Page 98 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
I point at my mother. “And this lady here? What do you know about her?”
“Not much. My mom lost touch with most of the other families over the years.”
“So you don’t have any idea who this is?”
I’m not sure whether I’m savoring the drama or dreading the reveal. What if Kenna freaks out? What if she wants her photos back and doesn’t want anything to do with me, ever again?
And we haven’t even looked at the DNA test yet.
“No, Lorelei, I don’t know who she is. Can you get to the point? Do you know who she is?” Kenna calls me on my BS.
“I do know who she is.” I square my shoulders and sit taller in my seat at the coffee shop. This whole scene would probably have played off a little better if I wasn’t still wearing two placemats and a bedsheet, but it is what it is. “This,” I say, tapping the photo of my mother, “is my mother.” And then I slide the other photo with the two of us on her mom’s lap, the one where I am holding her so tightly, in front of her. I rotate it to face her. “And this little monster here? This is me.”
Kenna doesn’t say anything for at least ten seconds. I don’t think she even breathes. She just stares at the photo. And then she takes a deep breath, opens her mouth as if she is about to talk, and then shuts it at me. She looks at me again and then picks up the photo, squinting at it, holding it in the air as if she is trying to find the similarities between me and the piebald toddler.
“How?” she finally asks.
“I spoke to my mom, and I guess both your mom and her used the same adoption agency. They were both on the West Coast and adopting as single moms. It’s not that weird, actually.”
“And we have the same gotcha day?”
“June 6th,” I nod. “It just passed.”
“I know,” Kenna says. “The uncles forgot, but then they felt bad about missing it. They usually make me a cake.”
“That is so sweet,” I say. I haven’t even met her uncles yet, but my eyes are filling with tears. “You’re really lucky to have them.”
“But wait, does this mean we’re—” Kenna cuts herself off. “The DNA test results. Lorelei! What do the DNA test results say?”
“I don’t know! I waswaiting for you to look.” I overemphasize my words, holding up my phone. “I have the site already loaded here. Do you want to check at the same time?”
“No. Open it.” Kenna flaps her hand at me. “You do it. You’ll be faster than me. Open, open, open!”
“Okay.” I punch in my login credentials. There’s a little number one over the messages icon in the navigation bar. I click on it.
You have one new relative.
I flip the phone around to show her the message subject.
“What does that mean?”
“It could mean nothing. It could mean we are fourth cousins, or it could be someone else entirely, some distant relative in Finland, for example,” I say, speaking from experience. But my hands are shaking.
“You do the honors,” I say, handing her the phone. “Either way, I think it’s pretty significant that we share this much history. My mom didn’t have any photos of the orphanage, and I’ve really struggled to find anyone I might be related to. No matter what this test says, I can’t believe we found each other.”
“Let’s hold hands.” Kenna reaches out her right hand and grips my left. The phone is sitting on the table between us. Her left pointer finger is poised above the screen. “On the count of three.”
kenna
I have a half sister.
Lorelei Dupont, my doppelgänger, isn’t my twin. But she is my sister. We share the same biological mother.
“Why would the orphanage have separated us?” I wonder out loud, as I merge onto the freeway, headed back toward Ephron. It feels good to be back in a car I know how to drive.
“They couldn’t have known,” Lorelei explains, leaning all the way back in her seat and closing her eyes. “I was a foundling, abandoned on the church steps. Technically, I had no parents of record.” She sits up for a moment, looking hopeful. “But maybe I can get some information about my, I meanour,birth mother after all now?”
“I don’t think so.” I sigh.
