Girl One, page 27
The way he said that, Morrow, tugged at me for a second, but I picked up my glass. “To light bulbs who like it dark,” I said, and we clinked, laughing.
* * *
Two drinks. The edges of everything fuzzed and glowing.
“I appreciate that you’re letting me be part of this.” Tom kept nudging the puddle of condensation with his finger, making the water change shapes. “One day, if you’re comfortable with it, I’d love to be your official biographer.” The heavy reddish light over the bar caught in his hair, which had grown longer on the road, unruly. “I wish Bellanger had gotten the chance to see what he really did. The full extent of it. Not just Fiona. All of you.”
At hearing Bellanger’s name, I went still for a moment, my pleasantly loopy state bottoming out. Every time I remembered Bellanger I felt this particular disorientation, a dread and anger I didn’t know what to do with. Lily-Anne. The tenth Girl, lost to us. The way he’d interrupted my mother’s plans to reawaken that lost ability of self-conception. I wondered if it had been worth it, in my mother’s eyes. Worth it to invite him. Worth it to get the nine of us out of the bargain.
“Did I say the wrong thing?” Tom asked.
“It’s fine.” I automatically produced a smile. So maybe Bellanger had kept secrets: my mother had kept secrets too. I truly was an orphan now. I didn’t recognize either of my parents anymore. “Another drink.”
* * *
Three drinks. Four. Maybe more than that because I would steal some of Tom’s beer, no longer cold because of how long he’d been nursing it, the warmth bringing out the bitterness. The world was a quicksilver spin, everything tilted.
The music throbbed, swift and erratic. I had to come over to the other side of the booth to be heard: I was yelling right into Tom’s ear. I half considered flirting with him. I’d never been a good flirt, too blunt and too impatient. And even when I’d gotten it right, flirting had been a negotiable power. A masquerade. Now that I’d felt what it was like to reach into a man’s brain and rearrange it into exactly what I wanted, there was something sad about trying to recapture this smaller manifestation of control. Like crawling after I’d learned how to fly.
“What do you think your mother would say, if she knew about your—your powers?” Tom asked.
“She’d probably be disappointed,” I said, my thoughts sliding and shimmering now. “She never wanted me to be different. You don’t raise your kid in Coeur du Lac if you want her to be special.”
“Nah,” Tom said, shaking his head. “You’ll never be a disappointment. Never.”
I leaned my head against Tom’s shoulder, and he tensed. “I’m disappointing you,” I said. “Not letting you write your book.”
His voice vibrated and hummed against my cheekbone. “It’s not about the book anymore. It was never—look, if you think this is all still for the story, I don’t even know what to—” He stopped, frustrated. “Josie,” he said, trying to start over. “Josephine Morrow. Girl One.”
There was something in his voice. We were so close, our mouths nearly touching, and I could see the calculations happening behind Tom’s eyes, how easy it would be to close the space between us. He was wondering what I’d say, what I’d do, and for a second I wondered too. I almost leaned in. His stubble had grown in lately, thicker and darker than the sun-kissed hair on his head, and I imagined pressing my mouth to his, our lips stinging with alcohol, beneath the funhouse glow of this bar lighting. I’d come to like Tom—I was friendlier with him, anyway, than any of the handful of men or boys I’d slept with before.
It would have been easy to give him what he wanted and wake up the next morning convincing myself I wanted it too. That tongue-tied, damp-eyed longing turned him vulnerable, transferring the power to me. I could’ve gone along with it the way I’d gone along with other sexual experiences. A why not? that wavered between clinical and carefree.
Cate. The way she’d described the difference in sleeping with someone real. Real. A heat settled low in my stomach, and I pulled away from Tom, worried he’d sense my sudden undertow of desire and mistake it as belonging to him.
“One last drink?” I asked, covering the sudden coolness I’d created.
* * *
I sat up. It was six in the morning. I recalled the previous night as a patchwork, isolated scenes badly merging. Too many gaps. I’d stumbled into this motel room with Tom, not wanting to wake up Cate and Isabelle. No—that wasn’t why. The real reason I was nervous to be around Cate was still there, refusing to dissolve.
