Georgia wandered around her apartment, the note in her hand. She didn’t have a sister. It was a hoax. A crude, tasteless joke. You just don’t barge into someone’s life and turn it upside down like that. Sure, there were people who didn’t like her. She probably had an enemy or two. But she didn’t know anyone with the nerve to do this. It had to be a lie.
She padded into the kitchen. Sleep would be impossible. She brewed a pot of coffee. She carefully anchored the note on the counter with an empty mug. The coffeepot beeped. She poured and took a sip. Was this why she’d been tailed? Someone wanted to tell her she had a sister? No. There was no reason to think the tail who’d been gunned down was connected to this note.
The phone call the other night was another matter. Was someone—even “Savannah” herself—calling? If so, why not leave a message? Or text? Unless she couldn’t. Maybe she was doing it in secret, contacting her on the sly. Is that why she couldn’t talk? Because she got caught? But why wouldn’t someone want Georgia to know she had a sister? Why force the caller, whoever it was, to hang up? Because it was a lie? Or the truth?
* * *
Georgia had been an only child. Or so she thought. Her father was a cop, her mother, Jobeth, a housewife who abandoned her when Georgia was ten. She knew for a fact that her father never looked at other women afterward. Until the day he died, his liver and heart pickled by booze, he hated women. In fact, as she matured, he began to blame Georgia for his problems.
It didn’t help that she had long blond hair, large brown eyes, and a knockout figure that must have reminded him of her mother. Or that she spent most of high school in a blur of backseats, booze, and weed. Until the night she staggered home, lipstick and mascara smeared, and her father pulled out the belt. Shouting that she was just like her mother, a no-good tramp who whored her way out of his life. Two weeks later, when he hit her again, Georgia moved out.
Her mother, on the other hand, was an enigma. She’d been a good mother, but there was something off about her. As if she couldn’t let herself be happy for longer than brief moments. They’d be making cookies, laughing and teasing and eating the raw batter despite her mother’s warnings that she’d get a tummy ache. But then her mother would suddenly withdraw and behave as if Georgia was invisible.
Georgia would tug on her sleeve and say, “Mommy, did you hear me?” Sometimes it worked, and her mother snapped back. But other times, her mother ignored her and stared into space, her eyes a mix of sorrow, isolation, and fear. As if she was a fragile bird trapped and chained to its roost like that painting and book everyone was talking about. Now, years later, Georgia thought she knew why, but back then, she had no clue that her father was an abusive monster. They—her mother especially—had kept it hidden.
Then came the day Georgia returned home from school and found her mother gone. Her father claimed to have no idea where she’d gone or why. Georgia waited for her to come back, but after a few desperate, soul-crushing months, she persuaded herself she didn’t care. Her mother was gone. She didn’t love Georgia. Which meant that Georgia was fundamentally unlovable.
That was borne out by the absence of any contact going forward. Her mother couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge Georgia was still alive. What was wrong with a phone call? Or one of those crappy “Thinking of You” cards? Even an email? It was as if her mother had fallen off a cliff, taking all of Georgia’s love and affection with her. And now, if the note was the truth, it seemed as if her mother had replaced her with another daughter, as easily as switching toothpaste.
Georgia took her coffee and the scrap of paper into her bedroom and sat on the bed. The tick of her alarm clock sliced the silence like a blade. She reread the note.
I am your half sister, Savannah.
Her mother, Jobeth Crawford, had been raised in rural Georgia. The closest city was Savannah. Her childhood had been the happiest days of her life, her mother always said. That’s why she named her Georgia. For her home, and for her baby daughter’s peachy-pink skin. Her mother had taken Georgia down south when she was five. Her memories of the trip were hazy, but she did remember a picnic table with slabs of ribs, coleslaw, and fresh peaches. And lots of grown-ups whose perfumed sweat stung her nose and whose lipstick stained her cheeks. Naming another girl “Savannah” wouldn’t have been a stretch.
I’m in Chicago and I’m pregnant. I need your help. Please find me.
Chicago was a big place. Why didn’t Savannah say where she was? And why didn’t she leave a phone number? If the note had really come from her half sister, wouldn’t she want Georgia to contact her right away? Unless, for some reason, she couldn’t. Was that why she’d asked Georgia to “find” her? But if that was the case, how had she been able to write the note at all? It didn’t make sense.
Georgia fired up the computer and Googled “Jobeth Crawford,” something she hadn’t done in years. When she was still on the force, she’d tried to do a background check but came up empty. No “Jobeths” this time either, but she did find a few “J. Crawfords” and even a “JB Crawford” in Minnesota. Still, she doubted her mother would go north. She’d probably headed south. Or west.
She closed up Google and was about to ball the note up and pitch it in the trash when the brown splotch in the corner caught her eye. She examined it. Even though it was on a sandwich wrapper, the smudge didn’t look thick enough to be ketchup. A coffee stain? Gravy? Or something else?
She shook her head. She had to stop. Lots of young girls ended up pregnant. Why should she care about one of them? Even if she did claim to be her sister? Her family history wasn’t one of intimacy. Or permanence. Why should she care? The chances were that someone was just fucking with her. It wasn’t her problem. In fact, when she thought about it, there was no reason for her to give a shit at all about a young girl in trouble. Her mother hadn’t.