that wasn’t the right word. Or maybe it was. Bea knew that sometimes, in order to get closure you had to open a door.
Such as sending away for her original birth certificate, which she’d received in the mail yesterday. Just the sight of “Name: Baby Girl Russo” made her tremble, as did the rest: “Mother’s Name: Veronica Russo. Father’s Name: Unknown. Time of birth: 7:22 p.m. Issued by: Coastal General Hospital, Boothbay Harbor, Maine.”
She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was someone else, that she’d started off life as someone else entirely, belonging toother people, a different family, in a different place. She had to find out who these people were, who Veronica Russo was.
She parked in a public lot and glanced at her little notebook: the Best Little Diner in Boothbay was on Main Street, the main drag she was on now. Bea glanced out her window. Boothbay Harbor was a coastal summer town, crowded with tourists walking along the narrow cobblestone and brick sidewalks, lined with shops and seafood restaurants, and hotels everywhere she looked.
She’d find a cheap motel for the night. She’d give herself a night here, maybe visit the hospital where she was born, walk around, think. Decide if she wanted to meet Veronica Russo. She could stick around town as long as she wanted since she had no home anymore. A few days ago, she’d gone back to the apartment to find one of the new roommates having sex in the living room. Bea had had it with this apartment, these strangers. The roommate had said her sister wanted to move in, and that was that. Now the money she’d been saving for July’s rent could support her here for a while until she decided where to go next. And she could go anywhere, which was scary. The only place she wanted to go was Cape Cod, to her mother’s little cottage. But that wasn’t her mother’s anymore. She’d have to throw a dart or apply to every school district in the United States and go where she got hired. For now, home was her car. Everything but her mother’s furniture was in the trunk of her old Toyota—her clothes, her laptop and books, her parents’ photo albums, the raggedy old stuffed Winnie the Pooh her father had given her on her sixth birthday. Her mother’s furniture was in a cheap storage facility. When she landed somewhere, she’d get back her mother’s belongings. She’d make a home as best she could.
Bea headed up bustling Main Street but didn’t pass the diner or see it on the other side of the street, and she wasn’t ready to. She turned onto a wide pier of souvenir shops and restaurants, the bay opening up in front of her. It was a Saturday in June, a gorgeous early evening, and the pier was packed with people, shopping, biting into lobster rolls, licking ice cream cones, drinking iced coffees, watching the boats. She passed couples, hand in hand, arms slung around each other, and felt a stab of pure envy. She wished she had someone to tell her everything would be okay, someone to be there if it wasn’t okay. Her last boyfriend, someone she’d been dating for a few months, had flaked out on her when her mother had gotten sick; he hadn’t even come to the funeral. She watched as a guy dipped his girlfriend for an impromptu romantic kiss; a few people clapped. Bea had never felt more wistful. Or alone.
She got herself a lemon ice from a cart vendor and stood in the sunshine, trying to orient herself, figure out where she was via the free shopper’s map she’d picked up outside a store. She had no idea where the Best Little Diner was in relation to this pier. The diner was marked on the map; it was barely a quarter mile from where she stood.
Bea put the map away, her heart beating fast again. Just like that, with a snap of her fingers, and she could meet the birth mother she hadn’t known existed until a few weeks ago. This was crazy. As was her sudden realization that any fortyish woman she passed could be Veronica Russo. That one, blond like
Such as sending away for her original birth certificate, which she’d received in the mail yesterday. Just the sight of “Name: Baby Girl Russo” made her tremble, as did the rest: “Mother’s Name: Veronica Russo. Father’s Name: Unknown. Time of birth: 7:22 p.m. Issued by: Coastal General Hospital, Boothbay Harbor, Maine.”
She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was someone else, that she’d started off life as someone else entirely, belonging toother people, a different family, in a different place. She had to find out who these people were, who Veronica Russo was.
She parked in a public lot and glanced at her little notebook: the Best Little Diner in Boothbay was on Main Street, the main drag she was on now. Bea glanced out her window. Boothbay Harbor was a coastal summer town, crowded with tourists walking along the narrow cobblestone and brick sidewalks, lined with shops and seafood restaurants, and hotels everywhere she looked.
She’d find a cheap motel for the night. She’d give herself a night here, maybe visit the hospital where she was born, walk around, think. Decide if she wanted to meet Veronica Russo. She could stick around town as long as she wanted since she had no home anymore. A few days ago, she’d gone back to the apartment to find one of the new roommates having sex in the living room. Bea had had it with this apartment, these strangers. The roommate had said her sister wanted to move in, and that was that. Now the money she’d been saving for July’s rent could support her here for a while until she decided where to go next. And she could go anywhere, which was scary. The only place she wanted to go was Cape Cod, to her mother’s little cottage. But that wasn’t her mother’s anymore. She’d have to throw a dart or apply to every school district in the United States and go where she got hired. For now, home was her car. Everything but her mother’s furniture was in the trunk of her old Toyota—her clothes, her laptop and books, her parents’ photo albums, the raggedy old stuffed Winnie the Pooh her father had given her on her sixth birthday. Her mother’s furniture was in a cheap storage facility. When she landed somewhere, she’d get back her mother’s belongings. She’d make a home as best she could.
Bea headed up bustling Main Street but didn’t pass the diner or see it on the other side of the street, and she wasn’t ready to. She turned onto a wide pier of souvenir shops and restaurants, the bay opening up in front of her. It was a Saturday in June, a gorgeous early evening, and the pier was packed with people, shopping, biting into lobster rolls, licking ice cream cones, drinking iced coffees, watching the boats. She passed couples, hand in hand, arms slung around each other, and felt a stab of pure envy. She wished she had someone to tell her everything would be okay, someone to be there if it wasn’t okay. Her last boyfriend, someone she’d been dating for a few months, had flaked out on her when her mother had gotten sick; he hadn’t even come to the funeral. She watched as a guy dipped his girlfriend for an impromptu romantic kiss; a few people clapped. Bea had never felt more wistful. Or alone.
She got herself a lemon ice from a cart vendor and stood in the sunshine, trying to orient herself, figure out where she was via the free shopper’s map she’d picked up outside a store. She had no idea where the Best Little Diner was in relation to this pier. The diner was marked on the map; it was barely a quarter mile from where she stood.
Bea put the map away, her heart beating fast again. Just like that, with a snap of her fingers, and she could meet the birth mother she hadn’t known existed until a few weeks ago. This was crazy. As was her sudden realization that any fortyish woman she passed could be Veronica Russo. That one, blond like
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