Three Black Swans (22 page)

For better or for worse, thought Missy, I’m getting together with a different family. For better or for worse was a wedding-vow phrase. But this felt more like a divorce.

The train stopped. More passengers got on. Missy didn’t think she’d seen anybody get off. They were all one hundred percent going to Grand Central.

Her cell phone wouldn’t quit. Now she was receiving a text. But it was from Genevieve! Missy read greedily.
Parent trouble. Taking later train. Will send arrival time ASAP.

I won’t cry, she said to herself. I won’t break down. We’ve waited sixteen years. We can wait another hour.

But a tear spattered her phone when she texted back,
I’ll wait at Grand Central.

Claire slid into the seat next to her, shivering, panting and identical. The girls melted against each other and held hands, fingers crushing matching fingers. The comfort of her cousin was total.

Because she isn’t my cousin, thought Missy. She’s my identical twin. I’m her. She’s me. And because she knows it now. We both know it. “How did you get to this station?”

“My taxi driver raced the train.”

“I’m so jealous. I’ve never raced a train.”

“Listen to these phone messages,” said her twin, dismissing trains.

“Same as mine,” said Missy, after a minute. “Do we let them suffer?”

“Starving people in war-torn countries suffer,” said Claire. “Our parents are just facing the consequences of their own choices for a few hours.”

How bracing to hear Claire’s resentment. Immediately Missy’s own resentment passed. “Genevieve is going to be late,” she said.

“Good. I need time to prepare.”

Missy felt that “preparing” to meet your identical triplet was hopeless. “Who are Wanda and Annabel?”

“They aren’t anybody. We were going to use a fake name for Rick’s interview and those came to mind, but you forgot, so I used them again. Wanda and Annabel may be at the library right now, producing an excellent paper.”

The train stopped at 125th Street.

“If we were going to a Yankees game, we’d get off here,” Claire pointed out.

They loved Yankees games. The stadium was awesome, the hot dogs were perfect, winning was fabulous, losing wasn’t the end of the world, and through it all, you got baseball.

“This will be a home run,” said Missy.

“I’m not so sure,” said her identical twin. “Even the best players strike out.”

*  *  *

When her mother removed a knife from a drawer, Genevieve vaguely assumed that toast interested her more than adoption.

Of course, she’s not my mother, thought Genevieve. Maybe she’s haunted by the fact that she didn’t have her own child. She has me instead.

Allegra brought the knife down. Not on bread. On flesh.

Admitting that Genevieve was adopted was so awful that Allegra Candler would rather be dead? Genevieve felt as if
she
had been stabbed.

Ned Candler leaped across the room, grabbed his wife’s wrists, knocked the knife to the floor, then pulled her into the living room and down onto the sofa. They stared into each other’s eyes. It was more dramatic than the usual, but essentially it was still the usual. Allegra and Ned were a unit, while Genevieve stood there watching.

Ned held up the threatened wrist and examined it.

No blood. Either Dad had been quick enough or Mom had not really wanted to hurt herself.

One thing was clear. A career in emergency response was not in Genevieve’s future. She hadn’t even recognized an emergency, let alone responded.

Allegra wept in Ned’s arms. She looked oddly like Claire in the video at the moment she was wrenched by the shock of Missy’s claim.

Genevieve turned away from the parents she had failed. Even now, they’re fine without me, she thought. I feel like a dead soccer ball. Not even worth kicking.

She had rarely felt as removed from parental love. They were hugging each other. Why weren’t they hugging
her?

I’ll look at Missy and Claire again, she decided. When I see the video, I’ll remember that at least
one
person wants my company. Which reminded her that Claire didn’t.

Genevieve brought up the video.

“Vivi, don’t!” cried Allegra.

“These are my sisters. I won’t turn them off. They’re not going away. Tell me who our parents are.”

“Vivi, think of me!”

“No. This is my life, not yours. My drama, not yours. Tell me who my parents are. Tell me who my sisters are.”

Ned handed his wife a small square box of tissues. Allegra bought tissue boxes with care, because color and design had to be perfect and so often tissue boxes were tacky. “You won’t understand,” her mother wept.

