The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (any book recommendations .txt) 📗

you anything that you want or need. In fact—I know that I can’t. But if you are still curious about any family history, I’ll put my cell number below.

I really do hope you are well. And happy. Above all, happy.

Best,

I close my eyes before I can see the name. My stomach swirls—with anticipation, with dread, with guilt.

It is just a name.

A name will tell me nothing. The name has no power until I search for it online or call his number.

It is just a name.

I open my eyes. The words on the page loop and swirl and I grip the letter tighter as I focus on the bottom.

Best,

Elliot Jackson

Elliot Jackson.

Elliot.

Jackson.

Elliot Jackson.

No.

It’s a common name.

This Elliot Jackson could live anywhere—across the country, across the Atlantic.

This Elliot Jackson is not my next-door neighbor.

This Elliot Jackson cannot be Max’s father.

Chapter Twelve

I drop the letter to the floor. Sweep it under the bed with my foot.

I can’t hold it. I can’t look at it.

I can’t breathe.

I shut my eyes tight, swallowing the first surge of bile that rushes up my throat.

This can’t be right.

The Elliot who wrote this letter must be another Elliot Jackson. Or the cryobank has made a terrible, terrible mistake. Crossed wires. Had the wrong donor write to me.

I was not from a bloodline of maybe murderers. Cheaters.

I was not from the same bloodline as Max.

Max.

The next wave of nausea hits with more force. I jump from the bed, throw my shaky legs down the stairs as fast as I can manage without tumbling headfirst in front of my moms’ bedroom door. I will not puke on the steps. I will not puke in the hallway. I hurl myself into the bathroom, lock the door, and fall to my knees in front of the toilet.

I wretch over and over again. Dinner, lunch, bile. I wretch until there is nothing left inside me. I am hollow. A shell.

I’m too weak to move at first, my arms still hugging the bowl for support. The porcelain feels cool against my hot skin.

The tears come next. I was wrong—there is something left inside me after all. A steady drip-drip added to the pool of vomit. I flush the toilet. Flush again. Add more tears to a fresh bowl of water.

There’s a knuckle tap against the door. So quiet at first, I desperately hope I’ve imagined it. I hold my breath, listen.

Another tap. “Calliope?” Mama. Shit. Mimmy would be easier to get rid of.

I slowly let go of the bowl, grab a wad of toilet paper to dry my eyes. Take a deep breath. “I’m okay. I think it’s just a little food poisoning or something.”

The knob rattles. “You locked the door?”

We never lock doors. Not the front door, not the bedrooms, not the bathroom.

“I guess so. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

A pause and then, “Can you let me in? I want to help.”

I grip the edge of the tub as I push myself to stand. The rows of checkered black-and-white bathroom tiles seem to be moving in a snakelike crawl beneath my feet. One step. Two. Three. I reach the mirror by the sink—I don’t want to look but I do. It’s a cruel, masochistic urge. I need to see if I look as awful on the outside as I feel on the inside.

I do.

My eyes are rimmed in purple, swollen and squinty. I’m still sunburned in odd spots from my day of enforced yard work, but every other bit of skin is as pale as I’ve ever seen it—paler than when I had the flu two winters back. My hair is stuck to my cheeks, glued in place by some noxious combination of vomit and tears and sweat.

“Calliope? Please.” Mama’s voice is less patient now. More knob rattling.

“Coming.” I reach for the faucet, splash a handful of cold water on my face. I check my reflection again, and I look just as awful as I did before, only now my hair is even more matted.

I undo the lock. Mama is already opening the door before I can turn the knob myself.

“Food poisoning?” she asks, brow deeply furrowed. “You haven’t been out to eat the past few days. We’ve eaten all the same foods. Maybe it’s a bug. Or hormones. Where are you at with your cycle? I’m due for mine this week, and you know that cycles—”

“Mama.” A mother’s go-to—always, always the cycle. “No. It’s not my period. You’re right, it’s probably just a bug. I’ll wake up feeling fine.”

She leans in, studying my face up close. “Have you been crying?”

“What? No.” I reach up to touch my cheeks, like I’m confused as to why she would ask such a question. “I was puking hard, though, so my eyes were watering up.”

“Hm.” It’s a deeply suspicious hm. If it was Mimmy, she would have already sent me back up to bed, and she’d be downstairs making a cup of chamomile tea to fix me. Not Mama. “Listen, sweetheart. If something has you upset to the point of puking and crying, I would love to know about it. I probably don’t need to tell you that. But if you’re not ready to share… I’ll respect that, too. Or I’ll try to at least. Temporarily. No promises long-term. Okay?”

I nod. She’s hoping I’ll break down now. Tell her what really had me wrapped around the toilet bowl in the middle of the night. But I don’t. I can’t.

When I don’t say anything more, she sighs and throws her arms around me. “Anything that’s going on, you’ll get through it. We’ll get through it. It can’t be that bad.”

It’s hard not to laugh. Not that bad.

What would she say if she knew?

The truth? My donor lives next door, and his son is my boyfriend.

No. My maybe donor lives next door. I can’t be sure. Not with so little to go on.

“Calliope? Hello? Are you still there?”

“Still here,” I say. “Just sleepy.”

Mama follows me up the attic steps and I silently thank any