Three Black Swans (17 page)

She returned to an Internet source she had bookmarked earlier, a site about the biology of multiple births. She had bookmarked the page on twins, but now she scrolled to the page about triplets.

Triplets could be three separate eggs in the mother, in which case they were fraternal triplets. Plain old brothers and sisters who happened to be born at the same time. Missy, Claire and Genevieve were visibly not fraternal triplets.

Triplets could be two eggs, one of which split once, so that those two were identical twins, while the second egg didn’t split, making the third baby a fraternal twin. Claire hoped this was not her own situation. How ghastly if even among triplets one could be an outsider.

Or triplets could come from a single egg, which split once, and then one of the splits split again. These were identical triplets.

Claire imagined Missy and Genevieve smiling as they talked.
Each smile would tip outward in the same way, and each girl would very slightly bite her lower lip, so quickly only a mother would see. Their moms would scowl. “Don’t bite your lip, honey,” they would say.

And Genevieve’s mother? Did she have the same complaint because she had the same daughter?

Who was Genevieve’s mother?

Who was Claire’s?

Claire’s parents were sleeping. They were separated from Claire only by closets. They still occupied a world without identical twins and triplets. They knew nothing.

Or did they know everything?

She thought, Missy will invite Genevieve for a sleepover. There won’t ever be a Claire-over again.

Her cell phone rang. It was Missy. Claire snatched it up.

“I called her!” said Missy. “Clairedy, it’s incredible. I really liked her. Although I think she could be a little bossy. Now listen. We’re going in to the city tomorrow morning just like I planned. She’s taking the LIRR into Penn Station and we’ll take Metro-North into Grand Central. We’ll meet under the clock at ten-fifteen. We’re pretending to go to the Metropolitan Museum to see Byzantine art.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” said Claire sullenly.

“Clairedy, come on. I’ll get the train in Stamford and you catch the same train in New Rochelle. I’ll be in the front car, waiting for you.”

“How can you be so calm? Our lives were carved up and served separately at birth! You should stay home vomiting.”

“Claire, she’s our sister, not our death sentence. If we don’t meet, how will we know for sure?”

“It sounds as if you’ve settled that without me.”

“She wants to call you, Claire. Would that be all right?”

“Missy. This is not a cute little excursion into a cute little past with a cute little triplet. This is the end of our families. We have to stay home tomorrow and sit with our parents while they see the video.”

“I don’t care about them right now,” said Missy. “I need Genevieve.”

N
ED
C
ANDLER’S GOLF
game had been canceled. He stared out the kitchen window at the pouring rain. Ned didn’t like being home. He liked leaving home. He liked parties and movies, action and games, dinners out and dances. He told himself to make a list: Chores I Have Put Off Long Enough. There wasn’t a chore out there Ned felt like doing.

The coffeepot stopped sputtering. Ned poured himself a cup, added sweetener and milk, stirred and sipped. No matter how much money you spent on your coffee maker, it didn’t compete. Coffee from chains, diners and restaurants was always better.

Now what? The Candlers had Saturday newspaper delivery, but he wasn’t in the mood to trot down the driveway in this pouring rain. He turned on the kitchen computer and checked the news. Many things in the world were going wrong. He felt unable to read the details. He had problems of his own.

He and Allegra fell into a maligned category: people who live beyond their means. They lived in a town they couldn’t afford, drove cars whose payments they could barely make and
wore fine clothing they had to charge. Now he couldn’t even ask his wealthy grandmother for help. She wasn’t wealthy anymore.

But the big worry was Vivi, who had become an academic star, something she certainly had not inherited from her parents. Vivi would want to go to a top college, which would cost top dollar. Ned didn’t have medium dollars. He didn’t have
dollars
. He had debts.

He checked his e-mail. He always had a huge number of messages waiting. Corporate Giving was a strange little department. It didn’t “lead” anywhere. It just sat on the edges of the real activity. When they were young, he and Allegra had been sure their jobs would “lead” somewhere. They expected to be movers and shakers. Instead, Allegra was just another drone, working hard to achieve little, while Ned had the same responsibilities he’d started with twenty years ago. He loved what he did and was proud of it; he truly helped people. It would never pay more, but he couldn’t stand the idea of changing jobs. He and Allegra had a social calendar to die for. Keeping up with the invitations was not cheap. He couldn’t afford to take Vivi to look at colleges, never mind pay for her to attend one.

He hardly knew Vivi anymore. Back when she was little, just another skinny dark-haired child, the whole thing seemed like wallpaper. The decision he and Allegra had made was background. Elevator music. The older Vivi got, the less that seemed to be true. When Ned looked at her now, the decision would rise up and look right back at him. He would feel a
low-level panic, knowing what people would think. He would look at his beautiful wife, for whom he would do anything. He and Allegra almost never talked about it. They didn’t need to. They could tell when the other was panicking.

Allegra’s panic was deeper. She was the mother. She would be judged more harshly.

Ned Candler did not believe that conspiracies could last. There was no such thing as a permanent secret. One day their own secret would be exposed.

Since he couldn’t drink coffee without reading a paper, he scanned a half-read
Wall Street Journal
. The paper was folded open to a strange and beautiful phrase he had circled with the thick blue tip of his favorite fountain pen. He knew what his Grandmother Candler would say about that: “You could have bought a single plastic ballpoint pen, but no, you have to have a dozen fountain pens, each of which costs a fortune.”

He couldn’t concentrate.

The black swans in his life kept swimming into view.

*  *  *

M
ISSY SKITTERED INTO
the kitchen. She felt as if her fingers and eyes and hair were separating from her body, about to float around the room and attach themselves elsewhere. She wanted to be with Genevieve Candler so much it was like starving to death.