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Genevieve. “Tell me anyway.”

Ned and Allegra exchanged one more look.

Genevieve lost the last shred of energy she possessed. She fell into a chair—across from her parents, of course, not next to them; nobody had patted the cushions to invite her to sit on the sofa—and texted Missy.
Nightmare. Parents saw video and fell apart. I can’t come.

Her own message frightened her. She was shutting the door on the sister who was rushing to meet her. But Genevieve could not summon the will to send a correction. My parents don’t love me, she thought. Next to that, what matters? Her body seemed to break down, as if she were a chemistry experiment, separating into her original raw materials.

“Vivi,” said her father sternly, “texting in the middle of a conversation is rude under any circumstance. But
now?
What message matters now?”

“A message explaining who I am would be a good message now.”

Allegra looked away. Staring at her manicure, she whispered, “It’s like that mother. Oh, it was years ago. I’ve never forgotten her. I still weep for her. She drove to work one hot summer day and forgot that she was the one taking the baby to day care. She forgot the baby altogether, and left it strapped in its car seat in the back of her car. At the end of the day, when she finished work, she walked through the parking lot and unlocked her car, and there was her baby, cooked to death.”

*  *  *

P
HIL
V
IANELLO WAS
framing an addition to an already large house. The addition would have an amazing view. Phil didn’t care about the view. When you have been out of work, work is what’s beautiful. Although his cell phone was attached to his belt, he paid no attention when it rang.

Around noon, he began to think of lunch, and assumed that Tommy was walking over to discuss lunch breaks. But Tommy said, “Frannie called. Some kind of emergency.”

A car accident? Claire was hurt? Frannie was hurt? Phil grabbed his phone. “Nobody’s hurt,” said his wife. “But we can’t find Claire or Missy and they’re not answering their cell phones.”

Phil had envisioned paraplegics and long-term comas. When his wife babbled about some school video, he was annoyed. “So what?”

“We don’t know where the girls are,” said his wife.

“Claire’s the most careful girl on the planet. Spontaneous is not her middle name. She isn’t doing anything reckless. Anyway, she’s sixteen. She gets to decide what she does on a Saturday.”

“Phil! The girls figured out that they’re adopted.”

“And didn’t I say from the first we should have been telling Claire the truth? You went along with your sister, because Missy’s adoption is a mess, and you two decided to hide the facts. I’m sorry we weren’t the ones to tell them. But I’m at work, Frannie.”

“Phil! They know they’re identical twins!”

“That’s a crock. You base that on badly focused photographs taken years ago. I’ve never once looked at my niece and thought she was my daughter. And Claire is older than Missy. We
know
she’s older! We were there!”

“Phil!” his wife yelled.

He was sick of her shouting his name. Who else did she think was on the phone? “Frannie, I have to get back to work.”

“Phil, what if they’re out there looking for their birth mother?”

“What if they are?” he demanded. “It’s a natural interest.”

“Phil! Are you listening?” shouted Frannie.

“I’m listening,” he said grimly.

“We think the birth mother saw the school video and put two and two together and called the girls.”

Women, he thought. Leaping from point A to point Z without a single fact. “What are you basing that on?”

“Not much,” admitted his wife. “Phil, please come home.”

“I’m. At. Work.”

“Okay, just look at the video on your cell phone. Please. Then call me.”

Phil had large hands and thick fingers. He had difficulty with the tiny buttons of a cell phone. He used the eraser tip of a pencil he carried in his shirt pocket.

There was his niece, Little Miss Perky, beaming at the camera as usual. Then his daughter, looking frightened and unsure. The girls turned toward each other. Even in miniature, he saw it: identical profiles and hair, identical shoulder width and the
same deeply set eyes, identical earlobe shape and chins.
Identical twins
.

But emotionally, the girls were no match. Missy was all excitement. Claire was all shock.

Me too, baby, thought her father.