Now I lay in the same bed as Tom. For a second I was gripped with a queasy curiosity, wondering what my body had done while I was away. But we were both fully clothed. Tom and I had turned from each other in our sleep, pushed far on opposite sides of the bed. All the times I’d woken next to Cate, the way she was always pressed against the crook of my shoulder or nestled into the small of my back like she belonged right there.
Tom murmured in his sleep, shifted. His shirt rode up on his back. I looked again, curious in spite of myself. The section of back revealed by his shirt showed a deep shadow following the shape of his spine. I hesitated, then reached over and tugged the sheets off his back, carefully lifted the edge of his shirt. The shadow continued. Almost without realizing it, I’d tugged the shirt high enough to expose his entire back. I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
A scar. Puckered, darker than the surrounding skin. It almost looked like a zipper in how neatly it followed the curve of his spine, right in the center of his back. The longer I looked at that neat, serrated scar, the more surreal the whole thing was. I was hungover enough that understanding felt just out of my grasp. Tom had always known so much about me, interior and exterior, my history, my baby photos, and he’d been keeping a secret from me. It was a surgery scar. Something in him had been corrected and then re-stitched.
Something like—
I stood up from the bed, heart slamming.
Tom was awake. He realized that the sheets were pooled low on his body. He turned all the way around and sat up. I couldn’t even look at him: it was like I was in the room with a stranger. Or … not a stranger, never a stranger. We’d known each other all along.
“Which one are you?” I asked.
A tremor of recognition. He reached a hand around his body with a practiced gesture. I knew he must’ve touched his scar sometimes, angled himself in the foggy bathroom mirror to look at it. I did the same thing with my skin-graft scar.
“Josie—” he began, and I couldn’t tell whether he was defensive or bargaining, his voice shifting between the two. “This isn’t—it’s not—”
“Which one?” I pressed, angrier now.
We stared at each other, the possibility of fury and shame and violence tightening the space between us, not decided yet. “Tell me the truth,” I said. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me who you are.”
I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t feel the dizziness this time, just a clean snap of electricity, unthinking as a clenched fist. But he reacted at once, flinching back, and I was gratified to detect the fear in him. His face was touched with both reverence and terror.
“I’m Junior,” he said. He pronounced it like a joke. Not even a real name. “It was supposed to be an honor, getting named after my father, but nobody ever used Joseph or Joe for me. Just Junior. Even after my father died.”
“I don’t know where to start, Junior.”
“You can keep calling me Tom.”
“I’ll call you whatever I want.” I ignored his quick hurt. “Why have you been lying?” When he hesitated, I locked eyes with him and began to form a command.
“Please,” Junior said, half rising. “Don’t. I’ll tell you the truth, I promise. Just—just let me do it myself.”
I held his gaze, not sure whether to grant this one small request or give in to the anger that was thrumming through me. “Don’t lie to me again.”
Junior nodded, took a deep breath. “The thing is, I never meant to lie to you.”
“You’ve been with me for over two weeks, learning about my past. Our past. And you never said a word. You’re a liar. That’s the definition of a liar.” Something occurred to me. “The book. Is it even real, or was it just some stupid excuse?”
“It’s real,” Junior said quickly. “Of course it is. I’ve wanted to write it for a long time. There’s been some interest from publishers. A book about the Homestead by Bellanger’s own son could be big. But they all want it to be a cheesy exposé. I don’t want that. If I’m going to write about my father’s work, I’m going to bring a new perspective.”
“You’ve got one now,” I said, stomach dropping as I remembered everything he’d found out.
Junior smiled, quick and miserable.
“You could’ve told us who you really are. We would’ve talked to you.” I began pacing in front of the bed, making the circuit of the same lineup of standard cheap-motel-room supplies. Table, upholstered chair, defunct coffee maker, TV Guide, Gideon Bible.
