wheelchair—she was perfectly capable of walking, but he was a romantic and was overcompensating for missing the birth because of twenty crucial seconds left in the Giants game. He was about to place her in the car when a rogue ambulance jumped the curb, killing both of them instantly—
Her mother was a princess who fell in love with a pauper—
Her father was a respected Harvard professor who wanted nothing more to do with her mother when he found out she was with child—
A pilot and a stewardess—
A priest and a nun—
Fat and retarded—
Midgets who couldn’t handle tall children—
Clowns on the run—
They were desperate—
They were addicts—strewn out on city steps with needles hanging out of their arms—incapable of raising a child, sacrificing their life with her so that she could have a better one—
Lacey had imagined every possibility under the sun. Except this one.
Her biological parents were “normal” and alive. They dropped her off at the group home. Where did they drop Monica off?
She should stop reading the letter, that’s what she should do. Forget all about it. It never happened. They didn’t exist. It didn’t work. The letter pulled her back.
And as far as I know, Monica, your twin, was raised by them .
Lacey would have thought she was immune to shock. Wasn’t there a limit to the amount a person could take, a point at which your system simply shut off and couldn’t feel anymore? But this one pitted and cored her. And not just because Margaret anticipated her question. They kept Monica? Raised her? They kept Monica and dumped Lacey off to be raised by Margaret Harris? There were no words, only a sudden free fall into a chasm of grief. Why should she even care? Why should she even give a fuck? Thank God they weren’t here to see tears dripping down her face. Screw them. Screw Monica too.
Monica. Lacey finger-spelled her name. M-O-N-I-C-A. She said it out loud. “Monica.” Did it feel familiar? No, she was a stranger. Rookie cocked his head and licked her again, but this time even a dog’s selfless tongue couldn’t stop the sharp pain still searing across her heart. Was she that bad? That damaged? That unloved? Was there some part of her that remembered? She wanted to throw something, if nothing else, herself, to the ground, pound her feet and fists like a child throwing a tantrum.
Keeping the letter clutched in her hand, Lacey began to pace. She wondered if there was any wine left in the kitchen. The small counter space next to the refrigerator revealed only half a bottle of red that had been there forever. Mike kept a special bottle of scotch in the cupboard. Single malt something or other. He was saving it, it was rare and expensive, that was all she knew. Whenever he was having a bad day, he would come to the cupboard and just hold the bottle to his chest. She really shouldn’t be doing this. She was just going to hold the bottle, that’s all. She didn’t even know if she’d know the difference between cheap and expensive scotch, just like she didn’t know if she preferred the music of Meat Loaf or Mozart.
Besides, she was only a two-glasses-of-anything-alcoholic girl, always had been.
The bottle was still there, unopened in the back of the cupboard. She brought it to the couch and continued with the letter.
At the time, I thought it was best you didn’t know
any of this, my darling Lacey. I can’t imagine
parents giving up one of their children, separating
her from her twin no less. And I couldn’t imagine
burdening you with this kind of pain. I’m sorry
you’re hearing this now, and I hope you understand
I only did what I thought was best. Legally, I wasn’t
allowed to tell you the circumstances surrounding
your situation, and I’m breaking the law even now,
but you’ve seen the book, they can’t blame me for that.
Just please try and keep my name out of this. Your
biological father is a man of considerable influence. I
don’t want,
Her mother was a princess who fell in love with a pauper—
Her father was a respected Harvard professor who wanted nothing more to do with her mother when he found out she was with child—
A pilot and a stewardess—
A priest and a nun—
Fat and retarded—
Midgets who couldn’t handle tall children—
Clowns on the run—
They were desperate—
They were addicts—strewn out on city steps with needles hanging out of their arms—incapable of raising a child, sacrificing their life with her so that she could have a better one—
Lacey had imagined every possibility under the sun. Except this one.
Her biological parents were “normal” and alive. They dropped her off at the group home. Where did they drop Monica off?
She should stop reading the letter, that’s what she should do. Forget all about it. It never happened. They didn’t exist. It didn’t work. The letter pulled her back.
And as far as I know, Monica, your twin, was raised by them .
Lacey would have thought she was immune to shock. Wasn’t there a limit to the amount a person could take, a point at which your system simply shut off and couldn’t feel anymore? But this one pitted and cored her. And not just because Margaret anticipated her question. They kept Monica? Raised her? They kept Monica and dumped Lacey off to be raised by Margaret Harris? There were no words, only a sudden free fall into a chasm of grief. Why should she even care? Why should she even give a fuck? Thank God they weren’t here to see tears dripping down her face. Screw them. Screw Monica too.
Monica. Lacey finger-spelled her name. M-O-N-I-C-A. She said it out loud. “Monica.” Did it feel familiar? No, she was a stranger. Rookie cocked his head and licked her again, but this time even a dog’s selfless tongue couldn’t stop the sharp pain still searing across her heart. Was she that bad? That damaged? That unloved? Was there some part of her that remembered? She wanted to throw something, if nothing else, herself, to the ground, pound her feet and fists like a child throwing a tantrum.
Keeping the letter clutched in her hand, Lacey began to pace. She wondered if there was any wine left in the kitchen. The small counter space next to the refrigerator revealed only half a bottle of red that had been there forever. Mike kept a special bottle of scotch in the cupboard. Single malt something or other. He was saving it, it was rare and expensive, that was all she knew. Whenever he was having a bad day, he would come to the cupboard and just hold the bottle to his chest. She really shouldn’t be doing this. She was just going to hold the bottle, that’s all. She didn’t even know if she’d know the difference between cheap and expensive scotch, just like she didn’t know if she preferred the music of Meat Loaf or Mozart.
Besides, she was only a two-glasses-of-anything-alcoholic girl, always had been.
The bottle was still there, unopened in the back of the cupboard. She brought it to the couch and continued with the letter.
At the time, I thought it was best you didn’t know
any of this, my darling Lacey. I can’t imagine
parents giving up one of their children, separating
her from her twin no less. And I couldn’t imagine
burdening you with this kind of pain. I’m sorry
you’re hearing this now, and I hope you understand
I only did what I thought was best. Legally, I wasn’t
allowed to tell you the circumstances surrounding
your situation, and I’m breaking the law even now,
but you’ve seen the book, they can’t blame me for that.
Just please try and keep my name out of this. Your
biological father is a man of considerable influence. I
don’t want,
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