I get the call from the adoptedsearch.org representative the morning after I got the email. I’ve been up since like five, without really sleeping. Dad isn’t awake yet. I contemplated telling him, last night after I got home from rehearsal, but he was at the hospital anyway, and then I thought, I should wait. See if this is real. I remind myself that I already got a match on this site once, and it wasn’t me. It wasn’t her.
When I see the strange area code come up, I get so nervous I feel light-headed. I can’t breathe properly. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of—that I might have actually located my birth mother, that she searched for me, too, that it’s happening and now we’re going to have to hurry and get her over to meet my mom, and what will that be like? I wonder—or that this must all be some kind of cruel joke the universe is playing on me.
“Hello?” I can’t keep the tremble out of my voice.
“Hello, is this Cassandra McMurtrey?”
“This is her. I mean, this is she.”
“My name is Jennifer Benway. I’m calling from adoptedsearch.org?”
“Yes. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“So as you know, yesterday there was a match to your profile. A perfect match.”
“What does that mean,” I ask, “perfect?”
“A woman who is currently searching for the infant she gave up for adoption eighteen years ago created a profile on the site. The details match yours perfectly. That’s what it means.”
I struggle to remember the details I put on the website. Just my birthday and my place of birth, I think.
Jennifer Benway clears her throat. “Now I need to gather some more information from you so that we can make sure that this is an actual match.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know what hospital you were born in?” she asks.
“St. Luke’s.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” That’s on the form my parents gave me.
“And was your adoption private?” Jennifer Benway asks.
“It was through the state.”
“And do you know your birth mother’s age at the time of your birth?”
“She was sixteen.”
“Excellent.” She sounds excited. I must be giving her the right answers. I feel like I’m passing the most important pop quiz in history. “Do you have any additional information that could be helpful?”
“Yeah.” I rummage in my desk drawer for the worn, yellowed envelope. “I have the form of non-identifying information.”
“That’s great. We should be able to confirm everything with that. Would you mind scanning those papers and emailing them to me? Then I’ll check it against the information we have from the birth mother and call you back later today.”
That’s it? She’ll call back? “Okay.”
“Great. I’ll call soon.”
“Wait,” I say before she can hang up. “But the other stuff I told you, that I was born at St. Luke’s, that I was adopted through the state—does that information match?”
“Yes,” she says, and I can almost hear her smiling. “It does. We have to cover all the bases, but it’s likely that this woman is your birth mother. It’s very exciting. Congratulations.”
“Yeah.” I’m light-headed again. “Thanks.”
I scan the forms and email them right away. Then I wait for Dad to wake up.
“What’s the matter?” he asks the moment he comes into the kitchen and sees my face. “Your mom? Did the hospital call? I’ll get dressed.”
“It’s not Mom. It’s something else.” I tell him everything that’s transpired in the past twelve hours, and then I start to pace back and forth across the kitchen. “Do you think I should tell Mom? She said she wants to meet my birth mother. I should tell her, right?”
He sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and blinks a lot before he says, “Not until you know for sure.”
“Right. This might not even be my birth mother,” I say lightly.
“I don’t know. How many sixteen-year-olds do you suppose had a baby girl at St. Luke’s on the same day you were born?” Dad says. “It sounds like you, Boo.”
That’s what I’ve been thinking since the phone call. It must be me. It’s a perfect match. How could it not be?
Dad sets down his coffee and scratches his chin. “But we should wait. I don’t know how your mom will react. She’s so fragile right now. I don’t want her to get overly excited.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I think you’re right. We’ll wait until we’re sure.”
He stares out the window at the falling snow.
“Dad?” I ask him. “Are you okay? I know you hated the idea.”
He snaps out of it. “Yes. If it’s what you want, I’m okay. Yes.”
“I love you.” I stretch out my arms. I’m in this hyper mood all of a sudden. “This much.”
He stretches out his arms, too, that are so much longer than mine. “But I love you this much.”
“It’s not a competition, Dad,” I remind him.
“But if it were, I’d totally win. I’ve got much longer arms. Want to hear a dad joke?”
“No.”
“You’re American when you go into the bathroom, and you’re American when you come out, but do you know what you are when you’re in there?”
“Dad, stop.”
“European.”
I bust out laughing. I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it. “That’s awful.”
“I know,” he says, grinning. “Want to hear a joke about a piece of paper? Never mind. It’s tearable.”
My phone rings. We both freeze mid-laugh. I pick up my phone and check the number.
“It’s her,” I say.
“Sit down,” Dad suggests, and I do. I answer the phone.
“Hello?” There’s that quiver in my voice again.
“Cassandra?”
“That’s me.”
“This is Jennifer Benway from adoptedsearch.org.”
“I know. Hi.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but . . .” She sighs. “I’m afraid this isn’t your birth mother after all. I’ve been going over the details, both yours and the other profile’s, and they don’t line up.”
All the air goes out of my lungs. “What? But how could—”
“This woman has brown eyes,” Jennifer Benway says. “And she’s tall: five eleven, not five three like what’s recorded on your form. And this woman was the youngest child of four. I think she might have attended the same school that your birth mother did, which also served as a home for pregnant young ladies, but this is not your birth mother, Cassandra.”
“Oh” is all I can think to say.
“I’m so sorry,” says Jennifer Benway.
Dad’s watching me. I try to keep my face neutral.
“We’ll keep your profile open, of course,” she rambles on. “There could be a match out there anytime. And I’ll talk to this woman and see if there’s anything she can add that might help your search.”
“Okay.” I’m spacing now. Numb.
“I’ll let you know,” she says, and hangs up.
I put my phone on the table and stare at it. After a while I look at my dad. It wakes me up a little, seeing the sorrow in his eyes. He wants to protect me from this, I think, but he doesn’t know how.
I swallow. “It’s not her,” I tell him, attempting to keep my voice casual like it doesn’t matter, but it wavers slightly.
“Oh, honey,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Let’s not tell Mom,” I say. “Let’s never tell her.”