The Truth Project Read online

  I have already sent out my GeneQuest kit, with DNA swab, and their lab should be sending my results any day now. Instead of relying on Bea’s results, which I’m told can differ even between siblings, I have taken initiative to make this project my very own.

  Sincerely,

  Cordelia

  To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])

  From: K. Jones ([email protected])

  Subject: senior project partners FTW

  Cordelia! What up?!

  Funny. I got my email from Ms. Nadeer that we’re partners. I was trying to find your email address and came across some of our old chats from way back in the day. Mostly dumb stuff, but I found one from the end of 8th grade—old school. Remember when we went on the field trip to the zoo and got lost near the wolf exhibit and I convinced you they open the enclosure at night? The look on your face when they started howling. Good times.

  Pretty cool we got paired up as partners for our projects. Should we meet up tomorrow after school and talk? I can come over if that works. Figure out how we can help each other?

  Kodi

  Ps. My mom says hi.

  Pps. Wait—this is still your email, right?

  To: K. Jones ([email protected])

  From: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])

  Subject: Re: senior project partners FTW

  Hey new number, who dis?

  Kidding. I’ll rock the Cordelia Bedelia email until I die. Same with my treasured copy of Amelia Bedelia in hard print.

  First of all, I’m glad you have fond memories of that day, but I legit thought I was going to die. Let’s start with the fact that you said if we were exposed to man-eating wolves, you would survive because you could run faster. Not cool. At all.

  It’s kinda crazy to think back to then. Before high school. I can’t believe we used to walk home together every day, and now I can’t remember the last time we talked. I miss hanging out in your parents’ backyard, roasting marshmallows and telling scary stories. Your dad always told the best ones.

  But yeah, it’s awesome we’re partners. Tomorrow sounds good!

  Cordelia Bedelia.

  Ps. Tell your mom I said hi back.

  It’s late

  when Mom comes in,

  and I have just enough time

  to close my laptop.

  She drops laundry on my bed,

  then drapes her hand

  on my shoulder.

  “Why don’t you like Kodiak?”

  I ask.

  Mom softens,

  threading her fingers through

  the ends

  of my too-curly hair.

  “It’s not that I don’t like him,”

  she says.

  “But I wouldn’t be a good parent

  if I didn’t try to prevent you

  from making the same mistakes

  as your mother.”

  When I don’t try to argue

  she leaves me alone,

  and I fire my email back up

  hoping

  praying

  he’s already written back.

  Sometimes I wonder what mistakes

  she sees in herself

  that she’s afraid to see in me.

  To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])

  From: GeneQuest ([email protected])

  We have your results!

  Click here to see where you come from!

  Deep down, I know what it will say.

  I’m not so different.

  Them

  and

  me.

  Deep down I know

  I’m looking for confirmation

  that

  there

  is

  a

  reason

  I

  don’t

  fit.

  My Results

  61.1% British & Irish

  22.2% French & German

  13.8% Broadly Northwestern European

  1.4% Southern European

  1.1% Broadly European

  0.3% Nigerian

  0.1% Broadly Western Asian & North African

  To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])

  From: GeneQuest ([email protected])

  You have new

  GeneQuest relatives!

  Click here to connect to your DNA family!

  (If you can’t see relatives, make sure you’ve got “search function” set to ON in settings)

  GeneQuest

  Start connecting with your family!

  Name

  Relationship

  Jack Bisset

  Father

  Father’s side. 50% DNA shared.

  99.9% accurate

  It doesn’t matter that others are listed.

  an uncle—25% shared DNA

  a grandmother—25% shared DNA

  a cousin—12.5% shared DNA

  I can’t see past Father.

  Jack Bisset—50% shared DNA.

  As if this is common knowledge

  that somewhere a man lives

  who genetically

  is my father.

  I can’t stop staring outside

  to a light snow

  inching up my windowsill,

  creating a blanket between me

  and the world.

  I slide down in my bed

  hugging a pillow

  and repeating over and over and over and over again.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  I was right. I. Am. Adopted.

  Sana-Friend ♥

  Me: I’m freaking out.

  Sana: Too much Taco Bell?

  Me too friend.

  Me. Too.

  Me: No, this is serious.

  I just got the GeneQuest results.

  Sana: Is it cancer?

  Me: I’m sending a screenshot of my DNA relatives. Hold on.

