The Other You (Heart of Africa)
By Marion Ueckermann
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FEET DANGLING off the jetty’s edge, Taylor Cassidy gazed across the dark waters of Puget Sound toward Mount Rainier. The snowy giant shadowing Gig Harbor always managed to raise her spirits. Not today. A crisp wind lifted her hair, blowing strands across her face. They clung to her cheeks. She swiped both hair and tears away then turned to her mother who’d finally caught up with her after she’d bolted from their cozy family restaurant on the harbor.
“Who am I?”
“Taylor, honey, come inside. It’s cold out here.”
Her world crumbling, Taylor glared. “Who—am—I?”
“I can explain...” Eloise Cassidy sat down beside Taylor.
Jaw clenched, Taylor breathed deep before speaking her mind. “Explain? How can you explain the fact that I cannot donate a kidney for my own da— For the man fighting for his life in the hospital?” She raked her hands through her hair. How could this be happening?
“I–I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I know how much you wanted to help your father.” She reached for Taylor.
Taylor shuffled to the side, avoiding her mother’s touch. She couldn’t. Not now. “You mean Alistair.”
“Don’t be like this, Taylor, please. You’re upset, naturally, but they’ll find a match for Dad... Alistair.”
“Eventually. Hopefully.” She brushed her cheek with the sleeve of her jacket. A thin line streaked the fabric, moisture turning it a darker shade.
This explained so much. Like why she’d always felt a part of her was missing, and why the man had always held her at arm’s length. She’d tried so hard to have a close, normal father-daughter relationship with him. Never happened. She’d thought donating a kidney would’ve brought them closer. A pipe dream now. All up in smoke. Mother’s words still echoed. You won’t be an eligible donor. You’re not his child.
Taylor squeezed her eyes tight, shutting out the tears that stung. She straightened her back and swallowed hard, Alistair Cassidy’s health no longer the most pressing issue on her mind. “You kept me believing a lie for twenty-four years? How could you do something like that?” She narrowed her gaze. “Who is my father?”
“I–I don’t know.”
Taylor raised both hands, releasing a heavy breath as she slapped them to her thighs. “Great, Mom. Not only do I find out that my father is not my father, but I discover you slept around. Something you preached at me my whole life not to do.”
“Taylor!” Mother’s hand smacked the jetty between them. “I most certainly did not sleep around. I’ve only been with Alistair.”
Taylor clamped her bottom lip between her teeth. That was uncalled for. What had she been thinking, accusing her mother of being promiscuous? Especially at a time like this when she was already dealing with so much with Alistair’s illness, and trying to keep the restaurant running on her own. Poor woman was spent. Part of Taylor wanted to lean over and wrap her mom in her arms, tell her she was sorry. The other half...
But if her mom had only been with Alistair, unless she’d come from a test tube, that only left one thing—
“I’m adopted?” Taylor could barely hear her own voice, the enormity of those two words spinning her shattered world off course.
Mother gave no response. Had she not heard her?
“I’m adopted?” Taylor tried again, finding her voice this time. “You’re not my mother, either? Or was I conceived in a petri dish, the product of some unknown sperm donor?”
“Taylor... Of course I’m your mother. I raised you. As did Alistair. We are your parents.”
Taylor lifted her legs and spun them around, planting her brown boots on the wooden jetty. She pushed to her feet. She needed to be alone, to think.
“Taylor, stop. Where are you going?”
“Back home.”
“And after that? Taylor, I know you— Don’t do anything rash.”
Mother scurried behind, her Merrells thudding against the planks as they made their way back toward the restaurant. Boats bobbed lazily in the calm waters beside them—a contrast to the storm crashing down on the Cassidy household. Life would never be the same after this deluge.
Pivoting, Taylor faced her mother. “New York, Mom.” Perhaps in returning to the place of her birth, at least according to her birth certificate, she’d find the answers to who she really was.
***
Refusing to be wheeled out in a chair, Armand DeBois pressed down on the grip of the forearm crutches and limped through the exit of Stellenbosch Mediclinic, flanked on either side by Peter and Kate Smythe, his in-laws. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and feel the African sunshine on his face, the warm wind brushing his skin. He lifted his hand to his head, void of covering. The crutch dangled from his arm.
“Don’t worry, Armand. It’ll grow back.”
He didn’t answer his mother-in-law. His thoughts turned to Aimee. How she’d loved to run her hands through his hair. He pressed his eyes closed, trapping the moisture, as his trembling fingers traced the scars, evidence of where they’d stitched him. Why hadn’t they just let him die along with his wife?
