All Over the Map

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I can’t do it. I can’t peel eggplant like everything is normal. Too many questions threaten to tumble out of my mouth before they’re ready to be asked.

“I was thinking I’d stay home tonight.” I lean against the kitchen doorway as Mom rummages through a drawer.

She glances over her shoulder. “You sick?”

I clutch my stomach. “Cramps.”

“You had your period last week. Nice try. Preheat the oven and help me get the rest of these ingredients out.”

She keeps me in the kitchen, but my mind wanders back to my RootsDNA profile and the million questions it raised. I had questions about who I was before, but with a single email, the trickle has become a torrent.

When the eggplant goes into the oven, I escape. I slip down the hall and open Seth T. Bird’s profile on my laptop.

My brother’s profile?

I can’t even hold the word in my mind. It’s too slippery.

Next I google images for the current Arizona State University baseball team and find him on the second row. “Seth Birdsall, right field.”

Once I have a name, it’s easy to find him on social media. His Instagram account shows mostly pictures of sunsets and baseball games and a few with his buddies. I pore over it, wondering if I’ll find any hints about his life, about whether he knows he has a sister out there. He must. His RootsDNA profile says he’s looking for siblings.

I go all the way back to his high school graduation photo. He stands in his cap and gown between two women, a tall brunette and a tiny blonde. Based on the graduation date, he’s probably four years older than me, somewhere around twenty or twenty-one.

The oven timer buzzes, announcing that Mom will soon come looking for me if I don’t go looking for her. I close my laptop and go help her pack up the casserole for Robert’s house.

Robert’s driveway already has three cars, which means Austin and Cassidy, Robert’s adult kids, are here. It’s a big driveway though, with plenty of room for us to park. Robert owns three auto body shops in Adobe, and they must pay well. He drives a new Ford F-150 and lives in the oversized McMansion my mom sold him three years ago. They’ve been dating ever since.

We walk in without knocking. Mom decorated his place, and her style is “home-staging 101.” Neutral-toned furniture, tasteful rugs, black and white photos.

Robert is the first one to greet us, turning from the drink cart in the front room. He’s tall and slim with thinning sandy blond hair, dressed in his weekend uniform of a golf shirt and khakis. He smiles. “Hey, honey. Hi, Ken-Doll.”

Ken-Doll. Yeah. I don’t even have a dad, and I still have to deal with dad jokes. He only calls me Ken-Doll every time he sees me.

Cassidy wanders from the direction of the kitchen at the back of the house. “Oh, good. You guys are here. Kendall, come help me in the kitchen.” She gives Mom an air kiss as she lifts the casserole dish from her hands and leaves them to enjoy their predinner cocktail.

I follow her, frowning. Cassidy is always tightly wound. She’s twenty-three, and Austin, who is probably watching basketball, is twenty-six, but she acts like the older sibling. She manages one of the body shops, the same one where Austin works as a mechanic. I’ve done my kitchen duty for the day, but it’s easier to do what Cassidy wants than to listen to a long explanation about why I should do the thing I don’t want to do.

“I made a pork tenderloin for you carnivores, and your mom and I will have the eggplant,” she says.

I wish we could grill tonight. These dinners are more bearable when we eat outside. I glance through the French doors as we pass the dining room. We don’t live in the scenic part of Colorado, but Robert’s house sits on a bluff overlooking a scrubby plain, and the view of Greenhorn Peak in the far distance is pretty. It reminds me again of the big world outside of our crappy town.

Unfortunately, the late March evening still has a strong chill. Eastern Colorado can’t deny it’s spring when the sun is out, but at night it clings to the last whisper of winter. No good for eating outside.

The dining room table already boasts full place settings. Cassidy puts plates on chargers, which is so extra. Why does a plate need a plate?

“How’s school going?” she asks.

The awkward small talk is starting early tonight. I resent it more than usual because each meaningless conversation is a hurdle keeping me from digging into the RootsDNA results.

Twenty minutes later, we’re all assembled at the table, Austin having wandered in after reporting the basketball score, and the weekly third degree begins.

Robert, carving the pork: “How’d you do on the ACT?”

Me: “Don’t know yet.” Do you know my mom’s one-night-stand story is probably a lie?

Mom, passing the eggplant: “How’s your pre-calc grade?” Don’t know, but I just found out my family tree grew exponentially. Want to walk me through that equation?

Cassidy: “I don’t think either of those really measure a person’s potential. Have you looked at some liberal arts colleges that focus less on math?” Thanks for the implication that I’m too bad at math to get into a “real” school. Do you think I got that from a sperm donor or my possibly imaginary one-night-stand dad?

Me: “I have a B. I’ll bring it up. I think NYU is still a possibility.”

Austin reaching for the salt: “You good?” No, my life blew up. Thanks for asking.

Me: “Same old, same old.”

Mom, eyeing the pie for dessert: “New York is expensive and so is private school. Go Buffs.”

She already bought me the CU Boulder sweatshirt. I don’t wear it.

I’m so tired of this conversation. I’m so tired of biting back the questions straining to spill out.

“I’m pretty set on NYU. I’m going to apply for some scholarships. You know, write about growing up fatherless and how that absence has defined me. Get some college money for overcoming adversity and all that. Mom, I think with all the new DNA technology I might be able to turn up more information about him. Would that be okay?”

She picks up her wineglass to take a sip. Stalling to come up with a lie, no doubt.

“Mom?”

She clears her throat. “Sounds like something we should discuss later.”

Avoidance. It’s her go-to move. I’m over it. I’m over the nearly seventeen years of it. I’m over even one more second of it.

“I’d rather do it now. In fact, I already did it. So why don’t you explain the results of the DNA test I just got back?”

For the first time all night, no one says a word.