  Sana: Holy. Fuck.

  Me: I know.

  Sana: That can’t be real. No. Are you kidding?

  Me: I almost wish I was. But it makes sense, right?

  Oh my god.

  The other day she said something about not wanting me to repeat her mistakes.

  What if she didn’t mean her. But, like, a BIRTH mom?

  Sana: Did you ask your parents about it?

  Me: I can’t. Remember when Bea decided to switch majors?

  Dad shut down and stopped talking to people.

  Mom started doing CrossFit.

  And that wasn’t nearly as big as this.

  I can’t breathe right now.

  My heart is going to fall out of my chest.

  Sana: Okay, stop. I’m coming over.

  Me: No.

  I can’t be here.

  I’ll come to you.

  I can’t tell if I need

  to wipe snow from

  my frosty windshield

  or tears from my eyes.

  There’s no way to tell except

  blinking and wiping.

  It’s not going away.

  That thing that makes it

  so I can’t see straight.

  The snow.

  The tears.

  The pain.

  My best friend lives in a double-wide trailer.

  My parents talk about her mom

  in that bad way people do when they

  don’t understand something.

  Sana yells when she’s mad.

  Swear words are part of her,

  like breathing.

  And she pushes buttons

  and parties

  and smokes weed sometimes.

  She doesn’t follow any rules


  except her own.

  We shouldn’t work.

  But Sana champions everything

  I do.

  She listens to my poems before

  I let anyone else see them.

  She leans over my notebook

  and whispers,

  “It’s so good.”

  That trailer she lives in

  sometimes feels

  more like home

  than my own.

  And her mom,

  who my parents don’t understand,

  works two jobs

  and makes me feel like I belong.

  Sana is my friend.

  My defender.

  My person.

  When Sana tells me,

  “It’ll be okay.

  It’s not okay right now,

  but it will be.”

  I want to believe her.

  But this morning

  Jack did not exist to me.

  And now he’s taken up space in my heart

  so gargantuan I think

  there might not be room left for me

  anymore.

  He’s going to grow so big,

  my chest will split open,

  and my guts and soul

  will spill out right in front of Sana.

  Then I bet she won’t tell me,

  “It’s okay.”

  Sana turns on my favorite songs,

  and we use her neighbor’s Wi-Fi

  to internet stalk the stranger I share half my DNA with.

  But he’s even a stranger to the internet,

  a single matched result,

  with a private Facebook.

  His profile picture is my only clue

  to who he is.

  A man with a guitar cradled in his lap.

  Shaggy auburn hair, eyes closed,

  and a tattoo of a woman

  with devil horns

  on his collarbone.

  Somewhere there is a world

  where I grew up sitting on his lap,

  tracing my fingers along

  the strings of that guitar,

  and finding myself in

  the father I don’t know.

  Giggling because the mother

  I don’t know

  is making a funny face so I’ll

  smile

  for the picture she’s taking.

  Maybe she’s got dark curls like me.

  And writes poems

  getting lost in thoughts

  imagining people

  she’ll never know

  and places

  she’ll never go.

  To: Bea Koenig ([email protected])

  From: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])

  Subject: I miss my sister.

  Hey,

  I know I haven’t emailed in a while, but I miss you. How’s school?

  I’ve been working on my senior project. Got my GeneQuest results back today, actually.

  Feeling a little down. A little misplaced. Any chance we can get a Skype date in soon?

  Love,

  Cordelia

  When I was little, I wondered

  what made me different from my family.

  I couldn’t understand

  why none of them

  needed to say something

  a million times

  in their heart

  before they spoke

  it with their tongue.

  Why Mom and Bea never seem to cry

  at movies I feel in my soul.

  Or why Bea and Iris have the same

  sense of humor. Their jokes

  a connective tissue

  and I’m the one struggling

  to think of anything to add.

  And why is Dad gentler with me

  than my sisters?

  Why I’ve always felt lonely

  sitting with them at the dinner table.

  Like maybe this wasn’t ever supposed to be my life.

  I know they feel it too.

  The way they look behind my back at each other

  when I say something that is too much.

  Or feel things harder than they do.

  Maybe it’s that they don’t understand me,

  but it might also be because they know.

  Deep down, they know.

  They know

  Beatrice

  and

  Iris

  belong.

  While I’m

  the outlier

  the piece that doesn’t fit.

  the one who shares nothing

  but name.

