she’d written simply:
How could you think I wouldn’t find out? Or did you just not care?
He’d had no answers. He hadn’t spoken to her again and hadn’t given the baby another thought. Of course it had been aborted.
“I thought about having the twins, of raising them on my own.” Her voice pulled him back into the present. “I debated so long that by the time I decided I couldn’t do it, that I couldn’t be a single mother, it was too late. I was well into my second trimester. I’d seen their hearts beating on a sonogram. I’d seen an ultrasound image where they almost appeared to be holding hands. Placing them up for adoption seemed the best course for them and for me.”
Blood rushed to his head. What was she saying? She’d given birth to twins who were his? There were now two adolescents in the world who were his offspring? What was going on? He felt completely disoriented. Ten minutes before he’d stood with a vice president of PNC Bank debating the degree of flex for a custom fairway driver. “Depends on swing speed,” he’d said. “That’s why you pay for quality. They test your swing in a wind tunnel. State-of-the-art stuff.” Next to him, Sherrill had discussed with the man’s wife, a decorator, a cranberry Brunswig & Fils pattern with coordinated two-tone cording she was considering for the armchairs in the library. All around him, permutations of similar conversations were occurring, the types of conversations he liked, conversations that didn’t alter the universe. Now he’d just learned information that changed everything.
“Our daughter lives right in Gladwyne. Her name is Avery Herbert. But . . . but . . . but her brother is dead.”
What was going on? None of this made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glimpse of turquoise. Was another woman in the same couture color or was Sherrill approaching? The pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and purples of dresses and scarves and accents and flowers assaulted him. His heart raced. He needed to get out of here. Despite the enormity of the convention hall, he felt claustrophobic.
“What happened to the boy?”
She bit her lip. “Suicide,” she said, so softly he thought he’d misheard. But she repeated, “He killed himself.”
“This is insanity,” he blurted out.
“If you’d just returned my calls, we could have talked about this in a calmer way,” he heard Morgan saying. “I’m not trying to disrupt you or your life. But I’ve felt desperate to find Avery. To tell her about me, about us, to tell her she has biological parents, too.”
Parents.
Parents
! His daughter, Beth, was a senior at Pine Manor. She’d accepted a job as an intern at the Barnes Foundation. He’d provided the first and last months’ rent for her two-bedroom apartment. The lease started June 1. Tripp Jr. was at the Naval Academy, learning discipline and playing rugby. He’d be home for Easter in a few weeks. They were going together to the Volkswagen dealer to buy his first car. Those were his children. They were the two who each got $11,000 a year deposited free of gift tax into a money market account. They appeared on either side of him and his wife in the biannual family portraits. Beth and Tripp Jr.; there was no room for anyone else.
“Does the girl know who I am?” he managed to ask.
“No. She doesn’t know anything yet. There are still a few legalities to work out. I don’t want to approach her until everything is in order. But it won’t take much longer now. I feel that she has a right to know who we are.”
“Why? If you were so concerned, what’s taken you so long?”
Morgan’s face was flushed. Despite the elegance of her understated taupe gown, the long line of her neck adorned only with a small gold locket, her neatly styled hair, she looked as anxious and earnest as she’d looked that day at the diner. For a moment he felt compassion, the urge to embrace her or to make some sort of reassuring gesture, but
How could you think I wouldn’t find out? Or did you just not care?
He’d had no answers. He hadn’t spoken to her again and hadn’t given the baby another thought. Of course it had been aborted.
“I thought about having the twins, of raising them on my own.” Her voice pulled him back into the present. “I debated so long that by the time I decided I couldn’t do it, that I couldn’t be a single mother, it was too late. I was well into my second trimester. I’d seen their hearts beating on a sonogram. I’d seen an ultrasound image where they almost appeared to be holding hands. Placing them up for adoption seemed the best course for them and for me.”
Blood rushed to his head. What was she saying? She’d given birth to twins who were his? There were now two adolescents in the world who were his offspring? What was going on? He felt completely disoriented. Ten minutes before he’d stood with a vice president of PNC Bank debating the degree of flex for a custom fairway driver. “Depends on swing speed,” he’d said. “That’s why you pay for quality. They test your swing in a wind tunnel. State-of-the-art stuff.” Next to him, Sherrill had discussed with the man’s wife, a decorator, a cranberry Brunswig & Fils pattern with coordinated two-tone cording she was considering for the armchairs in the library. All around him, permutations of similar conversations were occurring, the types of conversations he liked, conversations that didn’t alter the universe. Now he’d just learned information that changed everything.
“Our daughter lives right in Gladwyne. Her name is Avery Herbert. But . . . but . . . but her brother is dead.”
What was going on? None of this made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glimpse of turquoise. Was another woman in the same couture color or was Sherrill approaching? The pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and purples of dresses and scarves and accents and flowers assaulted him. His heart raced. He needed to get out of here. Despite the enormity of the convention hall, he felt claustrophobic.
“What happened to the boy?”
She bit her lip. “Suicide,” she said, so softly he thought he’d misheard. But she repeated, “He killed himself.”
“This is insanity,” he blurted out.
“If you’d just returned my calls, we could have talked about this in a calmer way,” he heard Morgan saying. “I’m not trying to disrupt you or your life. But I’ve felt desperate to find Avery. To tell her about me, about us, to tell her she has biological parents, too.”
Parents.
Parents
! His daughter, Beth, was a senior at Pine Manor. She’d accepted a job as an intern at the Barnes Foundation. He’d provided the first and last months’ rent for her two-bedroom apartment. The lease started June 1. Tripp Jr. was at the Naval Academy, learning discipline and playing rugby. He’d be home for Easter in a few weeks. They were going together to the Volkswagen dealer to buy his first car. Those were his children. They were the two who each got $11,000 a year deposited free of gift tax into a money market account. They appeared on either side of him and his wife in the biannual family portraits. Beth and Tripp Jr.; there was no room for anyone else.
“Does the girl know who I am?” he managed to ask.
“No. She doesn’t know anything yet. There are still a few legalities to work out. I don’t want to approach her until everything is in order. But it won’t take much longer now. I feel that she has a right to know who we are.”
“Why? If you were so concerned, what’s taken you so long?”
Morgan’s face was flushed. Despite the elegance of her understated taupe gown, the long line of her neck adorned only with a small gold locket, her neatly styled hair, she looked as anxious and earnest as she’d looked that day at the diner. For a moment he felt compassion, the urge to embrace her or to make some sort of reassuring gesture, but
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