Not That Kind of Girl by Susan Donovan

stayed in order. She grieved, of course, but the universe still made sense. It hadn’t been that way for Eli. He’d found out by accident, while getting his father’s papers in order for the attorney. In his hand he was suddenly holding a slightly yellowed legal document he never knew existed. In it, Robert W. Gallagher of Denver, Colorado, became the legal guardian of the illegitimate son of his new wife, the former Carole Broward Tisdale, also of Denver. The identity of the biological father was unknown. At the time of the adoption proceedings, the child in question was eighteen months old.
    Eli had sat there in his father’s study, numb with shock. It took a good half hour for him to thaw out, but when he did, he was on fire with anger, hurt, and the knowledge that he’d been betrayed. He’d been thirty-one years old, for God’s sake! When had they planned on telling him? How could they have justified keeping this from him for his entire life?
    In the depth of her mourning for her husband, Eli’s mother begged Eli to understand—it was about her shame, she said. She sat with him at the kitchen table, crying, telling a story about how she’d been a freshman at Berkeley when she found herself pregnant. It was 1977, a time closer to the dawn of Young Republicanism than the Summer of Love, but his mother apparently missed the memo. She’d spent her freshman year living the life of a UC Berkeley wild child—sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, as the saying went. She told him, with her head bowed, that Eli had been a product of one of those random moments of abandon, during one of those pot-fogged nights, with one of those faceless (and occasionally nameless) men.
    His mother assured him that his father had loved him like his own, and was so very proud of his son. She told him that Bob Gallagher always saw Eli as a gift from God.
    Eli remembered how he had sat there at the table in silence as she told him the truth, listening to the sound of his own breathing and the howl of coyotes in the desert night. He had tried to take it all in, put the new information in some kind of order in his heart, but Eli’s understanding of the world had shifted that night.
    Unknown? His father was unknown ?
    From that moment on, Eli was determined to fill in the blank.
    His cell phone vibrated inside the front pocket of his jacket. It was Sondra, making sure his flight was on time and informing him she’d already left the ranch for St. George to pick him up. Should they plan on stopping somewhere for supper? she wondered. Did he want to pick up supplies in town before they headed back? Should she go back for a couple of the dogs? Or maybe all of them? Or, since a storm was forecast, should she just keep driving and forget the dogs?
    An overhead announcement told him to board the plane, so he ended the conversation with Sondra. Eli stood, grabbed his carry-on, and set his hat back on his head. He was just one passenger away from handing over his boarding pass when the phone buzzed again. Not even looking at the number, he stepped out of line and answered with a laugh. “Let me guess—you called to remind me to use the bathroom before I get on the plane?”
    When he heard silence in place of one of Sondra’s chuckles, he removed the phone from his ear and checked the screen. The call hadn’t come from home—it was a San Francisco number he didn’t recognize. Eli put the phone back to his ear. “Pardon me. Hello?”
    The woman’s voice was so soft he could hardly hear it with the airport background noise. “Have I reached Eli Gallagher?” she asked.
    “Yes. Who’s calling? Can you speak a little louder?”
    There was a tap on his shoulder. “Sir, you really need to board now,” the SkyWest employee said, smiling politely.
    “Sure. Be right there.” But with the momentary distraction, Eli had missed whatever reply he’d gotten from the caller. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
    The mystery woman laughed. “Of