The Other Half of Me (7 page)

ELEVEN

Scrolling around the site isn’t as scary as I thought it would be. No one ambushes me and announces they’re related, which is a little bit of a relief. It’s funny how Tate seems more anxious than I am. He’s tapping his sneaker-clad feet on the chair rung. I fire an irritated look at him and he winces.

“Sorry, this is nerve-racking. Can’t you just type something in and get a match?”

“If it were that simple, I would’ve done it already.” I bite my top lip. “I’m going to do a search of the bank my mom used.” Note how I left out the word
sperm.
I just don’t feel the need to mention that in front of my new boyfriend. If that’s what he actually is.

Tate watches intently, his arms crossed over his chest like this is the championship cup or match. “Isn’t California Reproductive Center one of the biggest in the country?”

“I think so.” I squint at the screen as I continue to type. Afterward, I click the mouse. “Oh my God.” I rub my hands together, unsure what to do.

“What? What is it?”

“I don’t know. There are a couple of postings here.” I frantically scan the screen for important details. I read the first posting to Tate, my voice wavering slightly. “This one’s color-coded blue, which means…” I quickly check the color key. “It was posted by the donor.”

Tate scoots closer to me. “Maybe it’s your father.”

For some reason, I’m overcome with emotion and tears well up in my eyes. “My dad’s at home, digesting a pile of mashed potatoes and watching Sierra and Sage practice their dance moves.”

“Of course. You’re right. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

I pat his thigh, my hand on his bare leg. “It’s okay.” I click on the posting. “This man says he’s of Scottish descent. Hey, maybe I’m Scottish!” An image of me in a kilt appears in my head and then fades as I read. “He started donating in the early nineties. Wow, that’s pretty close, time-wise.” I keep reading. “He’s six feet, two inches tall.” My hopes rise and then fall way down when I read the rest of the entry. “Forget it. He’s African American.”

Tate points to the screen. “What about that one?”

I read carefully. “Interesting. It’s a different color posting, one that means it’s from parents who are searching on behalf of their child.”

“And?”

“They have a daughter who was born the same year I was.” My eyes travel the length of the short entry, reading the name of the clinic they went to. Then I shout, “One-four-two! That’s my donor father’s number! And it’s her father’s number, too.” The world seems to collapse and get smaller, then just as quickly unfold and expand, stretching like a blot of oil paint dripped on a canvas. “I think I found a sister.”

“Holy shit,” Tate says. Then he puts his hand to his mouth. “Sorry.”

I laugh. “Don’t be sorry. I think that reaction was completely appropriate.”

“So now what?”

I sigh and sit back in the chair. There are so many answers to this question. I could wait. I could let all this info sink in and think on it tonight or tomorrow while trying to paint. I could call my parents, or I could walk around not knowing. But that’s cowardly, isn’t it? I’m so mixed up inside that all I can say is, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone for a minute?” Tate asks. He so gets it, gets me. I nod.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll go make us some dessert. I’m known for creating strange but delicious milkshakes.”

“Sounds good.” I watch him exit into the kitchen, and although he does leave me alone, I feel connected to a presence elsewhere, kind of like how twins often say that they can feel when their twin is hurt or happy.

I register online and pay the fee with my bank card’s direct debit, and then go back to the 142 match and click. The site warns about possible mismatches, but somehow, deep down, I know I don’t need to worry about that.

Our daughter, Alexa, is looking for any matches. She has an e-mail account set up specifically for this purpose. If you believe you are a match, please e-mail [email protected] with your information and Alexa will get back to you as soon as she can.

What do I write to my possibly-maybe half sister Alexa? If only I could paint a picture, it would show me as this dot of blue in the corner, and then have arching lines out to another dot of a different color in another corner. I grab a scrap of paper and sketch this out, just so I have it for tomorrow. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll actually paint something.

“How’s it going in there?” Tate yells from the kitchen. I can hear drawers opening and the fast whir of a blender. Tate Brodeur is making me a milkshake. Tate Brodeur kissed me tonight. Tate Brodeur was there when I clicked and found her.

Dear Alexa
,

I don’t know how to start this letter, but I guess in writing that, I have. I think you and I are related—that is, I think we have the same donor father, number 142 from the California Reproductive Center. I was born the same year you were, out in California, but now I live

I pause. I don’t want to give away too much private info, just in case. I remember my parents and their repeated warnings about being careful on the Internet. I continue pounding on the keyboard.

on the East Coast with my parents and siblings. I really want to know if we’re a true match, so please e-mail ASAP.

—Jenny F.

I don’t tell her my likes and dislikes, my taste in music, or that I love to paint. It sounds too much like the personal ads at the back of the newspaper that Faye and I read aloud, joking about how lame they are. Instead, I just click and send the e-mail before I can edit myself.

Once I hit the send button, I feel a wave of peacefulness wash over me, which heightens when Tate calls out to me to join him in the kitchen.