  The child

  stuck in the middle

  of a family

  who would have

  been just as complete

  without her.

  I’ve known.

  I’ve been waiting for

  the other shoe

  to drop.

  Now that it has,

  I want to glue

  my shoes

  to my feet.

  Turns out dinner isn’t always the same.

  When you know a secret,

  everything feels like a gesture

  a nod

  a clue.

  Iris is in trouble, see

  it doesn’t happen very often.

  But when it does it’s

  hashtag unfair

  and Mom and Dad are

  hashtag overreacting.

  Dad says,

  “No legacy is so rich as honesty,”

  and I laugh, not because he’s funny

  but because no one

  knows

  I know the legacy of truth

  is a lie.

  I am a lie.

  So I say,

  “Ignorance is the curse of God;

  knowledge is the wing

  wherewith we fly to heaven.”

  And he’s proud, slapping his leg

  and laughing.

  “Exactly!” he shouts,

  and points at Iris.

  “Take lessons from Cordelia.”

  At the very end of the table

  Mom cradles her lifeline wine.

  Her smile is empty, studying me

  like she also wants to know

  which parts of me come

  from other people.

  To: Cordelia Koenig ([email protected])

  From: Bea Koenig ([email protected])

  Subject: Re: I miss my sister.

  School is fine. I’m hoping to finish this semester with all As and maybe stay on for summer so I can finish up school on time. Switching majors is a pain—try not to do that. Who knew that a degree in Women’s Studies is about as valuable as a degree in English (no offense!)?

  I’m glad you’re working on your project. But I’m confused about the ancestry part. Mom said you were doing something with poetry. Do you need me to send you my GeneQuest results?

  Also, what has you feeling “misplaced,” or is this just a typical overly-dramatic-Cordelia moment? Honestly, babe, you’ve got to stop being so sensitive or you’re never going to survive college.

  Trust me, things will be different when you get to Columbia. You won’t care about the little things you worry about now. Maybe a Skype date next week? Soooooo busy.

  Love always,

  Bea

  Kodiak tells me about his project

  like a little sea otter.

  Bobbing his head up and down,

  breaking it apart like it’s an urchin

  full of juicy meat,

  tender and fulfilling.

  “A modern retelling of Tlingit stories.”

  He’s so excited

  I almost forget last year happened.

  I tell him how mine feels like seaweed,

  tangling my toes

  and keeping me down.

  When he asks, “How can I help?”

  I try not to let the pinprick of tears

  stain the first time we’ve talked

&n
bsp; really talked

  in years.

  “Don’t cry.”

  His hand rises between us,

  palm upturned.

  He’s an eagle again.

  Open.

  Secrets.

  They are as intimate as going palm to palm.

  My hand slips into his,

  and it’s calloused and soft at the same time.

  Fingers intertwined,

  his eyes staring into mine like they might swallow

  what is left of me.

  “I’m here if you need to talk.”

  At night,

  when Iris texts her friends from her room

  and Dad lies slumped over in an armchair

  while Mom sleeps in their bed,

  I study our family photos.

  I look for the wave in my brown hair

  and the same nose my sisters have.

  I look through old photo albums in the library.

  Thumbing through pictures,

  vacations to Disneyland,

  day trips to Seward,

  nights in Alyeska

  where we picked blueberries

  and ate them until our fingers

  were stained purple.

  I find a picture of my mother,

  belly fat and full of baby.

  She’s smiling at the camera

  but her eyes are sad.

  Bea hangs from her leg

  with pigtails and a T-shirt that says,

  I’m 3!

  3.

  The same age she was when I was born.

  There’s lurch in my stomach,

  a pit

  staining my heart instead of my fingers.

  The question bigger now.

  How?

  What if I’m not adopted?

  What if the answer to the question

  makes it worse?

  Makes the puzzle

  unsolvable.

  Unimaginable.

  What if I’m the history

  she doesn’t want me to repeat?

  Best Mama

  Me: Mom, can I ask you a question?

  Mom: Sure.

  Me: Maybe I’m not adopted.

  But would you tell me if I was, like, from a sperm donor or something?

  Mom: Cordelia, I don’t have time for this.

  I have 3 showings this afternoon.

  You’re not adopted.

  I didn’t use a sperm donor.

  Do your homework.

  We can talk later.