WAS A TYPICAL Saturday, but Shannon didn’t recognize her own body. Who is that, reflected in my glass office door? It’s an Unidentified Flying Blonde, aka me, moi, myself. The same self I was yesterday, but…not.
Adopted. She was adopted.
She hovered like an alien outside her reflection in the door of Finesse.
Her image looked back at her: a tall, rangy blonde in black leather pants, black spike-heeled boots and a cropped, orange leather jacket. But she could have been watching another person approach. Her mind, usually sharp and aware, floated above her shoulders: detached in a helium balloon and connected by only a ribbon.
And I’m not even on drugs. She felt insubstantial, as if she could simply fade through the door like a wraith. Who is that woman entering my place of business? Who is she?
Shannon pulled up short between the two plaster urns full of ivy that flanked the door and put out a hand to connect with the heavy steel handle. Pull to open. Step over threshold. Smile at Jane and Lilia, your friends and business partners.
Jane looked up from her desk and peered into the reception area. “Shannon? Are you okay?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”
Lilia came out of her office with her appointment book and cell phone. “You look tired. Did you sleep last night?”
“Not much,” Shannon admitted.
“Out partying late?”
Shannon shook her head. She thought about lying to Jane and Lil, telling them that she’d stayed up late watching a movie or reading a book. Instead she just bypassed them and went to the kitchen for coffee. Pull yourself together.
She had three different appointments today, and she couldn’t be in space like this. But she had a feeling that she’d never walk steadily on earth again.
Melodramatic tendencies, Shannon. You’re not auditioning for daytime soaps anymore. The voice in her head sounded just like Mrs. Koogle’s, their ninth-grade English teacher.
It was a shame she wasn’t reading for the soaps today. Because at least in the auditions, she’d had a script to follow, lines to memorize, the anchors of the character and a plot. Plus the adrenaline of the circumstances: will this be my lucky break? Will I get a callback?
Today she had no adrenaline. No script. No happy—or even cliff-hanger—ending. Nope, this was her life. And while there had been days when she felt it was stuck in an endless, quaint New England traffic roundabout, at least she’d been moving. Her mother’s revelation yesterday had brought her to a complete standstill.
Lil followed her into the kitchen and Shannon could feel her friend’s concerned gaze on her back. If she touches me, I’m done for.
Lil’s small hand slipped between her shoulder blades and rubbed gently in a circular motion.
So much for my mascara. Shannon’s eyes overflowed. Tears of shock, hurt and confusion rolled down her nose and cheeks—and would probably have ended up in her coffee mug if Lil hadn’t handed her a paper towel.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
Shannon blinked at her and wiped at her nose. Useless to try to keep this inside. “I went to dinner at Mother’s yesterday.”
Lil nodded.
“The typical setup. Polished silver and crisp white linen. The Duncan Phyfe table set for two. Lobster bisque and arugula salad and some fancy French wine of hers…” Woeful sniff. “And of course she tells me my skirt is too short and that it’s trashy to expose my midriff and she practically calls the cops to remove my toe ring.”
“She doesn’t mean to make you feel bad,” said Lil. “She’s trying to protect you from other people’s judgment—and there’s a lot of it in Greenwich. It’s not a town full of tolerance.”
“I know, I know.” Shannon blew her nose. “That’s why I got the hell out and took off for L.A. after college. I couldn’t handle Greenwich anymore. God, they sell bottled repression in the grocery, there! In your choice of flavors—wild cherry, lemon zest, or peach blossom.” She shuddered.
“So you had dinner,” Lil prompted.
“Yeah. And I knew there was something weird going on, because I had to ask her for some family medical history on the phone the other day. She wouldn’t tell me anything, just said I should come for dinner Friday. So we’re sitting there staring at each other over these piles of arugula—I hate arugula! It tastes like grass—and she drops the bomb on me. I’m adopted.”
“What?”
Shannon nodded her head, then shook it, and then nodded again. “Yeah. After all these years, she tells me. Says it’s time that I know. I can’t believe this. All these years, I’ve thought I was someone that I’m…not.”
Lil stared at her for a long moment and then sat gracefully on one of the kitchen stools, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “I don’t know what to say.”
“This one’s not in Amy Vanderbilt, is it?” Shannon sniffed again and smiled blearily through her tears.
“Not exactly.” Lil hopped off the stool again and moved forward with open arms to give her a hug. “I don’t think I’ve seen you cry in years.”
“Oh, trust me, I did my share in L.A.,” Shannon assured her, “while I was failing miserably as an actress.” Never completely comfortable with affection, she stepped quickly out of Lil’s arms after a perfunctory pat. But she was grateful for the hug—even if she couldn’t quite accept it.
This time, they both sat on the tall stools at the little tiled counter, Shannon gripping her mug with both hands. She gazed into it as if it were a crystal ball—one that could tell her about the past as well as the future.
“Does your mother know anything about your biological parents? Why did she wait this long to tell you? You’re twenty-nine!”
Shannon shrugged. “Rebecca Shane is always an enigma. I love her, of course, but we’ve always been so different. I don’t quite fit her specifications.” She took a sip of coffee. “Apparently my father never wanted to tell me I was adopted. It didn’t make any difference to him, and he thought it would just hurt me.” She blew her nose again.
“Which it does…I feel like they’ve lied to me all these years, and it’s so weird to think that the woman who gave birth to me gave me away. Like a puppy or something.”
“Shannon, it’s not the same thing at all. She was probably in difficult circumstances, and she did it out of love. Out of concern that she couldn’t give you the kind of life she wanted for you.”
“How do you know, Lil? It’s possible that she just didn’t want to be burdened by a baby.”
“Nobody can know for sure except for her. But why are you automatically looking for the negative side? It’s possible that she made the most unselfish, amazing choice, one that must have been incredibly difficult.”
The coffee wasn’t answering any of these questions. It stared back at Shannon, brown and bland and flat. She pushed it aside.
Lilia asked again, “So what does your mother know? What details did she give you?”
Shannon twisted her long curly hair into a knot and secured it with a pencil from a can on the countertop.
“She knows very little about my biological mother and father—only some basics. Apparently this woman who gave birth to me was very young, just out of high school. My bio father was a student at one of the local colleges. He played basketball for B.U. They were from completely opposite religious back-grounds—he was Catholic, she was Jewish.”
“Do you want to find out more?”
Shannon fidgeted and crumpled what was left of the paper towel into a ball. “I don’t