Sophie’s Secret (9 page)

“I know what you’re doing,” she said.

“What?” Sophie said.

“You want to dig in your attic some more because you’re obsessed with being adopted.”

“What does obsessed mean?”

“It means you can’t think about hardly anything else! And it’s lame, Soph! Just because there aren’t any pictures of you when you were a baby doesn’t mean your parents aren’t your birth parents!”

Sophie squinted at her, through her glasses, through the dimness. “If it were you,” she said, “wouldn’t you want to know for sure?”

“I think there are some things you just don’t have to know,” Fiona said.

Sophie couldn’t settle in with that idea, even though it had come from Fiona, who knew almost everything. She was glad it was a Dr. Peter day, so she could at least talk to him about it.

But when Mama came to pick her up that afternoon, she said Mama and Daddy were having a session with Dr. Peter instead.

“You get to go home and relax,” she said. “I made snowman cookies today, so you can have all you want. I think it’s about time we got into the Christmas spirit around our house. Boppa’s watching Zeke over at their house, so you have time to yourself for a while. Just keep the doors locked. You have my cell phone number—”

Mama was rattling on as if she couldn’t get control of her tongue. Sophie didn’t hear half of it. Once she got over being disappointed that she wasn’t going to see Dr. Peter, she couldn’t wait to get into the attic by herself and see if she could discover something new.

But it was what she didn’t find that made the attic seem darker and darker. There was a box covered in what looked like a baby quilt, pushed back into the corner. Sophie knew they hadn’t looked in this one, and her heart pounded as she opened it.

But inside were only two baby books—with things written in them about first teeth and first words and first birthday cakes. One was about Lacie. The other one was about Zeke.

Sophie was about to close the lid on them when she noticed that there were a bunch of pictures scattered in the bottom of the box. She scooped them out and leaned with them against Grandma Too’s trunk with her flashlight.

They were all of a little girl, from about two years old until maybe five. She was a tiny thing, with skinny wrists and legs and hardly any hair, but Sophie could tell she wasn’t a BABY baby because she was standing up and looking at books and hauling a huge stuffed rabbit that was even bigger than she was.

“That’s Harold!” Sophie said out loud.

It was the bunny Mama’s father had sent her one Christmas, and she’d had it until they moved from Houston and Mama said she was sure it would fall apart if they tried to pack it. Mama had told her that Sophie had insisted on naming him Harold, after Grandpa, because she’d heard Daddy say when she pulled him out of the wrappings that Christmas, “Why did Harold send her that? It’s bigger than she is!”

Sophie shone the flashlight on the photo of her dragging Harold up a flight of stairs.

Then that must be me,
she thought.
They did take pictures of me!

That gave her a sudden burst of energy, and she plowed through the rest of the attic, searching for other boxes they might have missed. But there was nothing.

Sophie sat against the trunk again with the Harold snapshot in her hand.
It’s like I didn’t even exist until I was two years old,
she thought.

Maybe to them, I didn’t.

Eight

S
ophie didn’t go up to her room as usual after supper that night, but instead she hung around with the rest of the family, and she studied them each carefully for signs.

She watched Zeke while he was tucked into the big chair in the family room with Daddy, together looking at the sports page.

Like Me: small for his age (but, then, so is Mama); brown eyes, only darker than mine; cute little turned up nose (but a lot of people have that).

Not Like Me: dark, thick, coarse hair that sticks up in all directions—like Daddy; half a smile, like Mama; a dimple in each side of his chin, like nobody; and very expressive eyebrows.

Sophie had never noticed that he even listened with his eyebrows. He was such a cute little brother, it made her want to cry.

She also surveyed Daddy as he told Zeke what teams were probably going to be in the Super Bowl.

Like Me: nothing.

Not Like Me: everything.

She moved on quickly to Mama, who was spread out on the couch writing out Christmas cards.

Like Me: light brown hair (like about half the people in the world); brown eyes (like about MOST of the people in the world); petite (because she exercises and she eats like a canary—hello!); high-pitched voice (who wouldn’t with three kids?).

Not Like Me: pretty; nice; gets along with Daddy.

It wasn’t looking good by the time she went upstairs to observe Lacie. It didn’t help that the minute she stuck her head in the door, Lacie said, “If you’re going to sit here and look at me like you’re doing to everybody else, forget it. You’re freaking me out.”

Sophie switched to Plan B. “No—I wanted to ask you a question.”

Lacie got her eyes about halfway rolled, and then she seemed to catch herself. She got up from her desk and flopped down on her bed and patted her mattress.

“Okay,” she said. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Sophie could almost hear Daddy telling Lacie she wanted her to be a “role model” for Sophie. She resisted the urge to run out of there with what little of herself she had left, and instead sat on the corner of Lacie’s bed.

“I’m not going to bite you,” Lacie said. “Here—get comfortable.”

She tossed Sophie a pillow shaped like a big fuzzy basketball. Sophie held it in front of her and looked around. It had been a while since she’d been in here. It was hard to “get comfortable” in a room where the walls were covered in huge pictures of women shooting baskets, women making soccer goals, women hitting homeruns. She was a little surprised to see a poster with the Ten Commandments on it tacked to the ceiling over the bed.

“What did you want to ask me?” Lacie said.

“I want to know if you remember when I was first born.”

