Who Are You? (9780307823533) (12 page)

Mom’s shoulders drop as she relaxes. She smiles back at Dad. “I was ten,” she says. “I was furious with my mother because she wouldn’t let me do something I badly wanted to do. I don’t even remember now what it was. But I do remember how sure I was that I’d been mixed up with another baby in the hospital and had gone home with the wrong parents.”

“I was twelve,” he tells her. “We were a lot younger than Kristi is.”

They both grin at me. “Clearly, a case of arrested development,” Dad says.

“Very funny,” I tell them. But I get busy and clear the table, glad that Mom’s no longer upset with me about what I said. I shouldn’t have asked such a weird question.

I know that when I was born Mom began keeping a scrapbook with lots of photos of me and records of how much I weighed and how tall I grew—all the stuff mothers think is important. She kept it up for years and years. The scrapbook is filled with special
school papers and greeting cards I made for Mom and Dad on holidays. I began adding to it myself about the time I started high school.

After the kitchen has been cleaned, I go upstairs to my room and pull down the scrapbook from my closet shelf. On the third page is an envelope with my birth certificate inside. I take out the certificate and study the information on it.

I was born at Houston’s Women’s Center. Mom was thirty-six when I was born, and Dad was forty-five. The attending physician was Dr. Alonzo Salinas. He’s not Mom’s doctor now, but I recognize his name. Whenever there’s a news story about some new advance in women’s health care, the TV reporters interview him. He seems to be a local authority on the subject of women’s health.

I wasn’t surprised at the ages of my parents when I was born. I knew that Dad was nine years older than Mom and that Mom had been working as a sales clerk when they met. After they’d married he tried to encourage Mom to go back to college and get a degree in accounting. It took a few years, but she finally agreed. Her grades were so good that she made the honors program. She’s sometimes talked about the good friends she made in the program and the projects they worked on to raise funds for speakers for events in the honors program. Then, near the end of her senior year, Mom found she was expecting me.

Once, when she’d been reminiscing about it, I shrugged and said, “I must have been bad timing.”

Mom laughed and hugged me. “Not at all. Your father and I had tried to have a child for six years.
You’ve heard of biological clocks? Well, we got a late start and were running out of time. I was afraid we’d never be able to have a child. So we were both ecstatic when we discovered that I was pregnant.”

“You never had another child. Just me.”

Mom gave me an odd look. Then she said in a quiet voice, “It’s not that we didn’t want another child. We just couldn’t. We considered ourselves very lucky to have had
you
!”

I fold the birth certificate and tuck it back into the envelope. Mom and Dad are my birth parents. There’s no doubt about it. There’s even a signature on the certificate from the attending doctor at my birth. I trust my parents completely, so what am I trying to find? What am I hoping to prove?

I’m not going to wait until Sunday to visit Mr. Merson. He asked me to come back, so tomorrow I will.

During art club Ms. Montero stops by my desk. “Did you ever call New York and find out from the Museum of Modern Art about the Frank Kupka painting?” she asks.

“They said it wasn’t on display right now. But they didn’t tell me where it was. The woman I talked to acted suspicious of me.” I sigh. “I don’t know how to find out if I saw the real painting or not. Actually, I need to know.”

“I can help,” she says. “I know the person to talk to.”

“Thanks,” I answer. “That’s very nice of you.”

She smiles, then points out a spot where a little shading will add a third dimension to my work.

While I have her to myself I ask, “Have you ever been to the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art?”

“Yes,” she answers.

I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t, so I ask, “What do you think of it?”

“I don’t know much about it, and I’ve only been there twice,” Ms. Montero says.

“Well?” I prod, repeating, “What do you think of it?”

She shrugs, then says, “I think their prices are too high. They do carry some marvelous pieces. Once in a while they handle truly valuable paintings. I remember reading about their sale of a John Constable, and last year they were agents in the purchase of a Camille Pissarro.”

“Wow! I’m impressed.”

“But they aren’t consistent. They occasionally feature what I’d call second-rate artists at first-rate prices.” She smiles at me teasingly. “Are you thinking of buying something by one of the old masters?”

“Not yet,” I answer, and smile in return. “I’m asking because I met the owner of the gallery.”

“Alanna Chase,” Ms. Montero says.

“Right.”

I wait for Ms. Montero to continue, but she doesn’t. “Keep up the good work,” she tells me, and moves on to take a look at Jonathan’s sketchpad.

Jonathan. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan, who invited me to go with him to the Museum of Fine Arts tomorrow evening. Jonathan makes me completely forget Alanna Chase. I sneak a look from
the corners of my eyes and admire the way his profile is backlighted by the sun-soaked windows. I pull out my notebook and make a quick sketch of Jonathan.

At our lockers Lindy reminds me that I promised to go to the office of Child Advocates with her. “Tomorrow after school,” she says. “I’ve got an appointment. Okay?”

“Sure,” I tell her. Tomorrow’s too far away to think about. My mind is on my upcoming visit with Douglas Merson.

At the door of Riverview Hospital’s room 655, a tall, muscular guy with a thick, hairy neck rises from a wooden chair, blocking my way. For a moment all I can see is his orange-brown checked suit and mustard yellow tie. He’s got the right outfit for a bodyguard. That outfit would scare away anyone.

“I’m Kristi Evans,” I tell him. “Dr. Lynd said it was all right for me to visit Mr. Merson. He said he’d tell you.”

“Go on in,” the bodyguard answers. His eyes are bored as he looks away from me, searching the hall. I get the feeling that he quickly loses interest in anyone who doesn’t seem to be a threat.

