This Golden State, page 24
Harry registered where I’d drifted. “My place okay?” he asked softly. He adjusted the strap of my tank top.
I almost asked, “Really?” but I kept my mouth shut. At that moment, I didn’t want to remind him of my circumstances.
“I thought we were going to your house?” I asked when Harry took a left, driving in the opposite direction of his neighborhood.
“No. I’m taking you to a different house. It also belongs to my dad. Someone was going through our trash last night, so Mark was at the main house when I left this morning.”
“Wait. What happened?”
“Someone was taking stuff out of our trash can on the street. A bearded guy with a flashlight. One of our neighbors was walking the dog late, and the guy took off as soon as he was seen.”
“Maybe he was homeless and looking for food?”
“Well, he drove away.”
“To be fair, you can be homeless and hungry and still have a car. Maybe he’s looking for the next iPhone or something.”
“Ha! Probably. And all he found was yogurt containers.” Harry tilted his head into my hand.
“So where are we going?”
“My dad kept his old house in Palo Alto. No one ever uses it. I have high hopes that we’ll finally be alone.”
* * *
Harry hovered over me, shirtless but still wearing jeans. We were in a bedroom with pale-gray walls, a white stucco fireplace, and a four-poster bed. Harry suddenly sat back on his haunches, leaving me where I lay against the pillows. The pristine white bedding was like a cloud. But Harry checked his watch.
“We need to get going in about twenty minutes,” he said.
“Nooo!” I threw an arm over my eyes. “Why is it always time?”
Harry stretched out next to me, but purposely left a few inches between us. “I like it when you’re frustrated,” he teased.
I stretched my hands above my head, surrendering to his decision to stop. Harry picked up a lock of my hair and twirled it around his finger. I trailed the backs of my fingers over his skateboarding bruises.
“I’ve read too many romance novels,” I said.
“What happens in the romance novels?”
“Lots of ravishing. Bodice ripping. Swords thrown into corners. The first time is urgent; the second time is slow.”
For a moment, Harry had an entranced look of Tell me more. Then, “I love you, Poppy.” He said it like I love how you can be, not I love you. “I think I have a thing for good girls. Big time.”
“But you’ll get naked on the beach with the bad girls.” It was meant as a joke.
“They weren’t bad. Just not you. Well, maybe the last one was a little bad, since she sold photos of us.”
I was suddenly bitter that he’d obviously slept with other girls—women—but not with me. “I don’t want you to see me as different,” I said. I picked a strand of hair from my eyelashes.
“I’m not not sleeping with you because you’re different. I’m not having sex with you because it’s going to hurt too much when you leave.”
I didn’t want to hear that. My instinct was to deepen things with Harry before time ran out. But, out of necessity, Harry had grown up finding ways to protect himself. He stayed where he felt okay. It was totally unlike him that he’d let things go this far.
“I don’t know when we’re leaving, exactly. We could be here forever.” That was a fantasy I’d been entertaining. The last house. Hearing my wishful thinking out loud, I suddenly felt hopeless. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I said. “I never do.”
“I just don’t think I can take the day when you don’t show up again.” Harry kissed my cheek.
I did a gigantic sit-up and began searching for my tank top amid the soft mounds of white comforter. I sat cross-legged and lowered it over my head. I was hurt but wanted to hide it.
Harry grabbed his phone off the bedside table and was looking at it when he said, “There’s another way, you know. For you to stay, I mean.”
“What’s that?”
“You take the SAT and apply to colleges.”
“But the money. The identification. The transcripts.” I was beginning to come down hard from my conversation with Professor Alexiev. There were impossible hurdles that I’d ignored when Professor Alexiev preached that the sky’s the limit.
“What do your parents say when you ask them?”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t tell him I was too scared to ask because I didn’t want to face the answer.
“I’m sure they’ve thought about how you could stay here. You have grandparents. You could live as yourself.” Harry scrolled on his phone, but he was only pretending to be preoccupied. He’d been thinking about this.
