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 She didn t want to meet in public, guess she didn t
wanna be seen with me. I thought here would be good.
Then she d get to see my trophies, my artwork, you
know, stuff she might like. I wanted to impress her.
 So the big reunion I d waited for since I was a kid
finally happens. She shows up in a cab, wearing a scarf
and shades like she s incognito. It started out okay.
Then I told her I had a surprise.  Good news, I say.  I m
not dying. 
He shook his head, expression pained.  I thought
she d be happy, relieved to find a healthy son instead
of some needy guy who wanted something from her. It
was a disaster. She was furious.
 What did she say?
  You don t know how much you ve cost me, or
words to that effect.
 What do you think she meant? I asked.
He shrugged.  Must have lost time from work, her
family. Airfare s expensive; she s from out of state.
 I said,  You re my mom. How can you say that?
But she just took off. Her parting shot was that I m just
YOU ONLY DIE TWICE 307
like my father. The way she said it made it obvious that
they aren t getting together.
 I botched it. Totally. She didn t want to see or hear
anything once she knew I lied. Shot me down and took
off, really pissed. Haven t heard from her again. She s
not even on-line anymore. Her e-mail address is shut
down. I don t blame her. I never should have done it.
Maybe she ll cool off someday and make contact again.
If not, I sure learned a lesson. The reunion fantasy is al­
ways better than the real thing.
 You should put that in your story, he suggested
thoughtfully, leaning back in his creaky chair, long legs
stretched out.  When you re adopted you tend to day­
dream, to fantasize that your birth parents are fabulous
strangers out there somewhere. But if they were really
fabulous . . . I mean, there s a reason people give a
child away. It means you were a mistake.
 I ve done a lot of thinking since then, he said,  and
I m grateful for what I do have. I ve got my feet back
on the ground. No matter what my problems are, I m a
damn sight better off than ninety-nine percent of the
people on the planet and if I want something of my
own, if I want a family, I have to create it myself. And I
can do that in time. But  he turned to me, eyes
pleading  I d hate to be any more embarrassed about
this than I am already, so please don t write about it. Or
at least not until I get out of town.
 Where are you going?
 Got a full scholarship to Boston College. Dad has a
sister up there. Once he s well enough, I m gonna move
him north too. I just got back, spent a couple of weeks
308 EDNA BUCHANAN
there getting to know her and her family, checking out
the facilities. I m really up for the change. Sometimes
you just have to move forward and be your own per­
son, he said.  Travel down your own road and make
your own life.
 True, I said, closing my notebook.  Who cares
about ancient history?
 Right. He grinned.  Hey, look at the time. I ve got
to get ready for my shift tonight.
He spent a few more moments showing me his art­
work, charcoal sketches and watercolors, sunlight and
shadow on bridges, picturesque buildings, and old cars.
They filled the wall space in his room and were stacked
against the furniture, competing for space with his
baseball and debate team trophies and his computer, its
screen dark, on a small corner desk. A recent painting
was still on the easel. A sandy-haired girl and a
medium-size shaggy dog posed on what looked like the
same back porch where we had just talked.  That s
Cindy, he said,  and Boscoe.
 Lovely. I admired the softness of her face, the
graceful flow of her scarf and the dog s whiskery grin.
Danny Sinclair walked me out to my car, smiling
and clear-eyed.  Good luck with your story, he said,
and waved as I drove away.
 Good luck to you too, I told him.
I played the radio, turned up the volume, and sang
along loudly to keep awake during the long drive back.
It s true, I thought, babies do change people. They
change lives forever. I went directly to Kagan s office.
 Is he in?
YOU ONLY DIE TWICE 309
 Do you have an appointment, Miss . . . ? Frances
asked, eyes wary.
 No, I said,  but I hope he can spare a moment.
 I see, she said crisply.  Your name again?
Too tired for her paranoia, even when no one was
watching, I stared her straight in the eye. She gazed
back like a total stranger.
 Montero, I said wearily, wondering what fright­ [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]