At the top of the page, Facebook was asking, “Do you know Julian? To see what he shares with friends, send him a friend request.” I hovered my mouse icon over the button. Clicking it would definitely count as contact. Also, the term friend request made me feel balky. It was so immediate, almost invasive. What if the kid started in with the super-poking and the endless Facebook game requests? Besides, I’d already embarked on a new friendship today. Birdwine was the first true enlargement of my tiny circle in literally years.
That thought let me laugh at myself. Two new friends! Careful, Paula, you might rupture something. This was a virtual, click-based relationship, and if Julian had any savvy, he’d see past it. He’d realize what big eyes I had. The better to stalk you with, my dear. If he accepted, it would likely be so he could reverse-stalk me.
Well, I wished him luck with that. Like every lawyer on the planet, I had a Facebook page, but it was strictly for professional use.
Even so, I found myself sliding the mouse sideways and hitting the Send Message button instead. When the window opened, I typed, Hey. This is
Then I sat staring for three minutes, trying to decide between This is your half sister and This is Karen Vauss’s other child. Julian Bouchard, a mysterious young human, was by blood a member of my family. Such as it was. I’d avoided marriage, never wanted kids. My mother and I had abdicated each other, and Google-stalking Kai had been impossible. She’d lived off the grid, as if the Internet did not exist.
Every now and again, I’d run across people we’d known in our long, parole-inspired stint inside Atlanta. Some of them had stories and snippets about Kai, which I took with grains or teaspoons or whole oceans’ worth of salt, depending on the source. Kai was near fictional to me at this point, and she had given Julian away. He had a different mother. Anna Bouchard. I wondered what she might be like. A soft-voiced cookie baker? A brisk soccer mom? I was in no true sense a sister to him.
I decided on my name, direct and simple.
Hello, Julian. This is Paula Vauss. I apologize for my reaction to your visit. I was not aware that my mother had another child. I’m sorry to inform you that Karen Vauss and I have not been in contact for many years, and I believe that she is no longer living. I have hired a reliable PI to find what ultimately became of her. The one you hired is a con man; please do not contact him, and under no circumstances should you give him more money. I will share the results of my investigation with you ASAP.
It felt mean to tell the kid that Kai was dead in a letter—in a Facebook message, no less—but it felt even meaner to hold that information back. He must be anxious to hear from me. Especially since he’d abandoned his bank records, his Social Security card, his mother’s maiden name, and a host of other sensitive bits of info into my tender, total stranger’s care.
Reading back over my note, I knew the tone was too formal—downright lawyerly. It read cold, and cold was not at all what I was feeling. I was feeling nine kinds of freaked right the fuck out, actually, so maybe cold was better.
I tried to think of something kind to add, and came up with this: I have some pictures of her and some of her belongings. I would be happy to meet with you at your convenience and share these things. I will answer any questions you might have to the best of my ability.
There. True, but not the whole truth. Polite, but not invasive. I clicked Send, and my little missive poofed into the ether.
I sat back in my chair, wondering when he might read it. Wondering how he might respond. I needed a distraction. My loft felt cavernous, as if the vibrant purples and golds in my modern artwork could not quite fill the high white walls today. The space felt hungry for another heartbeat. One that was larger than Henry’s.
I wasn’t seeing anybody on the regular. I had a cadre of local exes who were often game for friendly reminiscing, but I hadn’t been in the mood to return their calls. I’d had a metaphorical whole-body headache for almost half a year. Until today.
Something had reawoken in me earlier, in my office, there with Birdwine. I’d been working my way out of my bra, and I’d remembered the delicious feel of winding my body around a rough and willing male, naked and rampant. I’d felt a sweet unspooling low down in my belly, reminding me that I was made of bone and blood and warm flesh.
That energy was gone. All I really wanted now was human company. But maybe if I had some, my body would wake back up?
I got my phone and started scrolling through my contacts. Davonte picked up, but he was in Nashville, at a party, by the sound of it. Jack’s number was no longer in service. I got Remi’s voicemail, and then a woman answered Raj’s phone. Her voice got sharp, asking, “Who is this?” I didn’t know if she was wife, girlfriend, or wannabe, but I said something innocuous and hung up. Half my job came from the ugly carnage caused by cheating, and I’d never knowingly help a man break a promise to another woman.