Page 111 of Dying to Meet You

“Not exactly,” I say, faking a smile. “But we sat beside each other at the funeral last Monday.”

Her eyes widen. “What funeral.” It isn’t a question. “You got the wrong lady.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d deny it. When she turns away, I start talking faster. “I was dating him,” I stammer. “Recently. And I brought you something of his that he left at my house.”

She goes still, and her eyes drop to her slippers. “You were the girlfriend? The architect?”

Holding my breath, I nod.

“You’d better come inside.”

***

Five minutes later I’m sitting at her kitchen table while she fills two mugs for tea.

“I’m truly sorry for just showing up on your doorstep,” I say carefully. “But I’m confused about some things I’ve learned since Tim died, and I brought you something of his that you might want to keep.”

She braces her hands on the counter and drops her head. “I don’t know if I should thank you for coming or throw you right out that door. Tim and me... it’s really fucking complicated.”

“I can imagine.”

She looks up, and I clock the dark circles beneath her eyes. “No, you can’t. I’m sure you mean well, but you have no idea what I’ve gone through with him. Did he even tell you about me?”

For one ugly second, I consider lying. Then I shake my head.

She looks uneasy. “So how did you find me?”

“It was some guesswork, plus I found a list of birth dates and women’s names from the Wincott home. I found Tim’s birth date and matched it to your name with a little internet sleuthing.”

“Jesus.” She turns to put the mugs into the microwave. “Whatever I tell you doesn’t leave this room.”

God forgive me for what I am about to do. “Okay.”

“Even my sister doesn’t know the whole of it.”

“You aren’t in touch with Tim’s fam—” I catch myself in time. “His adoptive family?”

She shakes her head. “They don’t know about me. Tim showed up on my doorstep this February. I’d never met him before that.”

February. I take a sharp breath. “That must have been a terrible shock.”

She opens a box of Lipton tea and removes two tea bags. “You don’t know the half of it. Last year my sister did one of those tests. For DNA?”

I nod.

“She gets a call almost right away. It’s Tim, and he tells her he was adopted in 1979 from the Magdalene Home. And that a genetic test said she was his biological aunt.” Laura retrieves the mugs from the microwave, putting a tea bag in each one.

I notice how bony her hands are. She gives the impression of someone who doesn’t have a lot to spare. Not money, not energy, not flesh.

“I knew she was taking the test,” she nearly whispers. “But I didn’t expect her to find my child.”

“I’ll bet.”

She looks up at me. “You don’t understand. I didn’t expect it, because they told me he died at birth.”

Oh God. “Who told you that?” I whisper.

She takes a tiny sip of burning hot tea. Then she looks me dead in the eye. “Marcus Wincott said it to my face. May he burn in hell.”