“Vanilla, black raspberry, chocolate mint!” he yells to me. “It sounds kind of gross, but it’s awesome.”

I rise from the chair and turn off the computer. I’m ready to taste whatever it is Tate (my boyfriend? My friend? My something) has churned up in the blender and to face whatever happens—or doesn’t—with Alexa (my half sister? My something? Or nothing?).

TWELVE

I spend the next day running up and down the stairs, checking my e-mail so frequently that not only do I start to wear a tread on the carpet, but my parents intervene.

“Is something wrong?” my mother asks while paging through bills and writing checks at the kitchen table. The sprinkler hisses outside, where my father stands with his hands on his hips as though he’s about to lecture the lawn on its shoddy behavior.

“No, not at all.” I swig back some orange juice mixed with seltzer water and wonder—again—if my account has any new messages.

“How’s the artwork coming along?” Mom looks up, pen in hand, and gives me her interested look. I notice she furrows her brow and does the tiniest of nods when she tries to convey just how much she’s listening. “The big show is after the carnival, right?

“Yeah, the day after,” I mumble. Every summer a traveling carnival comes to our town, bringing cotton candy, dunking tanks and other game booths where people like me who can’t throw are constantly humiliated, and rides that make your head and belly spin. Couples always make out on the top of the Ferris wheel, and last year some kid barfed on my shoes, which wouldn’t have been so bad except I was wearing sandals. I hope this year is better. But it won’t be if I can’t be a part of the art show afterward.

“I’m having trouble, actually.” I sit down at the table and rest my arms on the top of it. I think about telling her what happened last night, but when I study her face and think of how my own might look more like Alexa’s than hers, I don’t. “Why is it that I can easily think of images in my head, but when I try to transfer them onto the page, or canvas, they either disappear or don’t seem as great as they did before?”

My mother puts her pen down and exhales through her nose. “When I was doing film ages ago, people used to say if something isn’t right on the page, it isn’t right, period. So maybe it isn’t the translation process, but the image you have.” She licks an envelope and seals it shut with her palm. “Maybe your preconceived notions about what
should
be, or what
could
be, are blocking what actually
is.
Does that make sense?”

I nod and finish my drink. She’s more insightful than I give her credit for sometimes. “It does. Thanks, Mom.”

“Are you going to the studio today?”

“Yeah, a little later. On Saturdays they have afternoon and evening hours, so I won’t be here for dinner.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she says. “The girls are doing a whole run-through of their dance routine.”

A twinge of annoyance rumbles in my chest. “So I’m supposed to not go to work so I can watch them practice?”

My mother sounds exasperated. “I never said that. I only meant that it would be nice for you to see them. They’re working hard.”

Blush creeps up my cheeks. “We all work hard!” I say tersely. My dad uses this line during counseling sessions when mediating couples bicker over who carries more weight in their marriage. Dad always says that using the plural
we
makes people less defensive, like we’re all in it together, rather than every person for himself or herself. Then again, I’m defensive enough for both of us right now. “Not that anyone cares what kind of work I’m doing.”

I know I’m overreacting—she did just ask how my work was going, after all, but the truth is, I want someone to make reservations at some nice place in town for dinner after the art show like they have for the twins. I hate feeling as if I’m competing for affection, which is why I don’t give her a chance to reassure me and instead run upstairs to my room and check my e-mail.

Before I sit in front of my desktop computer, I see a scrap of paper on my desk and unfold it. I stare at the sketch I made last night at Tate’s. Two dots connected by lines. It’s not much, but it’s something. I always think inspiration should knock you over or belt you out of sleep, but maybe it just taps you politely on the shoulder and it’s up to you to make the most of it.

So I do. In the haven of my closet, I take my good set of paints and squeeze various tubes so the colors dot my egg crate palette: Naples yellow, Venetian red, bright white, terra-cotta. Using cobalt blue, I sweep a line from corner to corner on the rectangular canvas, eschewing my usual paper and pencil sketch.

Maybe my problem is that I practice too much. My family is so big on practicing because it works for learning plays or choreographing a dance. But for painting maybe it’s best not to overthink.

The colors, the textures, the finishes of the paints lure me further into this world I’m creating. On the far left side is a deep green dot with edges I’ve feathered so it looks soft, pliant. Then on the lower right corner is the cobalt dot, with more defined edges. Connecting them are washes and lines of other colors, so that overlap and definitions blend.

I only stop when I hear the telltale sound of my door opening. “Did I say you could come in?” I refuse to divert my eyes from the canvas. Whoever it is should hear the sarcasm in my voice and then leave.

“Can I?”

I spin around and see Tate. His hands are shoved into his pockets and his eyes are bright as he grins. “I thought you were my sisters. They come in unannounced all the time.”

Tate forgives me for snapping at him and walks into the closet with me. As he leans in toward me, I’m wondering if he has forgotten about last night and is about to give me a platonic cheek smooch. Instead, he deposits a kiss firmly on my mouth. Afterward, as he turns his attention to my canvas, the taste of him still lingers on my lips.