“You wouldn’t have,” Junior said. “The way you’re looking at me right now, Josie—Jesus. It would’ve been even worse with some of the others. Knowing that I was connected would’ve changed everything.”
I stopped in my tracks. “My mother knew that you were Bellanger’s son, didn’t she? That’s exactly why she got in touch with you. You were never just some random journalist.” I half laughed, buried my face in my hands. “God, I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I see it?”
I hadn’t seen it because I wasn’t used to giving my mother that much credit.
“She knew who I was, yeah,” Junior said. “She always was closer to my dad than the others. She knew my mother’s maiden name is Abbott and that I preferred any name other than Junior. The phone call was weird. Your mom was threatening me, almost. She said she wanted me to break this story about—about my father. So that I could learn who he really was. But then we started reminiscing and she got friendlier. Like she felt bad for calling me up. And then she never got back in touch with me. Until…”
Until I found his fake name and number in my mother’s things.
“Then you called me up out of nowhere, Girl One,” he said. “I didn’t expect to meet you. I thought you were in Chicago, miles away. And we met, and you trusted me, and you were so curious and adventurous. I saw all these doors just opening and opening, finally.”
“Finally,” I echoed, a bitter mockery.
Junior rubbed the back of his neck. “I was afraid if I told you, it would all end. Just when I was learning about my father and what his work really meant.”
“What was all that bullshit about your family? Your deadbeat dad that you never met?”
“A white lie. Barely a lie. My father was never around. He was always at the Homestead or on conferences and trips. Sometimes months would go by and the only way I’d see my father was in a newspaper with one of you. I was only thirteen when he died. I barely have any real memories of Dad. So, yes, my mother was a single mother. Same as yours.”
“But you still had his money,” I said. “You still had that.”
“There was no money,” Junior said, impatient. “My dad had sold everything to pay off debts we knew nothing about. My mother was traumatized. Her husband had just been murdered. She always waited for him to have time for us, always next year, next year. Then he was gone for good. Your mothers wanted to be part of the Homestead; they were willing participants. My mother didn’t ask to be part of anything. When Mom first married Dad”—he stumbled a little over Dad, the plain tenderness of it—“he couldn’t get a job cleaning pipettes. He was an outcast. She stuck by his side through everything, and once he got famous, the Homestead took over his whole life.” His face turned older and younger at once. “Bobby was always distant, so it fell on my shoulders to help Mom. I spent a lot of time with her as a kid. I favor her. I guess that’s why none of you recognized me. I kept waiting for somebody to say, it’s him, it’s that boy. Bellanger’s son. But I looked too much like her, and neither of us ever mattered much.”
I looked at him more closely. I realized I couldn’t even remember Mrs. Bellanger’s face enough to recognize hers in Junior’s.
“Emily,” I said. The betrayal was so sudden, so intense, that I could feel it rising inside me like a sickness. “Emily French. She said you’d lead me to my mother. Junior,” I said. “If you know where my mother is—if you hurt her in any way—”
I would kill him. Right here in this motel room. Nothing that had passed between us, no kindness or familiarity, would save him.
“What are you talking about?” Junior asked, sounding genuinely confused. I was gratified to detect the fear in Junior’s voice, the way his face was touched with both reverence and terror.
I explained about Emily’s prophecy in the attic, what felt like a thousand years ago.
Junior was silent. “I think I know what she meant,” he said slowly. “I promise, I haven’t seen your mother since I was a child. That phone call is the only contact I’ve had with her. Listen. Emily was … I think she was remembering the past. I helped you find your mother once. Don’t you remember?” He looked into my eyes, seeking forgiveness: I didn’t have any to give. “It was your birthday. It was a big day, visiting dignitaries. My suit was stuffy and hot and they had you in some stupid dress. You looked so miserable and scared. I felt bad for you. It wasn’t a kids’ party at all. Your mother was in some other room, stuck with the reporters. I noticed you crying. Nobody else saw it. So I went over and I took your hand and I brought you away from everybody, and I helped you find your mother again.”
