She Has Your Eyes (2 page)

Later that afternoon I was cleaning up outside, the sun still blazing as I sang along with the Doobie Brothers’ “Long Train Runnin’,” bopping about as I moved, when I heard someone say, “Excuse me.”

I whipped around and before me stood a girl in her mid-teens, judging by her ensemble of Daisy Duke shorts and turquoise Old Navy tank top, finished off with enormous sunglasses and bright pink flip-flops garnished with plastic daisies. Her long, dark chocolate hair was haphazardly tied in back with a scrunchie, a neon purple strand falling loose, like a skunk stripe.

“Yes?” I asked, feeling self-conscious in my denim cutoff shorts hugging my cellulite-ridden thighs and one-piece
bathing suit, my hair pulled back like a ballerina’s bun, gray at the roots, frizzy from the humidity. Sweat beaded down my temples as well as my cleavage.

“Is your husband home?” she asked.

This question used to throw me for a loop when David and I first got back together because I assumed people meant Sam. I learned to ask for clarification.

“Do you mean David?”

“Um, I think so,” she replied.

“He’ll be back in a minute,” I said. We had run out of ice cream the previous night, and David had a yen to make his own, so he left to buy the ingredients. I invited the girl into the house and offered her a glass of iced tea, studying her features after she removed her sunglasses and trying to place her. We sat at the butcher-block table and she surveyed the kitchen, as if looking for something of recognition. “I’m Andi,” I said, extending my hand. She shook it weakly.

“Wylie,” she answered, quickly adding, “I’m named after my great-grandfather, or so I’m told.”

My curiosity got the best of me. “So, how do you know David?”

“I’d better wait until he gets here.”

We sat in awkward silence for what couldn’t have been more than five minutes that passed like five hours, when to our relief the screen door
whooshed
open and slammed shut. David, entering the kitchen like a whirlwind, was dressed in carpenter shorts and a white T-shirt, showing off his sculpted physique. The ends of his hair were damp from sweat. I stood up.

“Hey, hon, you’re not going to believe what I—” He stopped short when he saw Wylie, who stood up, went right over to David, and took in an eyeful.

“Oh. Mygod.” She said the last two words as if they were one. “You
totally
look like me.”

David, bewildered, looked at her, then at me, then back at her.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“I think you might be my dad.”

chapter two

Her eyes, I realized. They were the exact same sienna, albeit slightly darker, more feminine than fiery. She wore too much eyeliner and mascara, which made them look less rather than more noticeable. A shimmery, possibly smoky shadow would bring them out. Or perhaps something more subtle.

The three of us sat at the table: David and I together, Wylie opposite us. If she was self-conscious about two strangers staring at her, she didn’t show it. Probably because she was looking at David just as intently, inspecting every contour and crevice of his face. His defined cheekbones. Olive skin. Round chin. Dry lips.

The butcher-block table seemed to be trembling until I realized that David was hyperactively tapping his heel on the floor, his knee pumping like a jackhammer.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t catch…,” David stumbled, “your name?”

“It’s Wylie,” she said. “Wylie Baker. My mom is Janine Baker, although you probably knew her as Janine Salvo.”

I took my eyes off the girl long enough to see David frantically searching his memory bank for the woman’s name, face,
something, anything. He closed his eyes and transferred the tapping from his right foot to his right hand, all five fingertips.

“I don’t… I’m not sure. You said Janine?”

“No, wait—she told me she went by Jane back then. She said she didn’t think you used your real name either.”

The color drained from his face, while my stomach lurched. He closed his eyes again, and I thought I heard him say, “Jane,” under his breath.

“Wylie, where are you from and how did you find us here?” I asked.

“I live in Connecticut, just outside Hartford,” she started. “I was four when my parents—my mom and my stepdad—” she clarified, “were married. Well, I didn’t always know this. I thought my dad was, you know, my
dad
. When I was about twelve I started going through photo albums and looking at dates, and I noticed there were no pictures of my dad with me when I was born. So I started grilling my mom and she finally broke down last year and told me that my dad wasn’t my real dad. At least not biologically speaking.”

“I don’t understand how that brings you
here
,” said David.

“My mom told me there were two possible choices of men, and she had no idea of knowing which one was my father without a DNA test. She also lost touch with both of them. But I kept grilling her—where she met them, where they worked, how old they were, their names… she was especially reluctant to give me names. I think she was embarrassed about not knowing your real name.”

“Assuming it’s me,” he said.

“My sister and I did this massive Internet search about six months ago. The first possibility—I at least got my mom to tell me
his
name—turned out to be an investment banker, bald
and pale and looked
nothing
like me. And my mom didn’t seem to have much of a reaction; not like with
you
.”

Had it all not been so shocking, I probably would’ve stifled a chuckle—David got a rise out of women regardless of where he went or how he knew them.

“She said you had the looks of a model—or, at least, that my dad did. So I thought,
hey, why not look to see if he’s done any actual modeling?
and started Googling male models. Well, that turned out to be, like, impossible. Of course, my mom refused to help. She was pissed that I was looking in the first place, but I was like, ‘Mom, this is my
dad
, right? Like, what if he has some hereditary medical condition? I have a right to know.’ But I pretty much gave up. And then one day, totally out of the blue, my sister—well, my stepsister, actually—who’s, like, a total celebrity whore and addicted to this Hamptons gossip blog, she saw this photo of you at some Hamptons party—”

I could tell David was searching his mental database for the last time he’d been in the Hamptons, much less at a party.

“—and said, ‘Ohmigod, he totally looks like you.’ So I showed the picture of you to my mom and she
freaked out
, like, ‘Where did you get this?’ and all that. So I figured I was onto something.”

I interjected, “So you think David is your father just because of a photo?”