Claire had been his child from the first thrilling moment he’d held her in his huge hands—realizing that he, Phil Linnehan, was responsible for her life, her home, her safety and her future. He had smelled her sweet baby scent and a moment later the stench of her soiled diaper, and he had laughed, and kissed her tiny cheek, and never again did he consider that she was actually somebody else’s baby. Because she wasn’t.

On the video, Claire wept.

My fault, thought her father. I should have overruled Frannie and Kitty and Matt. I should have told Claire about the adoption myself. Long ago.

But long ago, he had more or less forgotten. It passed through his mind occasionally, but without meaning. Claire was his daughter. Period.

The video ended.

He phoned his daughter. She didn’t answer. He had the sense of something evil crawling up out of the vast galaxy that was the Internet, something evil watching that little video of Missy’s and setting its hooks. He looked dizzily around the construction site. Work had just moved to second place. “Tommy,” he said thickly. “I have to get home.”

*  *  *

The train entered darkness. They were now under New York City, and would stay underground for miles, and would still be underground when they reached Forty-second Street. Missy pressed her face to the window to stare into the dark creepiness of tunnel and track. Claire did not like thinking about the underbelly of the city. Were they about to face the underbelly of their own existence on earth?

The train slowed, crawling into the terminal. Passengers lined up in the aisle to get off quickly. Claire did not move.

“We’re here,” said Missy, jabbing her. “Hurry up! Get going!”

“There’s no rush. Genevieve texted that she’d be late.”

But Missy needed to collide with their past and embrace their sister, and she needed to do it now. She stepped over Claire and butted into line. Claire could not catch up because hundreds of passengers were getting off their train and a second train across the platform, tossing newspapers, trash and recyclables into immense containers without missing a beat. Some of them were probably dealing with dread diseases and horrid divorces and difficult jobs. All Claire had to face was another person who wanted to be loved.

This did not increase her enthusiasm. She almost hated Missy for rushing on and not looking back. She followed Missy up an escalator. Now the famous high ceiling soared above Claire, azure blue with stars of gold. It always reminded Claire of a cathedral. It was, in a way: a sacred seat of New York. Balconies and stairs and banks of escalators wrapped the great space. Ticket windows and track entrances faced each other
across the crowded floor. In the center was the charming circular information booth, like a gazebo in a marble park. On top was the clock, marking the meeting place of choice for visitors to New York and their hosts.

Missy was already across the floor and taking up a search position.

Be late, Genevieve, thought Claire. Be really late. Or never. Never would be good.

*  *  *

Missy checked her watch. One minute had passed. Now what? Stand around and read train schedules? Why had Genevieve let mere parents get in the way of meeting her missing identical triplet? They could pick up parent pieces later. Right now they had to do sister pieces.

She listened to yet more messages from her mother and father. “They don’t know about Genevieve,” she said to Claire. “I think they’re still holding back, though.”

Claire busied herself examining the ceiling.

The girls had dressed similarly. In stressful situations, they both chose to fade. Their clothing did not match, but presented the same idea. What would Genevieve wear? Would this complete stranger also lean toward beige and layers and ironed creases in pants?

Missy’s phone buzzed. Another text from Genevieve. Perhaps Genevieve had caught her train after all! Maybe she was
on her way over from Penn Station! Maybe she’d be here in a minute!

Missy held the tiny screen so Claire could read with her.

Nightmare. Parents saw video and fell apart. I can’t come.

*  *  *

Claire had gotten up her courage, caught the train, arrived in New York, and Genevieve was not coming? She scanned the crowds anyway, as if Genevieve were crouching out there, biding her time. Maybe Genevieve, like Claire, was hiding from the truth. Or maybe Genevieve was indeed a fake, and couldn’t face what she had started.

Missy stamped her foot. “Genevieve
has
to come! So what if her parents are upset? Everybody’s parents are upset. Who cares? Nobody cares! Parents are beside the point! The point is, we are sisters. Triplets. Identical. We have to meet! We have to meet
now.”

Claire waited for Missy to run out of steam, but she didn’t. “Fine!” snapped Missy, as if the world were arguing with her. “If Genevieve can’t come here, we’re going there.”