Open Secret. Janice Johnson Kay

panic, she said, “Can we talk about this tomorrow instead?”

      They agreed on a restaurant and time. She hung up with the terrifying knowledge that she was taking an irretrievable step.

      HE MADE A POINT of getting there before her; he invariably did the same at any appointment. Paranoia, no doubt. He liked to look over the surroundings, choose a seat with the best possible vantage point.

      He saw her the minute she arrived. The hostess waylaid her, then led her toward his table.

      Carrie St. John did bear a remarkable resemblance to her sister, no question. At the same time, she was distinctly her own person.

      Neither were tall women, both under five foot four inches. Suzanne was more curvaceous, Carrie slimmer, probably able to go braless. Both had dark eyes and dark hair, but Suzanne’s was smooth and the younger sister’s unruly.

      Mark was made uncomfortable to realize that, while Suzanne didn’t attract him, Carrie did. He didn’t even know why. He did know he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, certainly not while he was acting as go-between.

      He stood when she approached. “Ms. St. John.”

      “Make it Carrie, please.” She took the seat across the table from him and thanked the hostess.

      He inclined his head. “Carrie it is.” He indicated her menu. “I see the waitress already on her way. You might want to look that over before we talk.”

      She flipped it open, scanned and was able to order a moment later. Then she took a visible breath, lifted her chin and asked, “Why do you think I’m this Suzanne’s sister?”

      He opened the folder that sat beside his place and took out a copy of the adoption decree, with her birth name and the names of the adoptive parents highlighted.

      Her hand trembled slightly when she took it from him. Her face actually blanched when she looked at it, and he tensed, thinking she might faint. But she only drew a shuddery breath and kept staring at the highlighted names.

      When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were dilated, unseeing. “If this is true… Why wouldn’t they have told me?” she whispered.

      “Because they so desperately wanted you to be theirs. Maybe they intended to when you got older, then never found the right moment. It would have gotten more and more difficult, as time went by. Maybe they pretended so hard that you’d been born to them that they almost fooled themselves. Maybe they were just afraid.”

      She clung pitifully to the one word. “Afraid? Of what?”

      “Losing you,” he said simply. “Adoptive parents often feel insecure in a lot of ways. At the backs of their minds is the fear that birth parents might suddenly spring up and want their baby back. Beyond that is the fear that you, the child, won’t love them the same way you would if they were your ‘real’ parents. I’m sure you’ve heard the nature versus nurture argument. Adoptive parents convince themselves that nurture wins. Genes don’t matter nearly as much as experience. They believe they can make you their child in every way.”

      “But…they weren’t completely successful.” She sounded heartbroken. “I know I frustrated them sometimes.”

      “Yeah.” He watched her with compassion, wishing he hadn’t been the one to bring that terrible unhappiness to her face. “It’s healthier for everyone if the adoptive parents acknowledge that their children are a kind of amalgam. If they could laugh and say, ‘Oh, your birth mom must have been a procrastinator, too,’ or, ‘Maybe your birth father was artistic like you are, because we sure aren’t.’”

      “You make my parents sound as if they’re selfish.” Before he could respond, she said with quick anger, “They were selfish.”

      “Our food’s here,” he warned her, voice low.

      Somehow she summoned a smile for the waitress, who set their plates before them and cheerily asked if she could bring them anything else.

      “Thanks, this looks great,” he said.

      When the waitress left, he took out a copy of Carrie’s original birth certificate. She accepted this from him, too, staring down at the name of the baby girl. Linette Marie Chauvin, born to father Charles and mother Marie.

      “That’s my birthday.”

      He didn’t respond. What was there to say? The agency had no reason to alter birthdates, only names.

      “Linette Chauvin.” She tried the name out, the voice thin, anguished. “It’s a pretty name.”

      “Yes. Yes, it is.”

      She looked back at the adoption decree. “I…this baby…was nine months old when she was adopted. Aren’t babies usually adopted at birth?”

      “They might be if the birth mother plans while pregnant to surrender her child for adoption. That wasn’t the case with you.”

      “And I have a sister who knew about me. She’s older?”

      “Six years older.”

      “And…and my brother?”

      “He’s the middle sibling. There’s two years between you and him.”

      Her breathing was shallow, her gaze fastened to him as if she physically could not look away. “Why?” she asked. “Why were we given up for adoption?”

      For the first time, he hesitated. “Wouldn’t you like to hear all this from Suzanne? She’s eager to talk to you.”

      “No!” Fear made her voice sharp. She took a ragged breath, then a second one. “No,” she said more quietly. “I’m not ready. I don’t know. Eventually, maybe. But not yet.”

      He hid his disappointment. Her reaction wasn’t uncommon in adoptees who were found unexpectedly by someone from their birth family. Meeting a birth relative out of the blue was often difficult. The chances were good they’d see some part of themselves reflected back, as if for the first time in their life they’d had the chance to look in a mirror. There was the necessity of knowing what to say to this person, how to feel. Did the adoptee want a relationship with this stranger whose face was familiar, who was so eager? Or did he or she only want to consent to one meeting? The whole thing was upsetting and confusing, and sometimes the adoptee needed time to adjust.