“UCSF.” It pops out before I can think it through, because being close to thirty means college almost never comes up. I used to have the story down pat, but it’s been awhile since I’d been asked, so the truth bubbled out like an uncorked spring. In an odd way, it’s a relief to say it.
“Oh yeah? West coast girl!” He strokes his chin thoughtfully and gives me a sideways grin. His teeth are straight and he has a kind, jovial smile. “So tell me, why are you so active in CARE? What made you choose that?” With slick movements, he clicks the recorder next to him and I eye it before speaking. “Ignore this. I have to, I have zero memory for this stuff. I want to write about you a bit, though, if you don’t mind.”
His interest intrigues me. Henry is always interested in me, in my hair or my clothing, how I hold myself, or how I present myself. What I’ve done or said at parties that needs mild correction later. What I’ve done with my day, my time. He’s less interested, it seems, in my capricious ideas: my thoughts that flit here and there, unfocused. Aside from my activities at CARE, he rarely asks my opinion on anything.
I admit I don’t always mind being under his thumb. There’s a certain freedom in that, to not have to think about things in life, like what to eat for breakfast or dinner, or where or what to shop, how to dress. He likes to teach me how to be in his world. He flicks away my concerns that I’ve never been fully accepted among the upper echelon. He shakes his head dismissively when I point out how the women pair off, heads tilted together almost systematically, at his functions until I’m left standing in the center of the room, awkwardly alone.
But this is different. Cash seems genuinely interested in me, as a person, and the thrill I feel at that is almost embarrassing. It’s not a romantic jolt, but not since Lydia have I had a friend, an honest friend, and truthfully, Lydia has been more of an acquaintance since I married Henry. He’s not a friend, though. This is all for an article. The thrill escapes, pffffting like air out of a balloon.
“I was adopted,” I say, slowly and flatly, twirling the spoon between my fingers. I dance around this, the truth addled somewhere in the middle, stuck in some emotional desert I can no longer access. “My adoptive father died in a car accident when I was a baby. I never knew him. My adoptive mother died of ovarian cancer in 2009, my senior year of college. So, I sympathize with these kids. Some are orphans, some are foster kids whose parents are drug-addled. I haven’t had parents in a while. So, I guess in a way, I get it. I had a birth mother who didn’t want me either.” I’ve never said this to anyone, and it feels dangerous to admit this much of my old life, a life I am no longer entitled to call mine. Lately I find myself belligerently wanting it back and, in small ways, throwing a stake in the ground. Even with the narrow escape of Friday night, the overall pervading fear has waned and in its place is a dried-up seed of resentment. A peaceful five years means that I am reckless with my safety. More than that, admitting my past in parts feels safe, like the vent on a pressure tank.
“Did you ever try to find her?”
“Who?”
“Your birth mother.”
“Not seriously. I don’t know why. I guess for many years Evelyn was all I ever needed. She was my best friend. We never had that silly high school hate thing going. Not that I tried to get away with much anyway, or that she’d let me. I just felt like looking for my birth mother would have been an insult to her. Or something.”
“What about now?”
“Now?”
“Yes, since she’s passed, why haven’t you tried?”
I shifted in my seat, tucking my left leg under me. There were a hundred reasons. Finding Carolyn involved admitting on some level who I was before, either online or with a private investigator. Somehow, I had to use the name Hilary Lawlor to get there. To move on, to continue to live, I had been forced to cleave my life with a giant chasm that held Hilary on one side and Zoe on the other. There was no bridge back, not in my mind. I held a little fear that Mick or Jared and his group were still behind me, pursuing me or waiting for me to traverse that chasm again. It was as though once I crossed, once I became Zoe, Hilary ceased to exist. I didn’t speak of her or think of her. I rarely recalled my past, instead choosing to pretend it hadn’t existed, like I’d been born a full-grown adult named Zoe. Sometimes I fantasized that I’d fall ill and lose the memories altogether. Except for Evelyn. I still wanted her.