Sweet Legacy
Page 40
I sink into the passenger seat and pull the door shut. As I click my seat belt into place, Milo puts the car in gear and takes off for the next mom-hopeful.
My hand shakes as I press the doorbell.
This isn’t new; it’s been shaking ever since Nick and I autoported into the middle of a bad-guy meet-up. It was shaking as I knocked on the doors of the previous twenty-two Cassandra Gregorys, so it’s no shock that it’s shaking now.
Though after going through this so many times, I really should be past that.
Footsteps echo inside, followed by the sound of a deadbolt retracting.
The woman who opens the door has freckled alabaster skin and flame-red hair, but she’s the right age, and that’s an improvement over two-thirds of the other contenders.
“Cassandra Gregory?” I ask.
She scowls. “I am.”
“Did you by chance give your triplet daughters up for adoption sixteen years ago?”
My heart thuds in anticipation.
“Honey,” she says, placing her hand dramatically at her waist as she scans me from head to toe, “take a look at these hips. No child has ever passed their way.”
Another strike. “I’m very sorry,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”
As I turn to walk back to Milo and the car, she calls out, “I hope you find her.”
Me, too.
I look back over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
When I get back to the car, Milo guesses, “Not her?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe the next one,” he suggests cheerfully.
“You say that every time.”
He shrugs. “It’s always true.”
“Number twenty-four,” I say, scanning the list, “is in Chinatown.”
I settle in for the drive, listening to Milo’s crackling radio and hoping—desperately—that the next Cassandra will be the right one. At this point, the chances are getting pretty slim.
I try to imagine what I think she’ll be like. Do we get all of our features from her, or do we look more like our dad, whoever he is? Does she have powers and fangs? Is she tough or elegant or good with computers? Is she like all three of us or none of us?
Milo pulls to a stop in front of the address I gave him, jarring me out of my wondering.
“Be right back,” I say as I climb out of the car.
We have this down to a science now.
“Maybe not,” Milo calls out.
I smile. I hope that eventually he’s right.
This building has a set of buzzers with the residents’ names written in thick black marker next to the corresponding apartment numbers. I locate the one that says Gregory—4B—and push the small black button.
I wait patiently but get nothing but silence.
I buzz two more times, with no response.
Oh, come on.
I really don’t want to leave this Cassandra Gregory as a question mark on the list. Maybe her buzzer’s broken, I reason. She might be up there waiting for friends or pizza or long-lost daughters to show up and not even know they’re ringing her bell.
She might be grateful.
So, with my delusion in place, I start pushing every buzzer on the panel. Normally I would never do something like this. My only excuse is that my patience is in short supply and this is a desperate situation.
Someone finally buzzes me in.
I hurry inside and head for the stairs. Elevators aren’t exactly my favorite method of transportation after the situation at my apartment. I pound the steps two at a time until I’m on the fourth floor.
I’m so winded and tired that my hand doesn’t shake at all as I knock on the door to 4B. I’m too worn out to be nervous, I guess.
I listen carefully.
Maybe she’s really not home. Maybe I was making up that story about her buzzer not working—okay, I definitely made up that story. But maybe she’s just out.
Then I hear it: the soft shuffle of feet on a hardwood floor.
I get goose bumps.
I duck down, out of sight of the peephole. If she wants to know who’s at her door, she’ll have to open it.
I realize what a dumb thought that is—who in the city is just going to open their door to any old knock?—half a second before I see the handle turn. I bite my lips together, waiting, hoping . . . fearing.
As the door swings open, I bring myself back to my full height. I’m straightening my legs at the same moment when Cassandra Gregory’s face appears in the opening.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
Well, a fast-forward mirror in which I’m looking at my future self, but a mirror nonetheless. I’m frozen, gaping at this woman who is so obviously my biological mother.
And she, too, is frozen and staring at me.
This is her, the woman who brought me and my sisters into the world, who gave us up for adoption to protect us from those who want to kill or control us because of the blood that runs through our veins. Ancient, powerful blood. Her blood.
It’s a surreal moment.
A phone rings somewhere else in the building. The spell is broken.
“Cassandra Gregory?” I say, not able to keep the question out of my voice. “I’m Grace, your—”
The door slams in my face before I can finish.
“—daughter.”
Well, this is not a good start to our reunion.
My knuckles are going to go raw from knocking.
“Please, Cassandra,” I say—I can’t call her Mom. I already have a mom. “Just let me in. We need to talk. I have something to tell you.”
