I was able to ambush him.
“He’s O+, not AB-. There’s a mistake on the form.” I spat the words in his face. The doctor couldn’t understand my aggression.
“There’s no question about it. We established his blood type in a previous analysis, when he was staying in the hospital,” he said.
“But that’s impossible. His blood type was written on his medical file when we adopted him.” My lip started to tremble.
“There might have been a mistake on their form. It happens sometimes.”
He pushed gently past me and continued on his way. I froze for a moment in the hall. Pinned up haphazardly on the white walls around me were posters for cervical cancer screening, domestic violence, alcohol consumption during pregnancy, childhood asthma. I glanced distractedly at them before joining Vanya, who must have finished his test.
“How did it go?”
I looked at the cotton stuck to the inside of his elbow. He looked pale. I moved to touch his cheek, but he turned away violently. I wanted to get home as fast as possible, to check the information in the adoption folder and pay no more attention to his mood.
The folder was in one of the organizers in the filing cabinet that contained our marriage documents, tax information, and various receipts and warrantees accumulated over the years. My organization was impeccable, I could proudly say. I instantly found what I was looking for.
These folders hadn’t been opened in more than fifteen years. The boys’ baby photos were stapled to the top corner of
