thirteen

BRONXVILLE, NEW YORK

2010

Of course desire grows. That’s what desire does. Thirteen-year-old Emily Jackson was finding that out.

“I don’t know,” Elena said to her daughter. “This might not be a good idea. Not yet anyway.”

“Mom, it’s just some lady. That’s all. Let’s see what she looks like.”

Elena closed her eyes. She knew this day would come. All adoptive mothers know there is always the chance their child (and this was her child, make no mistake) would ask, “Who is my real mother?” As if the word real meant that Elena was a fake, a replacement, an imposter.

It had only been that morning that Emily had rifled through her father’s office looking for the adoption papers. It was Sailor’s fault really, because she kept pushing and asking, and when Emily had finally kissed Chaz during a spin the bottle game at Sailor’s birthday party, Sailor had whispered. “Gross, what if he’s your brother?”

Elena had found Emily with the adoption papers in hand. They were original documents, and the names and dates could be read through the thin coat of aging whiteout. Maybe the secretary had been too busy to use the second coat of Liquid Paper or maybe she’d been distracted by a phone call or had reached the bottom of the bottle and couldn’t be bothered to open another. No matter all the possibilities, when Emily held it up to the light, she could read the name of the birth mother.

“Will you look for her with me?” Emily asked her mom in the quietest whisper.

What is a mother supposed to say then? No, I’m too scared. Please God, don’t let anything ever take you away from me? Or does she say, as Elena did, “I love you and yes, let’s look together.”

Elena stood behind Emily, staring at the computer screen where the search bar said KATHRYN VAUGHN. Emily’s finger poised over the enter button while Elena stared at the back of her daughter’s head, not needing to see her face to know that Emily’s green eyes would be carrying her exact expression of need.

So there they were and a cold sweat covered Elena’s body, yet she was the one who reached over Emily’s shoulder and pushed “enter.”

A list of Vaughn women popped onto the screen, but not one Kathryn. With an exhale of relief, Elena squeezed Emily’s shoulder. “When you’re twenty-one, the records are open for you to find her. We can wait.”

“This lady—Tara Vaughn—keeps coming up over and over.” Emily clicked on the journalist’s name and a Web site popped up: Mothering Heights. From the information they quickly read they discovered that Tara Vaughn was a journalist specializing in parenting magazine pieces: O, The Oprah Magazine, MORE magazine, and others like it. Tara looked out of the screen with her wide smile and auburn hair falling over her shoulders. She sat on a chair leaning forward with her glasses in her hand and her elbows on her knees in a casual look that suggested she was in the middle of a conversation.

Emily reached for the screen and touched the smile of the unknown journalist. “I’m related to her,” she whispered.

“You don’t know that. Let’s let this go,” Elena said.

Emily then clicked on the small f, which designated Tara’s Facebook page. The page popped up, and Elena and Emily both took a simultaneous deep breath, a quick intake that would almost prove they were mother and daughter.

Without asking, Emily clicked the friend request button and waited. It was late afternoon and homework waited, but Emily sat in front of the computer with her mother until Tara’s approval arrived. You are now friends with Tara Vaughn, the message said.

Elena whispered. “What are we doing?”

Emily turned in the swivel chair, her large eyes full of tears. “Will you do it, Mom?”

“Do what, darling?”

“Search her friends? See if there’s a Kathryn? I can’t do it. I might throw up.”

“I got it,” Elena said and Emily stood to allow her mother to take her seat.

“Mom. You’re my mom. Just look.”

Elena sat and typed the name KATHRYN into the friend search bar. Nothing.

“Try Kate or Katie or something like that,” Emily said. “Or only the last name.”

Elena typed “Vaughn” and two women’s photos popped up—Kate and Molly.

“It’s her,” Emily said.

“Yes, honey, I think you’re right.” Elena clicked on Kate’s photo. And then she spoke the truth. “Now you know. You look just like her.”