“Grace, look, if you want to find her, go for it. But I’m out. I just want to graduate, go to New York with Claire, and move away from here and finally start my life. I’m not interested in going backward, okay?”
Grace knew right then that Maya was angry—at their bio mother. And that as a result, she could never tell Maya about Peach.
“But it’s cool if we hang out,” Maya added, and Grace wondered what her face looked like if Maya felt the need to add that part. “You seem nice, your parents seem fine, and you know, if I ever need a kidney or a blood transfusion, it wouldn’t hurt to have you in my contacts.” She smiled a little. “And vice versa, of course, although I faint around needles.”
Grace nodded. What was she going to do, force this new person to go on a wild-goose chase with her? “Okay,” she said. “If that’s how you feel.”
“Really?” Maya picked up her pillow and hugged it to her. “God, that was easy. Lauren would just whine and whine until I finally said yes.”
“Well, that’s a sister thing. Give me some time—I’m sure I can work on it.”
“I would maybe be interested in finding our brother, though,” Maya said.
Grace nodded. She hadn’t told anyone—and she had no plans to, either—but she kept having nightmares that Peach’s new parents gave her away, that she was suddenly gone all over again, lost in the system that had ensnared Joaquin. But instead of saying any of this, she dug her phone out of her pocket. “I talked to his social worker last week. My parents helped me track down her info, and she said that we could email him.”
“She did?” Maya set her pillow down, leaning forward. “Why does he have a social worker?”
“Because he was, um . . .” Grace squirmed a little, the duvet no longer as comfortable. “Because he wasn’t adopted. Like, ever? He’s been living with this family about an hour away from here, but he’s been in a lot of different homes since before then.”
Maya’s eyes grew wide, and Grace finally saw the little-sister potential in her. She could imagine Maya toddling after her, annoying her, pulling her hair and borrowing her clothes without asking first. She didn’t tell Maya about all the people she’d talked to on the phone, trying to follow a seventeen-year-old trail of bread crumbs that had mostly blown to the wind and taken Joaquin with them. She didn’t mention that some people had been rude, others had been so helpful that it made Grace’s heart hurt, that Joaquin’s family tree seemed to have way too many scraggly branches and not enough roots, not the kind of roots you would need when the storm was strong.
“We should totally email him!” Maya said, then threw her pillow at Grace in excitement. “But you do it. You write really good ‘Hello! I think we might be related!’ emails.”
“I took it as an elective freshman year,” Grace said, then smiled when Maya laughed at her joke.
So that’s how Grace ended up drafting yet another email to a sibling she had never met.
Hi Joaquin,
You don’t know me, but I think we share some family. I know your social worker mentioned that we might email you. A girl named Maya and I recently found out that we’re biological sisters. We were both adopted and met each other for the first time and, after doing some research, realized that you might be our brother.
Would you be interested in meeting up with us? We live about an hour away so we could meet you anywhere.
Best wishes,
Grace & Maya
“Best wishes?” Maya said when she saw the email. “Seriously?”
“It’s warm without being personal,” Grace explained, shrugging her shoulders.
“Warm without being personal?” Maya repeated. “Wow, okay.”
“So what’s it like being in a family of redheads?” Grace asked, trying to change the subject.
Maya huffed out a laugh. “Did you see the Sears Portrait Studio out there?” she asked, then sang, “One of these things is not like the other . . .”
“Are your parents cool with you being gay?” Grace suddenly felt oddly protective of her, like she had with Peach.
“Are you kidding? This is basically their claim to fame. They pretty much joined PFLAG before I even finished telling them that I was a lesbian. My dad—get this—he wanted to go to a gay pride parade with me.”
Grace couldn’t help but giggle, oddly relieved that Maya wasn’t in some awful, oppressive home. “Well, that’s good, right?” she said. “That they’re supportive?”
“No, it’s totally good. It’s just like . . .” For the first time since they had been upstairs, Maya seemed at a loss for words. “It’s good,” she finally said, and Grace decided not to push it anymore.
They exchanged phone numbers and listened to music (Maya’s) and talked about Claire. It was a good thing Grace didn’t want to tell Maya about Peach or Max, because she could barely get a word in edgewise. And by the time she and her parents were driving off in their car, she savored the relative silence of their Toyota Camry (squeaky brakes excepted).
“So!” her dad said after a minute, clapping his hands together. “Highs and lows!”
Grace groaned. Her parents used to do Highs and Lows at night after work and school, where they’d each have to talk about the high and low points of their day. That had pretty much stopped after Grace had announced she was pregnant. (Low.) “Dad, please . . .”
“I’ll start!” he said. “My high was seeing you meet Maya, Grace. That was . . . well, it just meant a lot to me, as your dad.”
“Dad, please, I can’t cry anymore this month. I’m tapped out.”
“Okay, okay, fine. But my low was realizing that I might have to wear a three-piece suit every single time we get together with their family.” He sighed. “I felt like a farmer at the table.”
Grace clapped him on the shoulder from the backseat. “You took one for the team, big guy.”
He patted her hand in response.
“Okay, my turn, my turn,” her mom said from the driver’s seat. “My high was listening to you talk to Maya upstairs and hearing you laugh. It’s been a long time since we’ve heard you laugh, Gracie.”
“Maybe you’re just not as funny as you used to be,” Grace said, but she knew her mom would know she was joking. She was pretty hard to offend.
“And my low was knocking my chicken off my plate with my knife. I wanted to die.” Grace’s dad started to laugh. “I seriously did, Steve! That entire house looked like a mausoleum—”
“That’s what I thought, too!” Grace cried.
“—and who’s the first person to get gravy on the tablecloth? Me.” Her mom groaned. “Diane was very gracious about it, though.”
“Where’s our tablecloth?” Grace asked. “Do we even have one?”
“Not since your dad accidentally set it on fire last Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, yeah.” The highs and lows on that particular holiday had been intense. And smoky.
“Okay, your turn,” her mom said, glancing at Grace in the rearview mirror.
“Well, I guess the high was meeting Maya. And she’s normal. I mean, at least she’s not homicidal or anything.”