“Hi, sweetheart,” said her father. “You’re up early.”

I’ll get him to drive me to the station now, thought Missy. I can’t wait here. I’m about to meet the long-lost identical twin I faked. I can’t look at Mom and Dad or even talk to them. And if I’m going to coax Claire into coming, I sure can’t have my parents listening in. “Morning, Dad.”

“We’re working on vacation plans,” said her father.

“I was thinking of Savannah,” said her mother. “Isn’t ‘Savannah’ a pretty word? There was a girl named Savannah in your first grade, Missy. Whatever happened to Savannah?”

“But is there a lot to do in Savannah?” asked her father.

Missy could not take more twitter. “There’s a trip into New York today. People are going to the Metropolitan Museum to look at Byzantine art. One kid canceled and I get to go. All you have to do is drive me to the train station.”

“Oh, Missy, that will be such fun!” cried her mother. “Or will it? Isn’t Byzantine art mostly sad thin saints? I always want a saint who’s happy. But I think they often die difficult deaths, and naturally they’re a little depressed.”

Oh, my God, I love my parents, thought Missy. They’re nuts, but they’re mine. I have to get out of here now, before I’m crippled by loving them.

“You’ll need money,” said her father. “Train, subway pass, museum fee, lunch.” He peeled off tens and gave them to her.

If she told Dad she didn’t need money, it would draw attention to the expedition. She took the cash. “Thanks.”

“Keep your cell phone on,” said her mother.

“And stay with the group,” said her father.

“Who’s the teacher?” her mother wanted to know.

“I’ll stay with the group,” she promised, avoiding teacher identification. She hated lying. Of course, they had lied every single time they claimed to be her parents.

They’ll still be my parents, won’t they? Our family won’t dissolve, will it?

Not surprisingly, her mother had difficulty locating her purse. Her parents discussed possible purse locations, a routine conversation that normally made Missy crazy, but this morning she wanted to weep.

Half of her yearned to spill everything. Half of her was desperate for Claire to come too. Half of her was sickened by the physiology of this. Was she really identical to two other people, from her freckles to her toenails? It was unnatural. Half of Missy didn’t want a molecule of her life changed, and the other half had already planned how to change every bit.

That was too many halves for one body. She was exploding from the pressure of her halves.

And she had to admit the possibility that there were no identical triplets, that Genevieve and Missy were drama queens with big hair.

At last, Missy’s mother located her purse. Yes, the wallet was in it. Yes, her driver’s license was there too. She even had the car keys! What a good day this was shaping up to be.

Kitty Vianello was a poor driver. She tapped the accelerator instead of leaving her foot on it, so the car lurched. She slowed down too early for curves and remembered to look one way but not the other. Missy was grateful for the invention of airbags.

Stamford station was elevated, spreading high across the tracks, with escalators going up and down to the New York–bound or Boston-bound trains. Groups would gather on the upper level. Missy’s mother would not realize that no other classmates were here. Yet her mother seemed vaguely aware that the situation was odd. Missy distracted her. “Does Aunt Frannie still want to quit Jazzercise?”

“You can only do something for so long,” said Kitty Vianello, “and then it feels like a rat trap. Plus, when you’re hitting fifty, you’re stir-crazy. Your aunt Frannie needs a change. We all need a change.”

You’re about to get one, thought Missy.

*  *  *

Frannie Linnehan was yelling at the top of her lungs. She had good lungs, from shouting over loud music all week long. “I can’t do this anymore!” she informed her household. “I can’t get up at dawn one more time! I can’t be a cheerleader for one more hour! I’m giving up today!” She slammed the skillet around. “Philip! Do you want eggs?”

“You can’t quit,” said her husband. “We need the money. I’ll cook the eggs. You get ready.”

Frannie was grateful. Cracking eggs this morning struck her as dangerous. She might hurl them across the room just for the joy of the splat. Phil was right. They needed the money. She knew that Phil had little work. She knew how discouraged he was. She knew how he worried about their brilliant
daughter, and the college Claire deserved, and the cost of such a college.

They had saved and saved, but after all that saving, they had only enough money for one year at an ordinary school. Claire deserved four years at a great school.

Frannie paused outside her daughter’s closed bedroom door. She knocked lightly. Claire was probably still asleep. Frannie would tiptoe in, reassure herself that all was well—

“What do you want?” snapped Claire.

“I’m leaving,” said Frannie through the door.

“And?” said Claire.

Not once, not ever, had Frannie Linnehan heard that tone of voice from Claire. “And I want to hug good-bye, honey.”

“I’ll be up in a minute,” snapped Claire.

“You don’t have to get up, honey, I’ll come in and—”

“I
said
I’ll be
up
in a
minute.”

Frannie retreated.

In the kitchen her husband was beaming. “Tommy called,” said Phil excitedly. “He has work for me! Tommy’s going to need me for the rest of the month.”

Claire stomped into the kitchen.

“Eggs?” said her father.

Eggs made her think of human eggs. Of clones. Twins. Triplets.

Claire adored two television shows in which the families had many children: one family where they had them one at a time, and just never stopped, and were now up to sixteen or eighteen kids—more kids than were in some of Claire’s
classes—and another family that had a series of litters—two here, six there. Who could live through a pregnancy of six babies all at once? How did the
babies
live through it? It must have been tight in there.

If Missy’s theory was correct, then Claire had elbowed Missy around, breathed her oxygen and taken her nourishment, so that Missy emerged a pitiful miniature who took years to catch up. But if babies had personalities in the womb, wouldn’t Missy have been doing the elbowing? Wouldn’t Claire have been the little shriveled one? And who was this Genevieve? Another big shoving kid or another squashed little one?