sympathy. “I’m very sorry. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, for your family. If you have some idea that I might be that daughter, I’m sorry for that, too. But I’m not.”
“I need to show you something.” Though her breathing was shallow, Suzanne opened the portfolio carefully. “This is a picture of me when I was about your age. Will you look at it, please?”
Reluctantly, Callie took it. A chill danced up her spine as she studied the face. “There’s a resemblance. That sort of thing happens, Ms. Cullen. A similar heritage, or mix of genes. You hear people say everyone’s got a double. That’s because it’s basically true.”
“Do you see the dimples? Three?” Suzanne brushed her trembling fingers over her own. “You have them.”
“I also have parents. I was born in Boston on September 11, 1974. I have a birth certificate.”
“My mother.” Suzanne pulled out another photo. “Again, this was taken when she was about thirty. Maybe a few years younger, my father wasn’t sure. You see how much you look like her. And, and my husband.”
Suzanne drew out another photo. “His eyes. You have his eyes—the shape, the color. Even the eyebrows. Dark and straight. When you—when Jessica was born, I said her eyes were going to be like Jay’s. And they were turning that amber color when she, when we . . . Oh, God. When I saw you on television, I knew. I knew. ”
Callie’s heart was galloping, a wild horse inside her breast, and her palms began to sweat. “Ms. Cullen, I’m notyour daughter. My mother has brown eyes. We’re almost the same height and build. I know who my parents are, my family history. I know who I am and where I came from. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”
“Ask them.” Suzanne pleaded. “Look them in the face and ask them. If you don’t do that, how can you be sure? If you don’t do that, I’ll go to Philadelphia and ask them myself. Because I know you’re my child.”
“I want you to go.” Callie moved to the door. Her knees were starting to shake. “I want you to go now.”
Leaving the photographs on the bed, Suzanne rose. “You were born at four thirty-five in the morning, at Washington County Hospital in Hagerstown, Maryland. We named you Jessica Lynn.”
She took another picture out of her bag, set it on the bed. “That’s a copy of the photograph taken shortly after you were born. Hospitals do that for families. Have you ever seen a picture of yourself before you were three months old?”
She paused a moment, then stepped to the door. Indulged herself by brushing her hand over Callie’s. “Ask them. My address and phone number are with the pictures. Ask them,” she said again and hurried out.
Trembling, Callie shut the door, leaned back against it.
It was crazy. The woman was sad and deluded. And crazy. Losing a child had snapped her brain or something. How could you blame her? She probably saw her daughter in every face that held any remote resemblance.
More than remote, Callie’s mind whispered as she studied the photographs on the bed. Strong, almost uncanny resemblance.
It didn’t mean anything. It was insane to think otherwise.
Her parents weren’t baby thieves, for God’s sake. They were kind, loving, interesting people. The kind who would feel nothing but compassion for someone like Suzanne Cullen.
The resemblance, the age similarity, they were only coincidences.
Ask them.
How could you ask your own parents such a thing? Hey, Mom, did you happen to be in the mall in Maryland around Christmas in ’seventy-four? Did you pick up a baby along with some last-minute gifts?
“God.” She pressed her hand to her belly as it roiled. “Oh God.”
At the knock on the door she whirled around, yanked it open. “I told you I’m not . . . What the hell do you want?”
“Share a beer?” Jake clanged the two bottles he held by the necks.
“I need to show you something.” Though her breathing was shallow, Suzanne opened the portfolio carefully. “This is a picture of me when I was about your age. Will you look at it, please?”
Reluctantly, Callie took it. A chill danced up her spine as she studied the face. “There’s a resemblance. That sort of thing happens, Ms. Cullen. A similar heritage, or mix of genes. You hear people say everyone’s got a double. That’s because it’s basically true.”
“Do you see the dimples? Three?” Suzanne brushed her trembling fingers over her own. “You have them.”
“I also have parents. I was born in Boston on September 11, 1974. I have a birth certificate.”
“My mother.” Suzanne pulled out another photo. “Again, this was taken when she was about thirty. Maybe a few years younger, my father wasn’t sure. You see how much you look like her. And, and my husband.”
Suzanne drew out another photo. “His eyes. You have his eyes—the shape, the color. Even the eyebrows. Dark and straight. When you—when Jessica was born, I said her eyes were going to be like Jay’s. And they were turning that amber color when she, when we . . . Oh, God. When I saw you on television, I knew. I knew. ”
Callie’s heart was galloping, a wild horse inside her breast, and her palms began to sweat. “Ms. Cullen, I’m notyour daughter. My mother has brown eyes. We’re almost the same height and build. I know who my parents are, my family history. I know who I am and where I came from. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better. There’s nothing I can do to help you.”
“Ask them.” Suzanne pleaded. “Look them in the face and ask them. If you don’t do that, how can you be sure? If you don’t do that, I’ll go to Philadelphia and ask them myself. Because I know you’re my child.”
“I want you to go.” Callie moved to the door. Her knees were starting to shake. “I want you to go now.”
Leaving the photographs on the bed, Suzanne rose. “You were born at four thirty-five in the morning, at Washington County Hospital in Hagerstown, Maryland. We named you Jessica Lynn.”
She took another picture out of her bag, set it on the bed. “That’s a copy of the photograph taken shortly after you were born. Hospitals do that for families. Have you ever seen a picture of yourself before you were three months old?”
She paused a moment, then stepped to the door. Indulged herself by brushing her hand over Callie’s. “Ask them. My address and phone number are with the pictures. Ask them,” she said again and hurried out.
Trembling, Callie shut the door, leaned back against it.
It was crazy. The woman was sad and deluded. And crazy. Losing a child had snapped her brain or something. How could you blame her? She probably saw her daughter in every face that held any remote resemblance.
More than remote, Callie’s mind whispered as she studied the photographs on the bed. Strong, almost uncanny resemblance.
It didn’t mean anything. It was insane to think otherwise.
Her parents weren’t baby thieves, for God’s sake. They were kind, loving, interesting people. The kind who would feel nothing but compassion for someone like Suzanne Cullen.
The resemblance, the age similarity, they were only coincidences.
Ask them.
How could you ask your own parents such a thing? Hey, Mom, did you happen to be in the mall in Maryland around Christmas in ’seventy-four? Did you pick up a baby along with some last-minute gifts?
“God.” She pressed her hand to her belly as it roiled. “Oh God.”
At the knock on the door she whirled around, yanked it open. “I told you I’m not . . . What the hell do you want?”
“Share a beer?” Jake clanged the two bottles he held by the necks.
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