“I don’t think so. I can’t even imagine.”
“You deserve the best, Poppy. That’s all I’m saying.” Harry said the kindest words while keeping his eyes fixed on his screen.
I wanted to rest my head on his shoulder, acknowledge his sweetness. “It’s fine.”
My answer seemed to make Harry mad. He quit pretending the conversation was casual and chucked his phone to the foot of the bed. Wary, I sat up straighter against the headboard, guessing I knew what was coming.
Harry squinted. “You understand it’s not fair that they ask you to do these things. That they hold you to these standards.”
“You mean like you?” I shot back. “I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “It’s totally different.”
For a long moment, Harry watched his phone sink down into the comforter. “No, you’re right,” he said slowly. “I’m held to impossible standards. After I screwed up, I fell in line. I haven’t pushed back.”
Harry touched a hand to my waist. “I’m just saying, you were so excited when you first told me what Professor Alexiev said. Nothing is impossible. That’s the one fucking thing my dad has taught me. There’s a way to negotiate everything. There’s always an out.”
“But what if I don’t want out?” I said. It was automatic and defensive, but Harry didn’t get it. The finality of it.
“Then I’m sorry to say it, but that’s crazy. I think you’re afraid of making anyone unhappy. You’re a pleaser.”
“No, Harry, it’s because I love them.” I found I still meant it, despite their secrets that had eaten away at me and the life I had to live. I couldn’t imagine leaving Emma. And I was used to being part of my family, not by myself.
“If I left, that would be it. Gone. I would never see my family again,” I said. I didn’t know how people did it—what kind of bravery it took to leave loved ones behind for good. Maybe I’d be fine at first, but then a whole year would pass. Then years. It was its own kind of jail sentence.
I lowered my voice. “You can’t understand. I’ve lived every single day of my life with the threat of them being taken away from me. Do you know what that feels like when you’re five years old?”
Harry stared at me for so long, I thought he wasn’t going to respond. “When we’re young, our family is everything. But then it becomes the most natural thing in the world to step outside the circle and choose for ourselves. Kids grow up.” In a softer voice, Harry said, “What happens to your life?”
I’d live theirs.
“You would kick such ass, Poppy.”
I kept my face carefully neutral but wished I could scream.
Harry took my cue and dropped the subject. Frustrated, he left the bed. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, suddenly formal.
“Sure. Anything.”
“Cool. I’ll be right back.”
I didn’t want my situation to get in our way. I could hope and pretend, but I felt it: we didn’t have much time left.
I reached for Harry and he obliged me by coming to the side of the bed. I held his face and kissed him slowly. I let my fingers run over his chest, touching him where I knew he loved to be touched, from the way his breath became shallow. He put one knee on the bed and began to lower himself over me again.
“Okay,” Harry said, laughing and groaning at the same time. “We’re having sex right now, but here’s the deal: I want the whole awkward first time with you. I’ve never had it—candles, stripping each other naked, cuddling after. But”—he paused—“only if you promise you’re not going to leave.” He was joking. I could tell he also wasn’t.
I suddenly knew I couldn’t mess with Harry. I had to respect his need to keep himself safe. I was never going to stay.
It was easiest to treat what he’d said as a joke. “I’ll have a sparkling water if you have it.”
I saw the hurt, then Harry covered. “That’s evil. I need to stop kissing you, anyway. Your lips are puffy.” He ran his thumb over my bottom lip and then backed away. On his way out, he nodded to his phone at the end of the bed. “Hey, feel free to use that. I’m sure there’s more stuff you want to know,” he said. “Or my laptop is in my bag.”
I immediately got the now-familiar nauseous feeling. “Thanks.”
I watched Harry leave the bedroom, slipping his shirt over his head, his rib cage visible. He was such a boy, but—maybe I was making it up—he looked more mature since the beginning of summer. I worried about all the cuts and scrapes on his body from skateboarding. Harry kept his issues invisible—except on his body. Except to me.
