* * *
—
“ROBERT,” SAID ANNETTE NOW. “We need to talk.”
He looked at her fully. His brown eyes were clear. His black hair fell over his forehead. Annette was relieved, and not for the first time, that her son was white. She had wanted him to be biologically hers, of course—a baby who looked like her beloved family, as blond as she and her siblings—but when she couldn’t conceive and the donor egg was white, the wistfulness was replaced with gratitude that she’d been able to carry him, to have him, her dark-haired, white-skinned son. He looked nothing like Annette and was hers absolutely.
It was not a fair system, and she knew this in ways her friends did not. They might have read about injustice in books, and Annette knew Liza had come from poverty, but, even in liberal Austin, even in Texas, where almost half the population was Hispanic, racial profiling was rampant. Annette understood the privilege that came with Robert’s name and skin color. Her son would benefit from a corrupt and ruinous system, and she was ashamed to be thankful for this fact.
“I didn’t do anything,” said Robert in a flat tone. He did this sometimes, retreated into a shell of himself, almost robotic. Once, when he was asking endless questions about a graphics card at Fry’s Electronics, the salesclerk said, “Brother, are you an Aspie, too?” Annette had heard of Asperger’s, had even considered having Robert evaluated. But she knew how Louis would react—badly—and she had learned to avoid poking the hornets’ nest. Familial serenity was her goal, even if it meant staying silent.
Responding to the clerk, who had been so friendly, Robert had just looked at his shoes and mumbled something incomprehensible.
“Sorry, man,” the clerk had said. “But it’s easier when you accept it. Just from personal experience.”
* * *
—
“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING,” Robert repeated now.
“Did you know her?”
He sighed, broke his gaze from hers. “No,” he said, looking at his navy sheets.
Annette felt her breathing quicken. She knew when her son was lying. She opened her mouth to ask more, but then closed it. She swallowed, tasting the familiar pain that came with choosing peace over truth.
-5-
Liza
CHARLIE AND I WALKED home from Whitney’s house after Jules called 911 from his second cellphone, which he said was untraceable. （None of us asked questions like why a realtor would have a second phone or why we felt the need to remain untraced.） Jules had been insistent that the call be anonymous and we all agreed by not arguing with him: it was only ethical to report the woman’s body, but there was no reason to have the boys’ names caught up in the mess. Were we suspicious of our own sons already? It’s possible this played a part in our decision. I knew Charlie couldn’t have hurt anyone, but didn’t every mother believe her son was only good, and completely known to her? Charlie was loyal to a fault, which worried me. But the way I had survived was by swallowing uncomfortable thoughts whole. Mysteries like where is my sister now? Is my mother still alive? Is Patrick? What if he finds us?
These questions made my stomach burn and my head spin, but I had antacids and sedatives.
Though my best friends and I were united in our plan of action, each of us had different reasons: Annette was always sure Bobcat was at a disadvantage due to her lack of citizenship （and though I saw no evidence of this, I also knew it was impossible for me to fully understand her experience）; Whitney and Jules were terrified of besmirching their real estate empire; and I…well, I didn’t want to be found.
My son was quiet as we moved through the fragrant summer night, the air still heavy at midnight. Each home that we passed was utterly silent. I’d lived in Austin for almost sixteen years but the quiet was still revelatory—my life on Cape Cod had been noisy with arguments, sirens, traffic noise, and late-night television heard through open windows. The fence that protected us here in Barton Hills was invisible but absolutely airtight. I would never take for granted the safety of wealth and the luxury of soundless nights.
I could still remember leaving East Falmouth when I was a recent community college grad. I’d commuted to school and worked full-time; I’d scarcely ever slept away from the trailer we called home.
The night I left, my mom was snoozing on the couch, my little sister, Darla, curled beside her, Darla’s bright red hair—so like Charlie’s!—damp against her forehead. I’d smuggled a pregnancy test from the Stop & Shop, and in the cramped bathroom, I discovered it was positive. I saw my life in Massachusetts before me—making a bed somewhere in the trailer for a baby （Where? In a drawer?）， continuing to work at the Falmouth Raw Bar, the scent of fried seafood clinging to my skin. I loved my mom and sister, but I wanted something else. Something more. I wanted to be named Liza, which seemed to me the name of a cool, wealthy, untouchable girl.
My old nickname, Weezie, was the name of a waitress, the name of a woman who’d work her ass off getting a college degree and then get knocked up and never leave the Cape. I abandoned that name the night I left Bluebird Acres, taking my mother’s car keys from the seashell-shaped dish on the kitchen counter. I kissed Darla on the forehead. I stood at the front door and said a silent prayer for her. And then I disappeared.
I ditched my mom’s Ford at the Peter Pan depot and stared out the bus window, tears in my throat as we crossed over the Bourne Bridge. I knew I’d never return. Liza and her son Charlie （a name that went with Liza, I thought…and somehow I knew I would have a son, though of course I had a high-class girl name, too: Sarah） would vacation in more glamorous places—Hawaii? California?
I can still remember the giant bag of Twizzlers I bought at South Station as I waited for my bus to New York. （I’d planned on getting off in Manhattan, but Penn Station in the middle of the night was scary. I gave in to my gut instinct and bought a ticket for as far as I could afford to go: Austin, Texas.） The Twizzlers had been sticky in my hand but sweet in my mouth.
* * *
—
EVERY WEEKEND, I WENT to open houses in the Barton Hills neighborhood, scanned the for-sale listings obsessively. I’d spent the last sixteen years scrimping to try to save a down payment, but something always came up to clean out my stash. It was possible that I could get a loan for a small place in another Austin neighborhood, but this was where I wanted Charlie to grow up, not in the cheaper places farther south or north of 183. No matter how many times Charlie found a new build off Slaughter Lane or in Pflugerville, texting me a listing or grabbing a flyer and sticking it to the refrigerator with one of our alphabet letter magnets, I knew where we belonged.
I had already run. Now I wanted only to stay.
“It just bothers me that you think you’re not as good as Whitney and Annette,” Charlie said once, after I’d asked him to toss our cardboard roach traps before I hosted Ladies’ Night.
“I don’t think that,” I’d protested.
“Anyone who was your real friend wouldn’t care if you had a roach problem,” said Charlie. “Anyone who was a real friend with money would hire you an exterminator. She’s our landlord now, isn’t she? Call Whitney and tell her we need help!”