LOOK-ALIKES
THE FOYER AND FRONT ROOM OF THE B&B ARE totally transformed when Dad, Elliott, Denise, and I show up for dinner the next evening.
All the clutter and boxes have disappeared. I finally see the floral print of Mrs. Harris’s couch and chairs. Elliott looks approvingly at the oversize art books spread out on the coffee table, and Dad compliments the framed prints hung on the walls.
“It’s a start,” Ms. Whitman says. “I think this is a bigger undertaking than I realized.”
“I know the feeling,” Denise says, rubbing her belly. “Hi, I’m Denise Kaplan. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”
Edie’s mother grins. “Calliope Whitman. And likewise, Denise. Welcome to my work in progress.”
“I think it’s lovely.” Denise smiles back at her. “I’ve always dreamed of living in a house like this.”
Over dinner, Ms. Whitman asks Denise what she does.
“Oh, thank you,” Denise says after she’s finished chewing a bite of eggplant parmesan.
Ms. Whitman gives her a puzzled look.
“Since I’ve been pregnant, no one ever asks about me anymore.” She looks at Elliott and Dad with narrowed eyes. “Even you two constantly talk about the baby.”
“We’re excited,” Elliott says with a shrug. “And besides, we know everything about your life.”
Denise makes a face at him before she turns back to Ms. Whitman. “I’m a freelance journalist. I used to work as a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle when Tim and I lived up north. I mostly covered crime and local politics.”
“I’m sure that was never boring.”
“Never,” Denise says, laughing. “I miss it sometimes. Now I mostly write magazine features. Some profiles.”
“What do you miss about it?” Edie asks. Sometimes I don’t think she’s paying attention, but she’s always listening. Quietly watching.
“About what I used to do?” Denise sips her peppermint tea. “The research. Feeling like I’ve reached a roadblock with a story and then realizing there’s another avenue I haven’t explored… another way to get to the truth.”
“It’s essential work,” Ms. Whitman says. “I’ve tried to convince my son to go into journalism, but he’s only got eyes for neuroscience.”
“There’s certainly more money in neuroscience. But I love what I do. That’s the most important part.”
After dinner, Edie and I go up to the attic. I didn’t want to lug the journals with me, so I made notes of the details that might help us figure out who Constance was.
“I found something in one of the books,” Edie says before I’ve even sat down. “I wanted to show you all day, but I figured it was best to wait until now.”
She slides something out of a black clothbound journal and hands it to me. A black-and-white photograph. The woman in it is pictured from the shoulders up, and like the pages in the diaries, the photo is faded and fragile. She’s wearing a soft-looking sweater and a bow in her dark hair, which is short and curled above her shoulders. I wonder what colors the sweater and bow are. She is white and her smile is big, with a slightly crooked front tooth, and her eyes look light-ish. Probably not blue, but maybe hazel or green.
“Who is this?” I ask, then turn it over and gasp. “It’s her?”
“I guess so,” Edie says. “Does she look like you thought she would?”
“Not really?” I don’t know what I expected her to look like. Maybe not like this, even though I’m not sure why. But it’s right there on the back of the picture: Constance, 1954. The year before the first journal. When she was still living with her family.
“I wonder if she still looked like this after she moved to California,” Edie ponders, staring at the photo.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems sort of like she reinvented herself. With whatever secret she’s hiding. Maybe this is just a reminder of what she used to look like.”
“Maybe.” But what could she have done to change what she looked like? Dyed her hair? And what was she hiding?
“She looks nice,” Edie says. “It doesn’t surprise me that she cares about other people so much.”
Edie’s right. She does look kind. Her eyes, especially. Still, I can’t believe she’s the woman whose life we’ve been reading about. For some reason, I guess I thought she could’ve been Black, with the way she talks about Black people and knows our history. I don’t think I’ll be able to get her face out of my mind whenever I open a journal.
“I did some research on Santa Barbara.” Edie picks up her tablet. “Did you know that my namesake was born there?”
“Who?”
“Edie Sedgwick! And the Chumash tribe lived in the area for thirteen thousand years before white people got here.”
“It’s really pretty in Santa Barbara,” I say. “Dad and Elliott have friends there.”
Edie slides her tablet toward me. “Do you want to look things up? I don’t like typing. And you already have notes.”
I unfold the piece of paper I brought with me and set it on my lap. The background of the tablet screen distracts me. It’s pitch black with a big, white moon in the center. Simple, beautiful, and slightly creepy.
“Is it weird having Denise stay with you?” Edie asks.
I shrug. “No, not really. She’s easy to get used to.”
“Even eating dinner with her and your dads? It’s not weird having an extra person there?”
“No, it’s kind of better, actually,” I say slowly. “They don’t ask me as many questions about school.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to not eating dinner with my dad.” Edie’s voice is quiet. “It’s not like he was even there to eat with us all the time, but he’d warm up a plate when he got home later. Or if he was out of town, he’d call right before we were about to eat so it almost felt like he was there at the table. I just… I knew when I’d see him again. And it’s different now.”
“Have you talked to him lately?” I don’t know if I should be asking, but if I were missing someone, I think I’d want to talk about them.
“Yeah, we talk almost every day. I mean, we text, mostly. He’s busy, and the time difference is hard. But he’s going to come out here as soon as he can. I might go spend the weekend with him in L.A. sometime.”
“That would be fun.”
“Yeah, it will be.” She pauses, combing her fingers through the ends of her hair. Then she says, “You look like her.”
I glance at Edie. “What?”
“Denise. You look like her.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. Am I not supposed to say that? I know she’s not really your mother.…”
I shrug. “She’s not not my mother.”
“Well, you look alike.” Edie smiles. “She’s pretty. And really nice.”
I nod. Then I focus on the tablet again. I don’t know what to say. I know I look like Denise. Dad and Elliott mention it sometimes, how I’m looking more and more like her every day. It’s a good thing, but it’s also weird. Even though she’s my biological mother, that’s all we share. We’ve never lived in the same house… well, until now. But she didn’t raise me. So it’s strange knowing there’s someone out there with my face when I don’t call her Mom.
“Let’s start on this,” I say, looking down at my piece of paper. I’ve only written a few things on it, anything that could help us figure out who she is:
1. Constance
2. San Francisco
3. Mr. and Mrs. Graham
4. Mrs. Ogden
5. Betty Graham
6. California School of Fine Arts
7. Santa Barbara
8. State Street
9. Schiff’s Department Store
10. Sanford
I hold the paper out for Edie to see.
“That’s a lot of s words,” she observes.
I spend the next few minutes typing in all the words: together, separately, in different order. Every search brings up a ton of results, but nothing that really means anything.
Edie sighs, frustrated. “Seriously, none of these things are helping? How is that possible?”
I look up each term separately again, but I don’t find anything new that I missed. None of the Constances that come up are our Constance. They’re either way too old or too young. And besides, we don’t even know her last name. Or Sanford’s, whoever he is.
“We need more information,” I say.
“How are we going to figure it out if we can’t do it this way?” Edie frowns. “Everything is on the internet.”
Suddenly, Denise’s words flash through my mind.
Feeling like I’ve reached a roadblock with a story and then realizing there’s another avenue I haven’t explored… another way to get to the truth.
I tap the pen against the paper. “Maybe there’s another way.”