“Are you all right?” Peter touched Armand’s shoulder, his hand lingering.
No. I’ll never be all right.
Armand nodded and offered a brief smile that couldn’t hide his heartache. He stared ahead. “Just feeling the sunshine and the familiar Cape Doctor.” He could never understand why people found the strong wind an irritation. He’d always been thankful for the persistent dry southeasterly that gusted off the Stellenbosch Mountains, blustering until March and clearing the summer air of pollution and pestilence.
Kate held her dress, struggling to cope with the effects of the Cape winds. She laughed. “My goodness, it’s breezy today. I think all of heaven’s welcoming you home.”
Armand disregarded Kate’s comment. He was on a tightrope walk, a balancing act between his anger at God and trying to trust his Maker. Would he make it to the other side of this chasm called grief? If he fell, would it be into the arms of grace, or face first with his back toward heaven?
Seated in the front seat of Peter and Kate’s SUV, Armand listened to their non-stop chatter about the staff’s excitement that he was finally coming home, all that was planned for the next few days on the farm, what he should and shouldn’t be doing, could and couldn’t do, and how good sales had been.
He kept quiet through all their chinwagging as apprehension wrapped around his insides like the vines in his vineyard clinging to their wire trellises. Anxious thoughts assailed. Thoughts of finding the strength and joy to farm again. Thoughts of living with the effects of his injuries. Thoughts of dealing with sympathetic stares from people, fearing that accepting their condolences would be mere lip service. The worst thought of all, living alone in a house that should’ve been filled with the presence of his new wife, should’ve resounded with her joy and laughter.
How could he possibly do life without Aimee?
Smiles greeted him as he climbed out the car at the winery. But in the pool of people who had faithfully served on the DeBois Family Wine Estate, it was the toothy grin on a tanned leathery face that meant the most to him. He watched with keenness as the old man pushed his way through the welcoming party until they stood face-to-face. Armand would have run to meet the faithful farm worker...if he could have.
“Oubaas...” He wrapped his arms around the man’s frail body, and his crutches dangled behind the old-timer’s bony back as they embraced. One of the estate’s oldest employees, Oubaas had been a mentor, confidant and friend to Armand since childhood—both in the ways of the vine, and the ways of God. Whenever Armand needed to vent, or just needed a friend, he’d run down the dusty roads to Oubaas’s shack. There, seated on make-shift chairs made from old tomato crates, they’d laugh and talk for hours as Oubaas imparted his wisdom and knowledge, sowing into Armand’s life.
Too soon the throng separated them. Friends, neighbors and employees clamored for Armand’s attention. He would pay the dilapidated old shack a visit again soon—if his aching leg could stand the walk, and his broken heart would allow.
***
Taylor pulled her Chevy pickup, with its faded and peeling paint, to a stop in Liberty State Park overlooking a cold Hudson River, Ellis Island, and the Statue of Liberty. Would this journey that had taken her three thousand miles across the country, lead to freedom from the unanswered questions that had plagued her since that awful conversation with her mother a week ago? Many times in the past seven days she’d wondered if her dream of discovering her identity would die along with the Chevy. She should’ve sold the truck before leaving Gig Harbor, bought something more comfortable, and more reliable. The Chevy might’ve been good enough for a student, but it wasn’t ideal for a trip like this. Not in the least. However, Taylor had not had the time, the quest to find the missing pieces of her life pressing hard on her.
She gazed up at the turquoise-green lady with her spiky crown, right hand holding aloft a torch, and in her left, the inscribed tablet which invokes the law. On it, the date the Declaration of Independence was signed—July 4, 1776. Would she find justice for her cause, too, here in this city?
Her thoughts drifted to the picturesque town she’d grown up in and her trips to the surrounding winelands where she’d captured on film the beauty of the vineyards that had always intrigued her. Suddenly she missed Gig Harbor. And Mom. And Da— Alistair.
Besides her Chevy and a suitcase of clothing, she’d arrived with nothing more than a few hundred dollars in her pocket, her beloved Canon EOS 550D digital camera, and a goal as big as Montana. Thanks to her road trip, she knew exactly how big Montana was. The fourth largest state of America had lain directly in her path between Washington and New York. Searching for herself in this city would be like looking for a needle in a field of haystacks.
Taylor closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deep. She was getting ahead of herself. First things first—find a place to stay temporarily, and then find a job. A good one.
She glanced at her photography portfolio lying on the seat beside her. Even though she was green, fresh out of university with her photojournalism degree, those pictures would surely tempt any wine magazine editor-in-chief to pick Taylor Cassidy. And not regret their decision to employ her later.