A hand in mine, leading me away from the crowd, bringing me back to the one person who mattered. Emily’s prediction had kept me going for weeks and it had never been a prediction at all, just a fragmented memory. For a second my anger cooled into sadness, but then I focused again. “Is it your brother, then? Is he the one who’s been following us?”
“I haven’t been in touch with Bobby in a long time,” Junior said. “I don’t think he cares about any of you enough to even look you up, much less come after you. He has a wife and kids now. They don’t know anything about his past. So, no. I don’t know who’s after us.”
We stood there in the drowsy morning light that came through the thick motel curtains. Making a decision, I moved for the door.
“Where are you going?” Junior asked, sounding like he didn’t know whether to be scared for me or scared of me.
“I need to talk to Cate and Isabelle. They deserve to know about this too.” I opened the door and stepped outside. “Either you tell them or I do.”
In the motel parking lot, Cate was leaning against the Volvo, her expression unrecognizable. Over her shoulder, I could see the bar where Tom and I had been laughing just a handful of hours ago, now a deserted shell of itself, parking lot empty. Cate was reading something. A stack of papers. When she looked up, she wasn’t even surprised. She’d been waiting for me.
Over my shoulder, Junior inhaled tightly. “That’s my book,” he said. “She found my book.”
40
Excerpt from The Man, the Myth, the Miracle-Worker: The Shocking True Story of My Father, Dr. Joseph Bellanger, by Joseph Bellanger Jr.
But despite all I’d learned on the road with the “Miracle Babies,” my true crisis of faith occurred when I was forced to contend with rumors of a tenth pregnancy, one that my father was allegedly not involved with. If a true “virgin birth,” then this tenth pregnancy obviously threatened to upend my father’s legacy. While there is no doubt that the original nine Girls are the results of my father’s work, this tenth pregnancy apparently happened without his oversight or involvement.
Conveniently, the tale of Lily-Anne’s pregnancy was one that nobody else could corroborate. The woman who relayed this story to my companions was too ashamed of where she came from to share the history with her own daughters. In light of this, I had to ask: Is it possible that she was inventing things?
Whether the woman is lying out of malice or simple confusion, I’m not sure, but I couldn’t help but think of alternatives. What if this tenth pregnancy was not a virgin birth at all, but rather a traditional pregnancy, caused by some nocturnal visitor? I can understand why the shame of such a liaison would lead the pregnant woman to lie about her condition and the reasoning behind it. History has been scattered with so many women who lie about “virgin birth” in order to save their honor and reputations, or perhaps through simple ignorance of biology, that my father had to work uphill against these rumors when his own experiments took place. Ironic, then, that his detractor could be using the very same lies to attack my father’s legacy.
41
“I can explain.”
“I don’t think you can.” Cate sounded bitterly exhausted, as if all the other times she’d quieted her doubts had led to this. “There’s no excuse for this … this book you’ve been scribbling away in secret all this time. Let’s take a look at some choice excerpts, shall we?”
Junior ran his hands through his hair. A familiar gesture, but one that belonged to somebody else, to Tom, and I had a sensation as if Junior had stolen it from a friend of mine. He was frantic and resigned at the same time. We’d retreated into Cate and Isabelle’s room.
“I was just brainstorming that chapter,” Junior said, voice strained. “I wasn’t going to necessarily leave it in. I realize that it’s not fair. I never knew Lily-Anne. Or Barbara. I shouldn’t have accused them of lying.” He clasped his hands between his knees.
Only Isabelle was calm, sitting on the bed and switching languidly through channels like a kid ignoring her parents’ fight, Delilah’s stolen diary opened up on her lap.
Cate flipped through the pages, pausing. “Okay.” Her tone turned arch: “‘Like her mother, Josephine Morrow is beautiful. Long brown hair, even longer legs, high cheekbones, and eyes that seem to be evaluating you at every turn. She is driven to a fault, though her cool demeanor cracks a little when you get to know her. Making her laugh,’” Cate read, shaking her head, “‘feels like a triumph.’” She lifted her gaze from the page, eyebrow raised.
