“Isn’t she old enough to do that herself?” Hunter asked as Caroline handed Samantha over to him and walked toward the bathroom.
“So, what do you think?” Caroline asked her daughter, repeating the question Hunter had asked her just minutes ago, as she led Michelle into the child’s yellow-and-white bedroom. A twin-size bed, covered with a bright red, white, and gold print quilt, was positioned against one wall. A crib, covered with an identical but smaller quilt had been wedged against the opposite wall, a window between the two.
“I don’t like it.”
Why am I not surprised? Caroline wondered. “What don’t you like, sweetie?”
“I want my own room.”
“Come on. It’ll be fun sharing a room with your sister.”
“I want to sleep in your room.”
The phone rang. Thank God, Caroline thought, grateful for the interruption. Even talking to her mother would be better than this.
“That was Rain,” Hunter said, popping his head into the room seconds later. “She made reservations in the garden restaurant for eight o’clock tonight.”
“Assuming we can get a sitter.”
“Already taken care of.”
Caroline looked from the smiling toddler in her husband’s arms to the pouting youngster at her side, then back at Hunter. “My hero,” she said.
I think my real name is Samantha. I think I’m your daughter.
The words slammed against the side of Caroline’s head, like a hammer. She felt her brain wobble, warm syrupy fluid leaking into the space behind her eyes, the pressure building until it could no longer be contained and it spilled down her cheeks in the form of tears. “This isn’t funny,” she whispered into the phone, her whole body starting to shake. “You shouldn’t do this.”
“I’m really sorry,” said the girl on the other end of the line. “I know how this must sound.”
Caroline tightened her grip on the phone, as if by doing so she could keep from falling over. “You have no idea how this sounds.”
“I guess it seems pretty crazy.”
“It’s far from pretty and far worse than crazy,” said Caroline, amazed at the sound of her own voice, that she was able to form coherent sentences. “It’s mean. And it’s cruel.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”
“What is your intention?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I just thought…”
“You didn’t think.” Caroline was angry now. How dare this girl, this stranger, this Lili, lay claim to her daughter’s name, to her identity?
“I saw the pictures. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I told you.”
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“No. I swear.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because I think…”
“You think you’re my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Because you look like some sketches on the Internet,” Caroline said, her voice flatlining, as if her vocal cords had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.
“Partly.”
“Partly?” Caroline repeated.
“It’s more than that.”
“What more?”
“Just…a whole bunch of things.”
“What things?”
A slight pause. “Well, for starters, we’re the same age.”
A scoff of derision. “Lots of girls are seventeen. What’s your birthday?”
“Supposedly August twelfth.”
“Samantha was born in October.”
“I know, but…”
“But what?”
“Can’t birth certificates be faked?”
“You think someone faked your birth certificate?”
“Maybe. I mean, it’s possible.”
“Possible, but unlikely. What else have you got?”
Another pause, longer this time. “We moved around a lot, when I was little.”
“So?”
“From one city to another, one country to another,” the girl continued, despite Caroline’s growing impatience. “We were always packing up and leaving. We never stayed in one place very long.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“My parents and my brothers.”
“So you have parents.”
“My father died last year.”
“But your mother is still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Were you adopted?”
“She says I wasn’t.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“No.”
“Why not? Have you stumbled across some documents hidden in the attic? Has anyone else in the family ever hinted that you may have been adopted?”
“No.”
“Then why do you think you were?” Caroline asked in an effort to avoid asking herself more pertinent questions, namely, Why was she still on the line? Why was she still talking to this girl, this Lili, who was delusional at best, deranged at worst. Why didn’t she just hang up?
“I don’t look anything like either my brothers or my parents.”
“Lots of kids don’t look like their parents or siblings.”
“It’s not just that.”
“What else is it?”
“I was homeschooled, kept away from other kids.”