I started shaking all over when I realized what that photo meant. I didn’t have a double somewhere. I was the kid in the snowsuit who had been taken away all those years ago. Which meant—oh, God, it meant tons of things. It meant that my dad was a kidnapper. And a liar. It meant that my parents were divorced. It meant that my mother was not dead. I just kept shaking. It was like that book, The Face on the Milk Carton. I was The Face.
I flipped the photo over again. It was stamped K. Martin, photog., Market Studio, Kingston, Ont. Ont. could be Ontario. Ontario in Canada where I was from.
A sound of movement from the kitchen reminded me that Paula was still out there, waiting for the money. I pulled a twenty out of the leather folder and slipped the folder back into the back of the drawer. I was really careful with the sweaters, so my dad wouldn’t suspect anything. I closed the drawer and dropped the photo down the back of my shirt. I didn’t want Paula to see it, but I couldn’t risk it getting folded or crushed in a pocket. I willed myself to be calm, took a deep breath. Catching sight of myself in the mirror above the dresser, I saw that my skin looked white and my freckles stood out like they’d been drawn on me with a magic marker. I hoped Paula wouldn’t notice.
“Sorry I took so long. I had to find the money.”
“Look, you don’t have to buy them all ...”
I brushed her words aside. “I told you, my dad loves chocolate.” With super-hero strength, I even managed a lopsided grin. I had to get her out of there, so I could breathe again.
“Well?” Paula broke the silence. “Do you want the box to keep them in, or just the chocolate bars?”
I checked out the box. It would be easier to hide the bars separately. “Just the bars, I guess. Easier to hide. Uh ... for Father’s Day.”
“Chris?” Paula looked down, then up at my face. “Um ... I’m having a party ... not this Saturday but next ... if you’d like to come?”
A party! There was way too much coming at me these last two days. “Sure,” I answered, trying to sound like I got invited to parties every day. I felt dizzy. I was thinking about the photo down the back of my shirt. I had to get her out of there before I started sweating on it.
“Bring Brian, too ... if you like.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“And ... um ... Chris?” She pointed to the chocolate on the kitchen table. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“So ... I’ll see you in school?”
“And a week from Saturday.”
“Right. At my party.”
And Paula turned and was gone out the door. She didn’t let the screen door slam but shut it gently, and I listened to her feet go lightly down the wooden steps.
As soon as she was gone, I pulled my shirt out from my jeans, shook the picture out of my shirt, and tucked my shirttail back in. I scooped up the bars and the photo and went into my room. It only took a moment to stash the chocolate bars in my knapsack—I would take them to school and hide them in my locker. I was pretty sure my dad didn’t snoop on me, but I didn’t dare take the risk.
I sat on the bed and examined the picture. I had never known what I looked like as a little kid, but it was me, all right. Now what now what now what? Keep the picture? Put it back. Talk to Brian? Keep your mouth shut. Where was my mother now? My mother. What a thought. I wondered if it was possible to have so many thoughts in your brain that your head would actually explode.
Calm down, Chris. One thing at a time. The picture. I might need it if I were going to find my mother. But then again, if it were missing from my dad’s drawer, he would figure out where I had gone. Wait a minute wait a minute, where was all this thinking coming from? Find? Gone? I had to go find her. My mother. Ridiculous. There was some other explanation for all of this. When I got there, there would be—wait, got where?
Where was I going? Kingston, Ont. was not marked on my desk map, but I found it pretty easily in my school atlas. It was directly northeast, about 1,600 miles away and over an international border. I needed to talk to Brian. I needed a road map, some money, a bus schedule. I needed a plan. What was I thinking? Just ask my dad. But wait ... what? If any of this was true—any of what?—he’d never give me a straight answer. Wait, wait, wait! Wait.