Once Harry left the room, I picked up his phone. My thumbs hovered. I finally typed “Margaret Bell and Joe Connelly.”
Three photographs of my parents, together, appeared in the search.
The first was from a yearbook. ST. FRANCIS SENIOR PROM, MAY 1997. PICTURED: ANDREW BELL, JOE CONNELLY, MARGARET BELL, CYNTHIA CASWELL.
My dad looked like a teenager. He was a teenager. Andrew stood next to him, both boys wearing tuxes. My uncle and my mom could have been twins. Even in the photo, I could see Andrew had the same light eyes and dark hair. He was as tall as my dad, so handsome, and there was something instantly likable about him. He looked open and friendly.
My mother looked older than the boys and like she was at a different party altogether. Cynthia Caswell, my uncle’s date, wore a puffy formal dress, while my mom wore a black slip dress, a strap sliding off one shoulder.
I imagined it: my mother reluctantly agreeing to go to my dad’s prom. Or her brother coercing her to be his best friend’s date. And yet they looked close in the picture. Maisie’s fingers easily intertwined with my dad’s. They were familiar with each other. Connected. I was glad she acknowledged him in public—this chic rich girl, diamond bracelet dangling from her wrist.
Another photo was a snapshot of a crowded party someone had likely submitted to the media or police. My mom was laughing as she gave the camera the finger. Her hair was in an elegant knot, cigarette in her other hand halfway to her lips. She was in her early twenties, I guessed. She sat across my dad’s lap.
My young dad had a military-style haircut and was gazing at her, his lips turned up at one corner. His expression perfectly captured the sentiment of him rolling his eyes at her and being in love with her. I’d seen it a million times. Her dress was scrunched up, and my dad’s hand rested just below a tattoo of Roman numerals on her thigh. The tattoo was gone now. Erased. Now it made sense why she had that circle of pale, scarred skin.
I enlarged the last photo: Andrew and Margaret Bell with Joe Connelly. Graduation of SEAL qualification training class 293.
My dad was in a sailor’s dress uniform at his graduation ceremony. My uncle and my mom flanked my dad, their arms tossed around him as the three of them posed for the camera. My dad was laughing, which was something I rarely saw. The three of them looked close, a unit.
Next, I searched Andrew. In a photo from the San Francisco Chronicle, pallbearers carried a casket covered by sprays of white lilies through a crowd of mourners. The casket was followed by a silver-haired man supporting a frail-looking woman with rounded shoulders and jet-black hair mostly covered by a black lace church veil.
Mourners celebrate San Francisco’s Andrew Bell, CEO, philanthropist, marriage-equality activist. Attended by civic dignitaries and mourners dressed in widow’s black lace, the service was held in Grace Cathedral, the Nob Hill landmark that represents the apex of San Francisco society.
I had so many mixed emotions looking at the photos, I had to stop searching for more. I wasn’t sure if I felt angry or sad. I didn’t know if I felt regret for them or for myself. Andrew had been robbed of his life and I’d been robbed of ever meeting him.
I was setting down Harry’s phone when I remembered Harry had put the Anna Karenina email address on his phone for me. Once I got my DNA results, the account had served its purpose and I hadn’t checked it since.
“You said sparkling water?” Harry called.
“Sounds good!”
I had twelve emails. Some dated back to the AncestoryNow setup and the status of my sample. A few were additional information about the slew of services they offered. But the most recent message had the subject Looking to Connect.
Hello! My name is Carol Gilbert and I just received an email that I have a new DNA relative on the AncestoryNow site. I’m trying to place you in my family tree. The amount of cMs we share is small enough to make it tricky to figure out our connection, but large enough that you could be a fairly close relative. Are you part of Peter’s branch?
