Leave Me

THE PREGAME STARTED. Sunita brought out a tray of deviled eggs, the whites an unappetizing gray. “Steelers eggs,” she explained. “You have to eat at least two or we lose.”

Maribeth must have shown her panic because Todd laughed. “I think that’s only true if you’re a Steelers fan.”

“So I take it you’re both big fans.”

“Since birth,” Todd said, tapping his chest.

“Me too,” Sunita said. “When my dad moved here, he said becoming a Steelers fan made him feel more American than getting his citizenship.” She shook her head. “When he heard he was being transferred back to India, his first concern was what would happen to me. His second was, how would he watch the games?”

“Thank god for satellite,” Todd said.

“I know, right?” Sunita said. “Sometimes he phones if he disagrees with a ref’s call.”

“Some things never change,” Todd said. To Maribeth he explained: “If you’re from Pittsburgh, Steelers love is in your blood. Whether you’re a Yinzer or a transplant from India or gayer than a bag of rainbow dicks.”

Maribeth almost said something. That she was from here.

The TV chimed. “Ohh. It’s almost kickoff,” Sunita said.

“Did you tell her the rules?” Todd asked.

Sunita nodded. “No extracurricular talking when the ball’s in play.”

“Got it,” Maribeth said.

They filled their plates with paella and sat down to watch. During commercials, they explained the ins and outs of the play and went on at length about the starting quarterback, with whom they were both enamored. “When he retires, we’re dead,” Todd said.

“Please,” Sunita said, smacking him with a throw pillow. “It’s called team for a reason. And people used to say that about Terry Bradshaw.”

“Right, and when he retired, look what happened?” Todd replied. “Let’s just hope that 2014 is our year.”

It became a pleasant blur. The food, the wine, the bickering, the drone of the commentators, the constant replays. By halftime, Maribeth was feeling warm and drowsy, and during the last quarter of the game, she drifted into a gooey sleep. Maybe it was the reminder of Harold and Maude but when Todd gently shook her awake, for a brief moment she thought she was back home, on the couch, and it was Jason who was rousing her, ready to lead her back to bed.

26

Maribeth was walking to the secondhand bookstore on Liberty to buy a new book, something she’d been doing so regularly that the bookseller had taken to buying her old books back from her, essentially becoming her personal library. Which was handy because the actual library would not issue a card without a local ID, which she did not have and could not get without blowing her anonymity.

That morning, she’d finished a thriller that had come out the year before—she remembered seeing it everywhere on the subway—and, today, if it was still there, she would trade it in for that buzzy British novel she’d meant to read but hadn’t, even though she’d been sent multiple copies by the publisher. Back in New York, the only time she had to read was before bed. (Her subway commute was always spent scrambling to read all the work e-mails she’d missed.) Once she got into bed, however, no matter how good the book, after two or three pages, her eyelids would grow heavy, and the next thing she knew, it would be morning—or the middle of the night if one of the twins was having a nightmare—and her book would be back on the nightstand, a bookmark in its pages, put there by Jason, presumably, to keep track of her glacial progression.

But here she was racing through books, reading with a voraciousness she hadn’t known in years. Some days, she sat in a café for hours on end reading. Other days, she went to the Lawrenceville library, took a book from the stacks, and sat in the rotunda by the windows, flipping the pages as the afternoon light waned.

She’d just turned onto Liberty when the phone rang. It rang a few times before Maribeth realized it was hers. Though she’d had the phone for nearly three weeks, it had never rung before. Only Todd and Sunita had her number, and they always texted. Dr. Grant’s office had it, too, but no one there ever called to confirm appointments.

“Hello?” she said.

“I’m looking for Maribeth Klein.”

It was such a familiar request, it took a moment for the wrongness of it to sink in. No one who had this number should be asking for that person.

“Is this Maribeth Klein?” the voice repeated. It was older. Female.

“Who is this?” Why was a woman calling? Was she a private investigator? Had Jason hired a PI to track her down? Would Jason do such a thing?

“Oh, sorry. It’s Janice Pickering from BurghBirthParents.org.”

Maribeth exhaled, unsure if she was relieved, disappointed, or both.

“I’m calling about your online form. Is this a good time?”

“Hold on.” It was noisy on the avenue. Maribeth ducked into a pharmacy.

“Right. Sorry. Hi. Did you find anything?”

Janice Pickering laughed. “Oh no. We’re not there yet. But I can help you if you want to search for your birth parents. I’m very familiar with the process.”

“Can you tell me how it works?” she asked.

“It’s somewhat involved to get into over the phone.”

“Okay. Should I come into your office?”

A pharmacist in a white coat asked if Maribeth needed help, then saw she was on the phone, and gave her a scolding look. Sorry, Maribeth mouthed.