My Sister's Voice by Mary Carter Page B

nor deserve, to face his wrath.

    My father. My biological father. The head sperm donor. Face his wrath? Leave it to Margaret to be dramatic.

    You and your sister are still young; maybe you’ll be the best of friends. You can look her up. Like you, your sister has a Web page. See? Something in common already. And in the bottom of the envelope, I’ve included the little toy you were clutching when you arrived. It appears to be broken. I believe your sister had the other half.

    Toy? What did she do with the envelope? She dove her hand into her purse and yanked it out. A handful of items burst out with it, briefly arching into the air before hitting the floor, scattering in different directions. A tampon, lipstick, blush, her keys. She left them where they lay. She picked up the envelope and, on second thought, stomped on the lipstick. Desert Red oozed out like congealed blood. Lacey felt a strange sense of satisfaction, looking at the mangled tube. So she stomped on the blush. The plastic case cracked and a Kiss of Summer shot straight out, then caked the floor with shimmering, beauty-promising dust. Lacey was sweating. Her heart was pounding. She felt clammy. All the classic symptoms of a panic attack. She should be doing something, texting someone. She should text Alan. She should not open this rare bottle of scotch that does not belong to her.

    You didn’t speak for six months after you arrived. Apparently, you and your sister had a language all your own, and it made you furious when the teachers of the hearing impaired wanted you to learn American Sign Language .
    If it’s any consolation, I’ve never seen a woman looking so destroyed as your mother did on that day .

    Lacey threw the letter down and escaped into the bathroom. Rookie followed, cautious and watchful. She flipped on the light and met her blue eyes in the mirror. Did her mother look more destroyed than Lacey did right now? Did she look like her mother or her father? Correction. Did “they” look like their mother or their father? She was a “they.” She always thought she’d never have access to her family tree; it would remain stripped and barren, ghostly branches stretching out to nowhere. She preferred it that way.
    Now she had a living mother. A father. Or she did. Who knew if they were still alive? There were so many questions. Too many. Even some kind of sick game show, some sensational reality flick, wouldn’t force her to face so many questions at once. Take it one step at a time. She had a sister. Who looked just like her.
    Someone else saw Lacey’s exact face in the mirror every day. So much for “we are all unique,” so much for snowflakes. Someone who was out there right now. Someone who shared her exact DNA. And she didn’t even know she existed. Or did she?
    Lacey was not an original. It felt so wrong. Draconian. Identity theft! Lacey saw pain in her face, and fear. She saw beads of sweat along her jawline and underneath her lip. Rookie nuzzled her ankle, as if apologizing for something. Lacey did not bend down and pet him. You have no idea who you are, she told her reflection. Your entire life has been a lie. Your family threw you away like a piece of trash .
    Because she was deaf? That wasn’t possible. This was the United States of America. Whoops, we accidentally got two, would you like one? Here, take this one. She’s slightly damaged . According to the hearing world, the one she had no choice but to live in, the one whose labels she’d been trying to dodge her whole life—that’s who considered her damaged—she was “as is.” No refunds, no returns.
    Lacey didn’t hold this view of herself, or her culture. She’d jokingly wished she could live on a completely Deaf planet, live a life free of the limitations hearing people tried to rope her with, communicate only through American Sign Language, never have to explain, or tutor, or teach, or “Speak, Lacey, speak!” or play the system. She’d never wanted to be on