I stop in the open doorway. “What’s
your
name?” I ask.

“Gurtz,” he says.

“Gurtz? That’s all … Gurtz?”

“Gurtz,” he repeats.

“Thanks, Gurtz,” I answer. First name? Last
name? What difference does it make? If I had a bodyguard, I’d hate to have someone like Gurtz hanging around.

Gurtz resumes his position in the hallway, and I close the door.

Mr. Merson is propped up in bed. He watches me walk toward him. I can see the pleasure in his eyes.

“You’re sitting up. That’s great,” I tell him. “You’ll be going home soon.”

He picks up a pad of paper and a pencil. He writes “tomorrow” and holds it up so I can see it.

“So soon? But won’t you need a nurse? Someone to change your bandages and take care of you?”

Quickly Mr. Merson writes, “I’ll have a private nurse.”

“Oh, of course,” I say. I should have known. Mr. Merson probably has enough money to hire a whole medical staff.

He motions toward the armchair next to his bed, so I sit down. On the small table next to me is a framed photograph of a guy who looks like he’s a senior in high school. He’s thin, with pale blond hair, and there’s just a touch of a smile on his lips.

Mr. Merson writes, “My son, Roger. He was eighteen at the time. It’s the last photograph I have of him.”

“I’m sorry about Roger,” I say.

He nods. For a few moments he stares down at his hands. Then he turns to a new page in his notepad and writes, “Roger had great promise. He was studying at the University of Houston in the honors program. He would have made a fine architect.”

“When did Roger die?”

“Sixteen years ago, while he was still a student.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, so I change the subject. “You were going to answer some questions for me, before we were interrupted by Sergeant Nims,” I tell him. “Will you answer the questions now?”

“You first,” he writes.

“I
was
first,” I complain. “You were supposed to be next.”

“You didn’t finish. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what you like to do. Tell me about your artwork.”

“You know something about my art—about the awards I won at school.”

Mr. Merson waits patiently, so I find myself babbling on. I tell him that I love serious art, but I also love to sketch, and sometimes my sketches become cartoons.

He’s actually listening, soaking up every word I say, so I go on. I talk to Mr. Merson as if he’s an old friend. I tell him about wanting to go to the summer art school and major in art when I’m in college, then confide that my parents are against it. I tell him what Ms. Montero said that gave me hope that someday I’ll do it on my own.

Mr. Merson holds out the pad and pencil to me.

I laugh. “Are you asking me to make a sketch of you?”

He nods, so I set to work and pretty soon I’ve drawn a comical sketch of a patient in a jumble of bandages, tubes, and bedclothes. His eyes twinkle as though he’s part of a huge joke.

When I hand Mr. Merson the pad his eyelids
crinkle, and a chuckle rolls up from the back of his throat. He tears off the page and anchors it on the table with the edge of his son’s framed photograph. Then he points a finger at me.

“I get your message. You want me to sit still,” I tell him.

I watch with interest as he sets to work. From time to time he looks from me to the paper and back again, and he draws steadily. He takes longer than I did, and I’m eager to see what he’s drawn.

Finally he tears off the page and hands it to me. I look at the sketch of my face and shoulders and gasp with surprise. The drawing is not only a perfect likeness, it has a three-dimensional quality. And there’s a light behind my eyes that makes me look as though at any moment I’ll begin to speak.

“You’re a professional artist!” I exclaim. “This is beautiful!” I study the sketch. “The shadows at the side of the face … the highlights on the cheekbones … Oh! I see how you got that effect. But the quality of making the sketch come alive … Will you show me how to do that?”

“Yes. Later,” he writes. “You have the talent, so there is a great deal I hope you will learn.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, I try to explain. “I won’t be able to take art lessons for a few years.”

“You will if you have a benefactor.”

It takes a moment for what he has written to sink in. “I don’t understand. Do you mean
you
?” I blurt out. “Oh, no. I mean, thank you very much, but I couldn’t.”

“All through history artists have had benefactors.”

I’m overwhelmed at what he is offering but confused about how to handle it. I don’t want to seem rude, but there’s no way I can accept his financial help. Flustered, I change the subject. “May I keep this?” I hold the sketch protectively to my chest as though I’m afraid someone will take it away.

“It’s yours,” he writes.

I lean back in the armchair and smile at him. “Now I know one thing about you—that you’re a very talented artist—but I want to know more. It’s your turn. Tell me who you are. And tell me why you’ve kept a file about me.”

He writes slowly and holds up the pad. “Later. I’m tired.”

I can’t tell him what I’d like to—that he’s unfair and that he’s avoiding my questions. He’s recovering from serious injuries, and he probably tires very easily.

As I get to my feet he writes, “Bring your parents to my home on Sunday.”

My parents. I’ve forgotten them and the visit they’ve planned.

“I will,” I answer. “And thank you for the beautiful drawing.”

He nods, then leans back against the pillow. He looks exhausted, and I feel guilty for thinking he was trying to escape from answering my questions.

“Goodbye, Gurtz,” I say as I pass the hulk in the hallway.

Gurtz grunts in return, which is probably the best he can do.

I should feel pleased with my visit to Mr. Merson. He enjoyed it, and the drawing was a wonderful
gift. I still feel uncomfortable about his offer to be my benefactor, but something else bothers me, and I don’t know what it is. It’s not until I climb into the car and turn on the ignition that the stray uncomfortable thoughts come together with a snap.