Birthright

the door. It seemed to herthe woman looked just a little unhinged. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you.”
    “No. You don’t know me. I’m Suzanne Cullen. It’s very important that I speak with you. Privately. If I could come inside, for a few minutes.”
    “Ms. Cullen, if this is about the dig, you’re welcome to come by during the day. One of us will be happy to explain the project to you. But right now isn’t convenient. I was just on my way out. I’m meeting someone.”
    “If I could have five minutes, you’d see why this is so important. To both of us. Please. Five minutes.”
    There was such urgency in the woman’s voice, Callie stepped back. “Five minutes.” But she left the door open. “What can I do for you?”
    “I wasn’t going to come tonight. I was going to wait until . . .” She’d nearly hired a detective again. Had been on the point of picking up the phone to do so. To sit back and wait while facts were checked. “I’ve lost so much time already. So much time.”
    “Look, you’d better sit down. You don’t look very well.” The fact was, Callie thought, the woman looked fragile enough to shatter into pieces. “I’ve got some bottled water.”
    “Thank you.” Suzanne lowered to the side of the bed. She wanted to be clear, she wanted to be calm. She wanted to grab her little girl and hold on to her so tight three decades would vanish.
    She took the bottle Callie offered. Sipped. Steadied. “I need to ask you a question. It’s very personal, and very important.” She took a deep breath.
    “Were you adopted?”
    “What?” With a sound that was part shock, part laugh, Callie shook her head. “No. What the hell kind of question is that? Who the hell are you?”
    “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
    “Of course I am. Jesus, lady. Look—”
    “On December 12, 1974, my infant daughter, Jessica, was stolen from her stroller in the Hagerstown Mall.”
    She spoke calmly now. She had, over the years, given countless speeches on missing children and her own ordeal.
    “I was there to take my son, her three-year-old brother, Douglas, to see Santa Claus. There was a moment of distraction. A moment. That’s all it took. She was gone. We looked everywhere. The police, the FBI, family, friends, the community. Organizations for missing children. She was only three months old. We never found her. She’ll be twenty-nine on September eighth.”
    “I’m sorry.” Annoyance wavered into 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