Page 16 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
My mother's denim jacket emerged from the dryer like a ghost made tangible, faded blue with frayed edges around the cuffs and a small hole near the left elbow that she'd never bothered to mend. I hadn't worn it since packing up her apartment, but some instinct had made me wash it along with my own clothes.
Without thinking, I slipped my arms through the sleeves and pulled the jacket close around my shoulders. The fabric still heldher shape somehow, worn soft from years of her movement, and for a moment I could almost imagine her thin arms wrapping around me from behind. The sensation was so vivid that tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them.
"Mom," I whispered to the empty laundry room, my voice breaking on the word.
The grief hit me, fresh and raw despite the months that had passed. All the accumulated sorrow I'd been carrying—the father I might never find, the relationship with Dylan that felt increasingly fragile, the uncertainty about where I belonged in the world—crashed over me in waves that left me gasping.
I sank onto one of the plastic chairs and let the tears come, my shoulders shaking as I pulled the jacket tighter. The denim smelled faintly of her perfume mixed with the generic laundry detergent, creating a bittersweet cocktail of memory and loss.
The shrill ring of my phone cut through my breakdown with jarring suddenness. I fumbled for the device with shaking hands. Tom Feldon's name appeared on the screen, sending my pulse into an erratic rhythm that had nothing to do with grief.
I swiped to answer, trying to clear the tears from my voice. "Hello?"
"Bernadette? It's Tom Feldon." His voice carried the same measured courtesy I remembered from our previous conversations. "I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
"No, it's fine," I managed, though my voice still sounded thick with emotion. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, I've been thinking about our conversation, and I contacted a lab in Lexington that can handle DNA paternity testing. They can see us on short notice if we're both available." He paused, and I could hear the sound of papers rustling. "I know this isn't easy for either of us, but I figured we might as well get it done."
The practical tone of his voice was both reassuring and disappointing. Here was a man approaching the possibility of discovering an adult daughter with the same methodical efficiency he probably brought to agricultural planning—necessary, but hardly emotional.
"When were you thinking?" I asked, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my mother's jacket.
"Today, actually, if that works for you. I called and they have an opening at two o'clock. I know it's short notice, but—"
"I'm off today," I interrupted, suddenly desperate to move forward rather than continue existing in this limbo of uncertainty. "I can meet you there in an hour."
He gave me the name and address of the facility, then ended the call.
I stood in the suddenly quiet laundry room wearing my mother's jacket and staring at my reflection in the window. The woman looking back at me appeared younger than her twenty-seven years, made smaller somehow by the oversized denim jacket.
But beneath the vulnerability, I caught a glimpse of something that looked like determination. Whether Tom Feldon turned out to be my father or just another dead end, at least I'd know. At least I could stop wondering and start dealing with whatever reality awaited.
The drive to the facility passed in a blur of mounting anticipation. The lab occupied a sterile medical building that smelled of antiseptic and industrial carpet, the kind of place where important answers were delivered with clinical detachment.
Tom was already waiting in the small lobby when I arrived, his weathered hands folded over a clipboard while he studied paperwork. He looked up when I entered, offering a smile that carried more nervousness than warmth.
"Bernadette," he said, standing to shake my hand.
"Thank you for arranging this," I replied, noting how his grip felt neither familiar nor foreign—just the handshake of a courteous stranger.
The technician who called us back was a middle-aged woman with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd performed this procedure countless times. She explained the process with practiced calm—cheek swabs for both of us, clear labeling of samples, submission to the laboratory for analysis.
"Results typically take one to two weeks," she said as we each scraped the inside of our cheeks with sterile cotton swabs. "You'll both receive notification via phone and email when they're ready."
The actual collection took less than five minutes, but the weight of what we'd just set in motion filled the small room with awkward tension. Tom and I avoided looking directly at each other as we completed the paperwork, both of us probably wondering what we'd do if the results confirmed our biological connection.
Outside in the parking lot, we stood beside our respective vehicles and attempted a goodbye that felt simultaneously momentous and anticlimactic.
"Well," Tom said, adjusting his baseball cap against the afternoon sun. "I guess now we wait."
"I guess so," I agreed. "Thank you for giving me the chance to know."
He nodded, climbed into his truck, and drove away, leaving me standing alone in the parking lot with the heaviness of another waiting period stretching ahead of me.
As I drove back to the campground, my mother's jacket still wrapped around my shoulders like armor, I found myself questioning once again whether this relentless pursuit of answers was worth the emotional toll it extracted. But whatwas two more weeks in the scheme of a lifetime of questions? I'd already invested so much time and hope in this search that abandoning it now felt impossible.
October 17, Friday
