Part 3 (1/2)

Then I sneaked out of his room as quietly as I could, leaving him to dreams that were sure to be more peaceful than mine.

3.

MANa.s.sAS.

VIRGINIA.

Dear Ms. Drake, In response to your question, it is the policy of our hospital to record the footprint of each newborn during the post-delivery examination. This takes place by the side of the mother and in her full view, immediately after childbirth. Babies and mothers are also tagged with matching bracelets at that time, which they wear until they leave the hospital.

These procedures have been in place since 1992.

Please let me know any further questions you may have.

Sincerely,

Janeen Dover

Director of Risk Management

Mana.s.sas Hospital

Two footprints. One tiny but clean, rendered with professional precision. The other somewhat messy, the kind of mark you'd expect if a teenager swabbed her foot with calligraphy ink and tried to then roll it onto a sheet of printer paper. It was hard to make out its loops and whorls even where the impression was good, and in most places it wasn't good. Only the ridges on the big toe could be examined with any certainty. But those appeared to match my own.

That should have been good enough, shouldn't it? Jessica Anne Drake-Hayden had been carried straight from her mother's womb to the ink pad, a journey witnessed by both of her parents and half a dozen delivery room staff. Her ridge patterns matched my own. I was indisputably that child.

So the DNA lab must have made a mistake. They'd switched samples somewhere along the line, or else confused the reports. The new test would sort that all out.

Right?

Only the lab we'd gone to wasn't one of those fly-by-night outfits in which quality control took a back seat to sales quotas. This facility was hardcore, as befit a business whose findings had the power to destroy marriages, resolve million-dollar lawsuits, or even send people to jail. The smallest weak link in its chain of protocols would have brought the whole thing cras.h.i.+ng down long ago. So the likelihood of them mixing up our samples wasn't zero percent-nothing in the universe was zero percent-but it was low enough that you'd need scientific notation to write it down. So where did that leave me?

A chimera, I thought soberly. Right on the outside and wrong on the inside. A creature that should not exist.

Great stuff for a science fiction movie. Sucks for real life.

The sign outside the school library said, SO YOU THINK YOU CAN PAINT? Which had to be the lamest t.i.tle for an art display ever. But the artwork itself wasn't bad. Our teacher Mrs. Fletcher encouraged us to embrace our craziest ideas and to mix media without inhibition, which sometimes produced interesting results. The school liked to put them on display, which I figured was kind of like a parent putting his kids' drawings on the refrigerator. Visitors to the school seemed to find it impressive, which I'd been told had significance in fundraising circles.

Three of my paintings were in the show. At first glance they appeared to be nothing more than geometric designs with a bit of a crazy edge to them (less crazy if you were familiar with fractal art) but in reality they were much more than that. Each line, dot, and fractal squiggle meant something. If you read my paintings right they revealed all sorts of things about human relations.h.i.+ps, patterns of behavior, and sometimes my own hopes and fears. And they told you about my dreams, as well. Because every painting of mine was based on something I'd seen in a dream. If you stared at one of them long enough it was like getting inside my head.

No one outside of my family knew anything about that.

Now, looking up at my work, I felt grounded again. I'd been walking about in a daze for the last day or so, disconnected from the world around me. Like I was a stranger in Jessica Drake's body, and if anyone looked at me closely enough they might detect the masquerade. But whoever I really was-whatever I really was-these paintings were uniquely mine. They were reflections of Jessica Drake's true soul, and seeing them on canvas like that helped anchor me to that ident.i.ty.

”Jessica?” The voice from behind broke into my reverie. ”Oh, I'm so glad I ran into you!”

I turned around to see Mrs. Fletcher standing there: a short, plump woman with rosy cheeks, who looked like she should be off baking apple pies for a county fair somewhere. Her b.u.t.ton-up smock was criss-crossed with streaks of paint and dye that would probably never wash out. They were marks of honor for her, much as facial scars were for a Prussian duelist.

”There's someone who wants to buy one of your paintings,” she told me, her blue eyes crinkling from excitement. ”She said they were as good as anything she's seen in a gallery, and she wants one to hang in her home! She asked if she could come by after school tomorrow and talk to you about it. Are you free then?”

I blinked. ”Uh, yeah.”

Something about my expression must have seemed odd to her; she c.o.c.ked her head and asked, ”That's good, isn't it?”

”Of course it's good.” Truth be told I wasn't sure that it was, but clearly that was the response she expected.

”You don't have to sell something to her if you don't want to,” she a.s.sured me. ”It's perfectly reasonable for you to want to hold onto your work at this stage in your life.”

”I know.”

”But it's flattering, yes?”

I nodded. ”Very flattering.”

”Your mother should be there for this. Can she make it?”

I shook my head. ”Working. Sorry.”

”Ah, well. She really should approve any sale, but I guess you could at least get the details and talk to her later.”

The bell rang suddenly, startling us both.

”Come by my office after school tomorrow,” she said backing away quickly. ”This is so exciting!” Then she turned and trotted toward her cla.s.sroom.