My hand shakes as I press the doorbell.
This isn’t new; it’s been shaking ever since Nick and I autoported into the middle of a bad-guy meet-up. It was shaking as I knocked on the doors of the previous twenty-two Cassandra Gregorys, so it’s no shock that it’s shaking now.
Though after going through this so many times, I really should be past that.
Footsteps echo inside, followed by the sound of a deadbolt retracting.
The woman who opens the door has freckled alabaster skin and flame-red hair, but she’s the right age, and that’s an improvement over two-thirds of the other contenders.
“Cassandra Gregory?” I ask.
She scowls. “I am.”
“Did you by chance give your triplet daughters up for adoption sixteen years ago?”
My heart thuds in anticipation.
“Honey,” she says, placing her hand dramatically at her waist as she scans me from head to toe, “take a look at these hips. No child has ever passed their way.”
Another strike. “I’m very sorry,” I say. “Thank you for your time.”
As I turn to walk back to Milo and the car, she calls out, “I hope you find her.”
Me, too.
I look back over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
When I get back to the car, Milo guesses, “Not her?”
I shake my head.
“Maybe the next one,” he suggests cheerfully.
“You say that every time.”
He shrugs. “It’s always true.”
“Number twenty-four,” I say, scanning the list, “is in Chinatown.”
I settle in for the drive, listening to Milo’s crackling radio and hoping—desperately—that the next Cassandra will be the right one. At this point, the chances are getting pretty slim.
I try to imagine what I think she’ll be like. Do we get all of our features from her, or do we look more like our dad, whoever he is? Does she have powers and fangs? Is she tough or elegant or good with computers? Is she like all three of us or none of us?
Milo pulls to a stop in front of the address I gave him, jarring me out of my wondering.
“Be right back,” I say as I climb out of the car.
We have this down to a science now.
“Maybe not,” Milo calls out.
I smile. I hope that eventually he’s right.
This building has a set of buzzers with the residents’ names written in thick black marker next to the corresponding apartment numbers. I locate the one that says Gregory—4B—and push the small black button.
I wait patiently but get nothing but silence.
I buzz two more times, with no response.
Oh, come on.
I really don’t want to leave this Cassandra Gregory as a question mark on the list. Maybe her buzzer’s broken, I reason. She might be up there waiting for friends or pizza or long-lost daughters to show up and not even know they’re ringing her bell.
She might be grateful.
So, with my delusion in place, I start pushing every buzzer on the panel. Normally I would never do something like this. My only excuse is that my patience is in short supply and this is a desperate situation.
Someone finally buzzes me in.
I hurry inside and head for the stairs. Elevators aren’t exactly my favorite method of transportation after the situation at my apartment. I pound the steps two at a time until I’m on the fourth floor.
I’m so winded and tired that my hand doesn’t shake at all as I knock on the door to 4B. I’m too worn out to be nervous, I guess.
I listen carefully.
Maybe she’s really not home. Maybe I was making up that story about her buzzer not working—okay, I definitely made up that story. But maybe she’s just out.
Then I hear it: the soft shuffle of feet on a hardwood floor.
I get goose bumps.
I duck down, out of sight of the peephole. If she wants to know who’s at her door, she’ll have to open it.
I realize what a dumb thought that is—who in the city is just going to open their door to any old knock?—half a second before I see the handle turn. I bite my lips together, waiting, hoping . . . fearing.
As the door swings open, I bring myself back to my full height. I’m straightening my legs at the same moment when Cassandra Gregory’s face appears in the opening.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
Well, a fast-forward mirror in which I’m looking at my future self, but a mirror nonetheless. I’m frozen, gaping at this woman who is so obviously my biological mother.
And she, too, is frozen and staring at me.
This is her, the woman who brought me and my sisters into the world, who gave us up for adoption to protect us from those who want to kill or control us because of the blood that runs through our veins. Ancient, powerful blood. Her blood.
It’s a surreal moment.
A phone rings somewhere else in the building. The spell is broken.
“Cassandra Gregory?” I say, not able to keep the question out of my voice. “I’m Grace, your—”
The door slams in my face before I can finish.
“—daughter.”
Well, this is not a good start to our reunion.
My knuckles are going to go raw from knocking.
“Please, Cassandra,” I say—I can’t call her Mom. I already have a mom. “Just let me in. We need to talk. I have something to tell you.”