I threw the phone back to the foot of the bed. It missed and landed hard on the floor.
“What’s up?” Harry stood in the doorway, sipping a can of sparkling water. He squeezed the can a few times, the metallic crunch filling the silence. He handed me an unopened can that slipped through my fingers, landing on the bedding.
“Why is someone emailing me from AncestoryNow?”
Harry rested the cold can against his forehead. “Like, someone from the company?”
“No. A relative.”
Harry swiped up the phone. “Can I take a look?” Harry read through the email and I waited for him to say something. Then he set his drink down by his feet and began scrolling through the phone, giving it his full attention.
When he looked up, he was a little ashen.
“What?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
“It’s your settings. You must have shared your information.”
“No way.”
“Where’d you set it up?”
“Your house!”
“I helped you.” I saw him mouth Fuck.
I nodded. I remembered scanning so quickly, wanting to get back to Harry.
“Oh shit.” I balled the sheet in my fist.
“It’s fine,” Harry said confidently, in an about-face. “We can change your settings.” He sat next to me on the bed and began unchecking a slew of boxes. “It’s not your fault. You have to opt out of all of these. You didn’t know.”
“Did you share your information?”
Harry mumbled something.
“Did you?” I asked a little more insistently.
“Nah. But I know all this stuff. My dad is in the business of getting as much user data as possible but lectures me on not sharing mine. But it’s impossible.”
“What’s impossible?”
“Every time you use the internet you leave a footprint.”
“Is she going to be able to trace me?”
“She would have to be the detective of the century. You’re anonymous on there, right?”
“But how did she get my email?” My voice was getting too loud.
“She’s messaging you through the platform.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“AncestoryNow has your email. Or, actually, no—she can see this email address. They don’t use a middle messaging service.” Harry wasn’t making eye contact.
There was a long silence while I tried to calculate risk. But I had no idea. The internet, my digital footprint, permissions, preferences, consent, usernames, platforms—it felt like a foreign language I didn’t speak.
“Harry, look, you know all of this. How badly did I fuck up?” I cleared my throat. “Why did you just smile?”
“You rarely swear. This is probably her hobby; she emails a lot of relatives. Don’t worry about it. You’re no longer sharing your results. No one can see you on there now. But just in case, don’t log in to your email again.”
I scooted farther away from Harry so I could face him. “Why? Are you worried?”
“I’m not.” He played with his watch. He seemed to be wrestling with what he wanted to say next. Harry drew a deep breath, his shoulders rising to his ears. “Look, when you set this up, when you took the test, I didn’t know who you were, so I didn’t help you figure this out. There’s stuff about these sites that’s hidden in the agreements.”
“Like?” I gestured with my hand for him to keep going. Cold spread through my legs.
“Some of these DNA sites share with law enforcement, including this one. But—” I came to my knees. Harry grabbed my shoulder to stop me from leaving the bed. “You’re fine. They don’t know anything about you; no one is even looking for you. They think your dad is dead.”
Harry took my hand and I squeezed his hard.
“No one is looking for you,” he repeated. “Let’s close all this shit down just in case. Okay? I’ll do it now. Your profile. You can watch me do it.”
“You’re not worried?”
Harry looked me dead in the eye. “I’m not worried.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
When I got home, my dad was at the kitchen table, intently scratching in a ledger full of calculations. He was crunching numbers, trying to make something work. Not a good sign that he was doing this during the day instead of late at night when we were asleep.
My dad looked disheveled, like he’d been in the car all day, and he smelled faintly of sweat and gasoline.
“Hi. Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Outside pressing flowers, they said. Your mom’s keeping Emma out of the way while I figure something out.”
“Wait, when did you get glasses?” I blurted, sounding almost offended. Because we didn’t take photographs, I never noticed my dad growing older. He stayed in place, my handsome, strong dad. It felt like an affront that the glasses aged him. When you lived in a bubble, it was easy to ignore the march of time.