“Hey, I heard about this woman who found her long-lost daughter after posting her baby picture on Facebook—and the daughter was now
ten years old
! Anyway,” Wylie continued, seemingly unfazed, “Google to the rescue. So we found your name under the photo and traced you to this gallery in Boston. I’m telling you, my sister is, like, either going to be a private detective or a stalker when she grows up. So then I called the gallery and asked for you, and they said you didn’t
work there but they knew who you were. They wouldn’t give me your number, though. But at least I had confirmation, went back to Google, and found a picture of the two of you tagged on someone’s Facebook page. So then I Googled
your
name,” she said to me, “and found out you were a professor, which, after a little more digging, led me here.”

My stomach lurched again. “But I’m not listed in the phone book,” I said.

“It’s not hard,” she replied. “You were featured in the local paper. So that narrows down the town. From there you can find someone through property records—it’s public information. I decided to take a chance. I figured one way or another you had to know something.”

David and I were both horrified, and I couldn’t help but feel violated. “How old are you?” I asked.

“Fifteen.”

I darted my eyes to David, who was doing the math in his head, I could tell. And judging by the look he was fighting to suppress, it added up.

“Anyway,” she said after a beat, “here I am. I wasn’t going to come—because, let’s face it, it was a long shot—but I really wanted to know for sure.”

“Wylie,” David started, “putting aside the fact that just because we bear some physical resemblance doesn’t mean we’re related, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? What you did is an egregious violation of someone’s privacy.”

“It’s not like I hacked into anything,” she said. “It was all public information. And I didn’t tell anyone or post your address or anything like that.”

“Does your mother know you’re here?” I asked.

“Not exactly. She thinks I’m on an end-of-summer trip to Cape Cod with my youth group.”

“How on earth did you get here?” I asked.

“Bus, taxi. It’s not hard.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that could be? Besides, if your Google search was that thorough, then I’m sure you would’ve gotten an e-mail address. Why didn’t you contact me that way?” I said.

“Who uses e-mail anymore? Besides, I figured you’d think I was crazy and wouldn’t reply. I also figured you wouldn’t be the type to throw a young girl into the street.”

“That’s not the point,” said David. “Did it ever occur to you that the Internet is full of lies? And just because someone works at a gallery or is a professor doesn’t mean they’re automatically trustworthy. Look, Wylie. I think we should call your mother right now and have her come get you.”

Wylie was neither deflated nor deterred. “Fine,” she huffed. “But will you give me a DNA sample?”

We looked at her, incredulous. You’d think she was asking him for a stick of gum, she was so nonchalant.

“A DNA sample is a very personal thing,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not asking him for a pint of his blood. I just want a lock of his hair or something.”

“Then what?” I asked, taking hold of David’s hand under the table, and squeezing it.

“Then I’ll take it to some lab and have them compare it to mine. How hard can it be?”

“This isn’t
CSI
,” said David.

“Well, duh.”

“So it’s really
not
all that simple. There are legal and ethical issues involved.”

“Don’t you want to know if I’m your daughter?” she asked.

I looked at David. His face looked frozen, his jaw unable to move.

I spoke up. “Wylie, I’m sorry you went through all this trouble, but you’ve made a mistake. This is something you need to talk to your mother about. Maybe there’s a reason she hasn't disclosed the identity of your father to you. Especially if she doesn’t know who he is.”

“Oh,
she knows
,” she said, a touch annoyed. “She just had no idea how to find you,” she said to David.

The color drained from his face again. “Please don’t say ‘you.’ ”

“Whatever,” she muttered.

“Regardless, it’s time to call your mom,” I said, more assertive than before.

“Not until he promises to give me a DNA sample.”

David smacked the table and rose to his feet, unnerving the girl for the first time. “That’s it. You don’t come into someone’s home, make wild accusations, invade their privacy, and then start issuing ultimatums. It’s not going to happen, understand?”

Before Wylie could speak, I interjected. “OK, let’s try to remain calm.” I turned to her. “I agree with David. If you don’t allow us to call your mother, then we’ll have no choice but to call the police, and you’ll be in a lot worse trouble. Trust me, this is the better option. I’ll call your mom, she’ll come get you, and perhaps we can settle this matter in a mutually respectful way.”

Wylie hung her head. “She’s gonna kill me when she finds out I’ve gotten this far.”

“Did you really not think it was going to come to this?” David asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be more willing to help.”

Wylie recited her mother’s phone number as I took the kitchen phone from its cradle and dialed.

“Who has a landline anymore?” she seemed to be asking no one in particular.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answered.

“Is this Ms. Janine Baker?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her tone immediately turned to one of worry.

I spoke in my professorial voice. “Hello, Ms. Baker. My name is Andrea Vanzant. I’m a professor at Northampton University in Massachusetts.” I waited for some kind of acknowledgment from her, but got none. “Ms. Baker,” I continued, “your daughter Wylie is here at my home for reasons I’d rather not discuss over the phone.”

“Who’d you say you were?”

“Andrea Vanzant. I live in Northampton, Massachusetts, and your daughter is here.”

“What is she doing there?”

“She’s completely safe, but my husband and I think it would be best if you came to pick her up.” The word
husband
came out of nowhere. Seemed to give David a jolt as well.

The teen’s mother let out a string of expletives. “Put her on the phone,” she demanded, and I handed the receiver to Wylie. I could almost hear her mother word for word. Wylie rolled her eyes and responded mostly in monosyllabic words. The girl’s steely resolve baffled me—had my mother ever unleashed on me like that at her age I probably would’ve fainted dead away. Hell, if I’d ever attempted to pull the stunt Wylie pulled, not only would I have gotten no farther than the Long Island Rail Road, but I probably would’ve boarded the wrong train and wound up going eastbound to Port Jefferson rather than westbound to Manhattan.