Lacie gave her a blank look. “How would I remember that? I was only two.”

“I remember stuff from being two,” Sophie said. “I remember getting Harold.”

“You remember stories about getting Harold, but you couldn’t possibly remember it yourself. I don’t even remember you getting Harold, and I was four.”

That’s probably because you never pay attention to anything I’m doing anyway,
Sophie thought.

“So what’s the first thing you DO remember about me?” she said.

Lacie didn’t linger on it for too long before she shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve just always been my little sister, as far back as I can remember, which is like when I was five—so you were three.”

“You don’t remember me being a baby?”

“Unh-uh. I remember Zeke as a baby. He was so precious. He was the first baby I ever got to hold.”

“Oh,” Sophie said.

“So—is that all you wanted to talk about?” Lacie said. “You don’t want to know anything about middle school or boys or anything?”

“Uh, no,” Sophie said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

She got up and headed for the door.

“You can talk to me anytime,” Lacie said. “When you’re like this, I can actually have a conversation with you.”

“When I’m like what?” Sophie said.

“Like—real.”

“Oh,” Sophie said again.

As she trudged next door to her own room, she thought,
If this is what being real feels like—it’s not what I want to be.

Sophie had a hard time staying out of No-God Land the next day. It was a heavy, dreary place, but it seemed to hold her within its walls. When at lunch she couldn’t even get interested in the Corn Flakes’ “Treasures,” as they had decided to call the purple notebook, Fiona slapped it shut and said, “We’re going to the bathroom.”

Sophie followed her there, feeling the stares of the Wheaties behind her. They still sat with the Corn Flakes everyday at lunch, but ever since the day Maggie had brought up the psychiatrist thing, it was as if they were just there to observe, like they were window shopping.

In the restroom, Fiona shoved Sophie into a stall and closed the door behind them. Sophie had to sit down on the toilet seat to make room for both of them.

“Okay, you have to stop obsessing,” Fiona said.

“I can’t,” Sophie said. “Not until I know for sure.”

“Have you thought about just asking them?”

Sophie shook her head miserably. “They’d probably just lie to me. They’ve been doing it for nine years.”

“Nine?”

“I was adopted when I was two, I think. That’s when the pictures start.”

“Okay—I am so over this,” Fiona said. “I know a way that we can prove that you are NOT adopted.”

“How?” Sophie said.

“I saw it on
Law and Order
. It’s something about blood types and stuff.”

“Blood?”

“We ask Mrs. Utley. If she doesn’t know, then she shouldn’t be teaching science, is what I say.”

Sophie felt herself go as cold as the porcelain potty she was perched on.

“What’s the matter?” Fiona said.

“Maybe you’re right,” Sophie said. “Maybe there are some things we don’t really need to know.”

“No way—because you aren’t going to be okay until you find out. We’re going to Mrs. Utley.”

When they were finally in science class at the end of the day, Fiona waited until the students were all at work on the solar system assignment, and then she dragged Sophie up to Mrs. Utley’s desk.

She grinned at them, all of her chins wiggling happily. “What are you two up to now?” she said.

“Serious question,” Fiona said. “How can you use your blood to prove somebody is or isn’t your parent?”

Mrs. Utley’s chins all stopped moving. “That IS a serious question,” she said. She looked closely at both of them before she went on.

“Well,” Mrs. Utley said. “A person would have to have his or her own DNA compared to the DNA of the parent in question. You understand that, right?”

“Is it expensive to do that?” Fiona said.

Fiona!
Sophie wanted to say.
How am I going to get blood from Daddy?

“Very,” Mrs. Utley said. “Now, blood type, which just about everybody knows about themselves, can’t tell you that someone IS your parent, but it CAN tell you if someone ISN’T. There are some blood types that could not possibly come from the combination of two other people’s blood types.”

“Do you know how to figure that out?” Fiona said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Utley said. She was still watching them closely. The chins were very still. “One thing that is very basic is that if, say, you have the same blood type as your mother or your father, then it’s possible that the one with that blood type is your parent—but it doesn’t prove it. Beyond that, I would have to know the exact blood types involved.” She folded her plump hands on her desk. “Now, do you want to tell me why we’re having this conversation?”

“Research,” Fiona said. “Thanks.”

The minute Sophie brought up blood types at the dinner table that night, Daddy broke into a grin.

“At last—some interest in science! Some project for school, huh?”

Sophie didn’t have time to deny it. Daddy was already going around the table, pointing.

“Your mother is A positive. Zeke is A positive. Lacie is A negative—”

“I’ve always been special,” Lacie said, flashing a cheesy smile.

“And you, Soph, are AB positive. I know that for sure, because it’s the same as mine.”

“And a good thing too,” Mama said.

“Why?” Lacie said.

“What’s for dessert?” Daddy said.

“I’m not done yet!” Zeke wailed.

Sophie let them argue that out in a blur beyond her as she sorted things through. So Daddy COULD be her father. But Mrs. Utley had said that didn’t mean he definitely WAS her father. She was really no closer to knowing than she had been before.

Later she padded downstairs to have Daddy check over her math homework. She got almost to the bottom step, when she heard Mama talking to him. They were sitting at the snack bar, having their decaf and, obviously, a serious conversation. All Sophie heard was Mama saying, “Rusty, I just think it’s time she knew.”