This morning after I dropped Ally off at school a reporter and a cameraman were waiting in my driveway. Taking my dad’s advice, I told them the statement was true, neither Julia Laroche nor Karen Christianson was my birth mother, and I’d sue if they printed anything about me or my family. Then I closed the door in their faces.
I understand why Julia lied—she’s trying to protect herself. In my case I’m trying to protect Ally, but it was weird reading that Julia denied she’d had me. It made me feel like I don’t exist or something. But that’s not such a bad thing right now. I’m not looking forward to the DNA test. If it matches with the DNA they have on file from the crime scenes, then all of this will be real. I keep hoping it won’t match. Maybe there was a mix-up with the adoption records and I’m not Julia’s daughter after all. I could only be so lucky.
SESSION SIX
I can’t remember the last time I picked up a tool. I snapped at Lauren the other day, and all she asked was whether I’d sent out invitations yet. But if I even think about making a guest list, my mind blanks.
When I tried to talk to Evan about it he said we might want to consider postponing the wedding until things settle down. You can imagine how well that went over. He does have a point—the timing is a nightmare—but I waited my whole life to feel the way I do when I’m with Evan. I didn’t know men like him even existed. He’s so nurturing, bringing me food when I’m in my workshop, pouring baths when I have a headache, yet he’s strong enough to handle my intensity. And we’re both homebodies, preferring to watch movies on our couch rather than go out in the evening. We rarely fight, but when we do we work it out fast. He’s so good and kind that it makes me want to be the same way.
I can’t stand the idea of waiting to marry him. The way things are going lately, though? I may not have a choice.
* * *
Last Wednesday morning I headed straight to the police station. My hands gripped the wheel as I sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes . It’s going to be okay, whatever I find out, I can handle it.
Inside I gave some blood for a DNA sample, then Sergeant Dubois took me back to the room with the couch to wait for the Serious Crimes people. Just as I sat down there was a knock on the door and a man and woman entered.
I expected haggard-looking older men in black suits and sunglasses, but the woman was somewhere in her forties and dressed in loose-fitting navy dress pants, a plain white blouse, and a brown blazer-style leather jacket. Her short dirty-blond hair was streaked by the sun and her skin glowed with a tan. The man was younger, maybe late thirties, wearing stylish black pants and a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing Asian symbols tattooed down both forearms. His olive skin tone, shaved head, and hooded eyes gave him a Mediterranean look. When he flashed a friendly smile I caught a dimple—and the impression he didn’t lack for female attention.
Sergeant Dubois said, “Sara, I’m going I’ll leave you to Staff Sergeant McBride and Corporal Reynolds,” then left the room. The woman sat at the other end of the couch while the man pulled up a chair in front of me.
“So you’re from the Serious Crimes Unit in Vancouver?” I said.
He nodded. “We came over last night.” I couldn’t place his accent, maybe somewhere on the East Coast. He handed me his card and I saw he was Corporal B. Reynolds. So the woman was the sergeant. I was impressed.
She handed me her card. “You can just call me Sandy.” She motioned to the corporal. “And this is Billy.”
“Bill,” he said, shaking a fist at Sandy.
She laughed. “I’m older and wiser, that means I can call you whatever I want.” I smiled, enjoying their banter. Sandy turned to me. “Can we get you a coffee or water, Sara?”
“I’m good. I’ll just need to pee a million times.”
Sandy shook her head
I understand why Julia lied—she’s trying to protect herself. In my case I’m trying to protect Ally, but it was weird reading that Julia denied she’d had me. It made me feel like I don’t exist or something. But that’s not such a bad thing right now. I’m not looking forward to the DNA test. If it matches with the DNA they have on file from the crime scenes, then all of this will be real. I keep hoping it won’t match. Maybe there was a mix-up with the adoption records and I’m not Julia’s daughter after all. I could only be so lucky.
SESSION SIX
I can’t remember the last time I picked up a tool. I snapped at Lauren the other day, and all she asked was whether I’d sent out invitations yet. But if I even think about making a guest list, my mind blanks.
When I tried to talk to Evan about it he said we might want to consider postponing the wedding until things settle down. You can imagine how well that went over. He does have a point—the timing is a nightmare—but I waited my whole life to feel the way I do when I’m with Evan. I didn’t know men like him even existed. He’s so nurturing, bringing me food when I’m in my workshop, pouring baths when I have a headache, yet he’s strong enough to handle my intensity. And we’re both homebodies, preferring to watch movies on our couch rather than go out in the evening. We rarely fight, but when we do we work it out fast. He’s so good and kind that it makes me want to be the same way.
I can’t stand the idea of waiting to marry him. The way things are going lately, though? I may not have a choice.
* * *
Last Wednesday morning I headed straight to the police station. My hands gripped the wheel as I sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes . It’s going to be okay, whatever I find out, I can handle it.
Inside I gave some blood for a DNA sample, then Sergeant Dubois took me back to the room with the couch to wait for the Serious Crimes people. Just as I sat down there was a knock on the door and a man and woman entered.
I expected haggard-looking older men in black suits and sunglasses, but the woman was somewhere in her forties and dressed in loose-fitting navy dress pants, a plain white blouse, and a brown blazer-style leather jacket. Her short dirty-blond hair was streaked by the sun and her skin glowed with a tan. The man was younger, maybe late thirties, wearing stylish black pants and a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing Asian symbols tattooed down both forearms. His olive skin tone, shaved head, and hooded eyes gave him a Mediterranean look. When he flashed a friendly smile I caught a dimple—and the impression he didn’t lack for female attention.
Sergeant Dubois said, “Sara, I’m going I’ll leave you to Staff Sergeant McBride and Corporal Reynolds,” then left the room. The woman sat at the other end of the couch while the man pulled up a chair in front of me.
“So you’re from the Serious Crimes Unit in Vancouver?” I said.
He nodded. “We came over last night.” I couldn’t place his accent, maybe somewhere on the East Coast. He handed me his card and I saw he was Corporal B. Reynolds. So the woman was the sergeant. I was impressed.
She handed me her card. “You can just call me Sandy.” She motioned to the corporal. “And this is Billy.”
“Bill,” he said, shaking a fist at Sandy.
She laughed. “I’m older and wiser, that means I can call you whatever I want.” I smiled, enjoying their banter. Sandy turned to me. “Can we get you a coffee or water, Sara?”
“I’m good. I’ll just need to pee a million times.”
Sandy shook her head
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