Jillian Cade by Jen Klein Page A

I reached over and plucked my father’s picture from Sky’s hands and tossed it on the other side of the couch—my side, out of his reach. Instead, I told him what had really happened.
    â€œShe took months to die,” I said.
    Sky set his burger down too. He stared at me.
    â€œThe doctors did tests until our insurance ran out, and she got sicker and sicker and then lost her mind. I had to lock her in her room so she couldn’t run away. I almost failed out of ninth grade because I skipped school so many times, and my aunt and uncle moved back from North Carolina . . . ”
    I could feel something right behind my eyes. Hot. Prickling. Unfamiliar. I turned away from Sky, toward the photo next to me.
    â€œDuring all of it, Dad was gone,” I went on. “He wasn’t here when she got out and came to school and broke the cafeteria windows. He wasn’t here when she wrote, ‘Burn the bridge’ a thousand times across the floor. He wasn’t here when she . . . ”
    I paused. And swallowed. Hard.
    â€œ . . . when she hurt herself.”
    I felt rather than saw Sky move closer to me.
    â€œHe was in Egypt.” Every word was a struggle. “He was in Jordan and Greece and Algeria. He was everywhere else.”
    Sky’s fingers covered my own.
    â€œHe wasn’t here the night she stopped breathing,” I said, yanking my hand away.
    That’s when the tears came.
    Sky started moving toward me. “Jillian—”
    â€œGet out,” I said.
    And he did.

Ten
    I slammed my father’s bullshit red box onto my bed. Except it wasn’t even red. It was more like burnt orange. Old coral. Rotting peach.
    Whatever.
    I slung my handbag down by it. The latch popped open, and my cell phone skittered out onto the mattress. I grabbed it and checked the tiny screen. One missed call. I thumbed the screen as I plopped down next to the box. The message was from Ernie Stuart.
    â€œHey Jilly, hate to tell you, but I got nothing on your fake obituary. I’m thinking it’s a joke. How many guys you juggling?”
    Yeah, right.
    â€œI bet one got pissed. I’ll ask my buddy to run prints, but I think it’s probably nothing. Take care of yourself, kiddo—”
    My thumb pressed down.
    â€œMessage deleted,” said a mechanical voice.
    I dropped my phone onto the mattress and lifted the box’s lid. Might as well get this over with, for Norbert’s sake—at least the night couldn’t get any worse. I had a concrete job to do: find my dead mother’s birth certificate. Easy. Depressing. Awful. Much like the rest of my life.
    Inside was my father’s usual mess of illegible handwritten papers and files and typed documents. I flipped through until I found a folder marked birth certificate and then tugged a paper from between the faded flaps. There was my mother’s name—Gwendolyn Cade—right at the top. Perfect. I could give it to Norbert and let him deal with how to send it to my father. The last thing I wanted was to—
    Hold on.
    I drew the yellowed paper closer to my eyes. This birth certificate was the wrong one. It didn’t list my mother as having been birthed. It showed that she had given birth.
    To a baby.
    A baby who wasn’t me.
    The certificate documented a live birth that had happened sixteen years ago. A live birth with a name.
    Rosemary Cade.
    If this was real, I had been fourteen months old at the time.
    I scrambled to rip open my backpack and the envelope inside. The obituary copy fluttered out onto my bed. There it was, literally printed in black and white.
    In addition to her father, Ms. Cade is survived by her sister, Rose—
    And nothing more.
    *
    The next morning, Aggie and Edmund only waved from the window as my cousin headed toward my car. I was certain they wouldn’t give me any information about my potential sister—apparently the one thing my family does well is lie—but it