“This is cool. I like the shading over here. Very Turneresque.”

My mouth twists into a big grin. I’m starting to think if I don’t hear from Alexa, there might be someone else who could completely understand me. “Yeah, it is. But I’m not trying to imitate Turner, of course.”

“Of course not.”

I pick up a tube of paint and fidget nervously with it. “I want to make it even more seamless, but I haven’t figured out how.”

“You will,” Tate says confidently.

He shuffles out of the closet and plops down on my bed. It seems hard to imagine the nights I lay right there on those sheets, wishing for him to notice me, and in one steady rush, everything I thought about happened. Granted, it took two years of crushing, many sleepless nights of longing, and countless hours of interest from a distance, but here he is, in my room.

“Want to meet me at Callahan’s later?” He’s spread out on my old beige comforter. Last Christmas my mom got me a geometric-patterned cover for my bed, which I have never used. So many colors swirl in my mind that I need my bed to be a a place of calm, and design-free. The twins have said more than once that my bed linens “lack character,” though I know for a fact they cribbed that phrase from their gymnastics coach, who threw the same line at me when I was a kid and attempted (for one crappy fall) to do a floor routine.

Tate sits up and looks at me expectantly. “Some of the guys and I are meeting there. I’d love it if you hung out with us.”

Us
equals the sporty guys and their chain-linked girlfriends. A wisp of anxiety takes hold of me. “I have to work this afternoon.”

“Well, what about after work?”

I clear my throat and start cleaning up the paints, sticking the brushes into baby food jars filled with paint thinner, wiping my hands on a rag. The stench of oil paint and chemicals fills my nose and makes me light-headed, so I leave the closet and stand in front of Tate. “I actually have to be at the studio until closing time.”

“So forget Cally’s. How about I meet you there? When you’re on your break, of course.”

I perk up. I don’t have to deal with the mall scene, but I still get to see Tate. I like this plan. “Ring the top buzzer at nine. I’ll let you in.”

We hug good-bye and I relish the feel of him near me. When I look up at him, his eyes are closed and he’s breathing deeply. All I can think is,
Yum.
He squeezes me one more time for emphasis and then breaks away. “See you soon.”

I nod and watch him dart out of the room. As I’m standing there, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the back of my wall. The door is still closed halfway, so I can’t see all of me, just one leg, one arm, one side of my face and body. Evidence of my work in the closet shows on my brow—cobalt smears here, speckles of green there. I like that I can’t see the other side of me, like it exists elsewhere.

Suddenly a
blurp
comes from my computer. It’s a reminder for an unanswered instant message. I’m hoping Faye has conned the head chef into letting her use the cooking school’s lone computer. I can’t wait to talk to her, so I rush over, sit my paint-free butt in the chair, and click on the blinking bar at the bottom of the screen.

U there Jenny F? It’s me, Alexa

Oh my God. Alexa. I answer immediately, the dried paint on my knuckles cracking as I type.

Hi Alexa! How’d you get my IM?

Seconds after I send my reply, another one pops up.

Wouldn’t you like to know;-)

I smile. The girl has a sense of humor.

There are more important things I’d like to know, actually
         

I stare at the blinking cursor until she replies.

Tell me about it! We could be sisters!

We then proceed to have a marathon of IMs all sent overlapping and rushed, filled with questions and concerns. Every cell in my body is racing, speeding like those fast-forwarded scenes in movies of traffic at night: alive, and moving ahead.

JennyFitz2Paint
:
So why did you post that message on the DSR?

AlexaMC
:
In this giant universe I knew there had to be someone out there who was a match.

JennyFitz2Paint
:
But are we really?

I wait for a second while she types, wondering what she’ll say.

AlexaMC
:
I HAVE A GOOD FEELING! IN FACT I AM SO EXCITED I HAVE TO TYPE IN ALL CAPS!!

We go over every scrap of evidence: the clinic name, the year, my mom and her location. I wish we were on the phone, because then I’d hear her voice, but as we type I can envision her anyway. By the way she’s jutting in while I’m still writing, I can tell that she is intense and has a lot of energy. In fact, I can barely keep up with her.

AlexaMC
:
My moms (no, not a typo, I have 2) are reading this BTW, because they are all about Internet safety, blah blah blah.

JennyFitz2Paint
:
I understand. So what comes next?

My IM window stays still and unblinking for a full three minutes while I pick at the paint on my face.

AlexaMC
:
Hi.

JennyFitz2Paint
:
Hi back.

I bring my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I’m bracing myself for whatever she types back.

AlexaMC
:
My moms say we’re a match! Can u believe it? We’re SISTERS!!

I feel as if I’m in a dream, floating high above the ground, both excited and scared when I look down below. My fingers shake as I begin to type a response, but Alexa has already beat me to the punch.

AlexaMC: So when do we get to meet?