Oh God. She had unsubscribed, in a fit of cleansing her inbox of things that did not “spark joy.” This was Marie Kondo’s fault.
She dropped her head into her hands. “Maybe we unchecked the box fast enough?”
“Maybe.” But she could tell he doubted it. “Maybe this is one of those sites that mails off a daily digest of activity after the fact.”
“How could I be so stupid?” she moaned into her palms. “What did clicking that even prove?”
“Well. Maybe it’s better to have a chance to clear up the confusion sooner than later.”
“Better?” She lifted her head so he could see for himself she hadn’t been born yesterday.
“I’m not sure doing nothing was ever going to be the best option,” he said gently. “Do you really want to go on suspecting something this serious that might not be true? Something that could be explained away if only you’d ask? That would eat at you.” This seemed unfairly easy for him to say. Much as he loved her parents, no rando was claiming his dad as their own.
She looked down at her fingers. Mom’s fingers, really. Caroline might have been a computer-generated image of her parents’ predicted child: Mom’s body—the dancer-like build, fair coloring, and thick blond hair—with Dad’s facial features superimposed on top. The slightly wide-set eyes, crook in the nose, heart-shaped chin …
Was it possible someone else out there had them, too?
“Let’s just contact a rep and find out how to challenge the match. Or call it into question, or whatever.”
Walt reached for his phone, then stopped, pointing instead at the details on the computer screen. “Call center keeps regular business hours. First chance is nine a.m. tomorrow. How’s your schedule in the morning? Can you swing it from the office?”
She pictured all the personal calls she’d had interrupted by one coworker or another: detailing a toddler’s rash for the pediatrician, or apologizing to daycare about a biting incident, or begging for school pictures to be taken even though she’d forgotten to send in the order form. This was not the same kind of potential embarrassment, breezily shrugged away.
This kind might require space to process.
“I don’t know if I want to.”
“I could call, if you want? Or we could send an email. Says to allow one to three business days for a response, but it might not take that long.”
“Both?”
Walt pulled up the contact form. “You know, if he does get the email, he’s going to assume you got one too.”
“Well, then maybe he’ll save me the trouble of figuring out how the hell to bring this up with him.”
Mere hours ago, she’d almost laughed this off. A miserable sinking feeling overcame her. She felt nonsensically angry at Sela. She didn’t want to put herself in the woman’s shoes, the way she briefly had at first when it seemed such an improbability, the way Walt was now that it was not. She just wanted her to go away.
But if so much could change so quickly, it had to be as likely that by this time tomorrow, she and Walt would be sharing a belly laugh over the false alarm. Over the agonizing they’d done for nothing. It had to be a mistake. Dad would never let a possibility like this be.
After all, he’d been the one to teach her: If you have half of anything, you round up.
2
Sela
She knew Doug’s SUV by the headlights, even through the dreamlike fog that had descended from the mountains overnight, even in the yawning blackness of the dawn before sunrise. So often had Sela watched him come and go that the exact curvature and yellow white glow of this particular broken promise had imprinted on her mind, and as it approached now she dipped her head, tightening her grip on Oscar’s leash and hoping that if she pretended not to see, Doug would take his free pass and drive on.
Willing Oscar to follow suit was futile, but she did it anyway. As a puppy, he’d been such a curmudgeon, completely uncharacteristic for his retriever breed, let alone his youth. He’d resisted walks, digging in his paws every step that took them farther from home and then pulling so eagerly when they turned back he’d choke himself the whole way. He’d stared with mute skepticism at balls, squeaky toys, and anything else he was actually supposed to mouth or chase or chew, and gave his plush bed a wide berth no matter which corner of which room Sela moved it to. But he’d grown into one of those dogs who clearly identifies more as human child than canine adult, and as such he showered his “parents” with a love so enthusiastic it made a bighearted joke of his name. If he noticed their new shared custody agreement carried for both parties a regret-laden sadness, he showed no sign.
With her eyes averted, it was hard to tell which came first: the vehicle slowing along the curb or Oscar yelping and flinging his tail in jubilant recognition. Either way, the result was the same: her ex-husband meeting her reluctant smile with his own, cutting his engine, and taking a knee in the dewy grass at Oscar’s side, burying his hands in the golden fur to say hello.
“You’re up early,” Doug observed, sounding forcibly casual. “Sleep okay?”
He likely hadn’t been awake for more than a few minutes but nonetheless looked rested, ready to go. Although he’d always been fit, his tall frame had hardened, broadened since he’d left her; everything about him was suddenly so intentional, down to his mussed hair, as if determined to become opposite of her in nearly every way. She’d never been especially athletic but once had a litheness, elegance even. Now, she was more spindly, unable to hide her fragility. Shadows permanent beneath her eyes. Shine gone from her hair. Everything she tried to mask this—cutting her brunette waves to this pixie cut, dabbing on concealer before running even the smallest errand—seemed only to call attention to the problem.
Doug heading to the gym at this hour was normal—she knew without looking that the front seat held a forest green duffel of everything he needed to shower there and head straight to work—but her standing in the front yard was not. Concern was plain on his face, and she hugged her hooded sweatshirt in a posture of self-preservation. The term ex-husband was still foreign enough that Sela sometimes found herself rolling it around her mind, partially because technically they remained married, for reasons exclusive to health insurance. She’d protested the arrangement, already foreseeing the awkwardness when he got serious with someone new and they had to have all the big, teary talks all over again. But he’d insisted. Least he could do, seeing as she was self-employed and thus had limited benefits.
That, and him having left her with a pair of vital organs slowly failing.
“Slept fine,” she said. With declining kidney function came a nighttime restlessness that was cruelly disproportionate to the fatigue she battled all day: swelling, muscle cramps, a bladder that begged to be emptied in the incessant manner of a kid on a road trip—Are we there yet? But admitting this was why she was up at 5:00 a.m. was akin to admitting defeat. Though Doug’s former address really was on his new commute, she never shook the feeling that he was checking up on her, that passing inspection was paramount to avoiding further scrutiny. “I wanted to get a jump on some mock-ups for a new client.”