Free I, Emma Freke by Elizabeth Atkinson Page B

couldn’t remember the sister’s name). When I pushed for more ancestral information, Donatella slipped back to her old ways of avoiding the subject. But she did reassure me that Jim and Nancy had to be, at the very least, second or third cousins. She explained that the Frekes were a very tight tribe.
    â€œBelieve me, they take care of their own kind. You’ll be just fine.”
    I had one last question I had to ask.
    â€œWill he be there? Walter? My father?”
    Donatella shook her head no.
    â€œEven before he divorced me, he had divorced himself from the entire clan. Except for that one strange sister— what’s her name? I think it started with an
M
or was it a
V
?”
    I wondered if it was truly possible to divorce your family. Maybe someday my mother would tell me the whole story. But for now, discovering the other half of my genetic tree was wonderful enough.
    The extremely organized reunion committee had also faxed over a very specific list of supplies I would need for the weekend, which included my own tent and other camping gear.
    â€œBut we don’t have any of this equipment,” I complained to Penelope. She was sitting at our crowded crafts table in the corner, making a beaded ring to sell in the display case. She had finished school the day before, but all of her summer activities didn’t get going until the following week.
    â€œLet me see that,” she said grabbing the invitation and list of supplies.
    Penelope had been even more dumbfounded than I was to discover my nonadoption. In fact, she was so certain that Donatella wasn’t telling the truth that she insisted I demand a blood test to prove our genetic connection.
    But then I showed her the invitation.
    â€œ
To the descendants of Boris Horace Freke
,” she read out loud. “So Walter Freke really is your biological dad?”
    â€œLooks like it.”
    â€œI wasn’t born yesterday, Emma,” she said, hands on her hips. “If the man left a full year before Donatella gave birth to you, then how can he be your father?”
    My cheeks began to flush. I didn’t like talking about any gross sex stuff. “Donatella said he
visited
once after they broke up. But she never told him she had a baby after.”
    â€œWhy not?!”
    â€œShe said she didn’t want to complicate things, especially since they were already divorced. She needed to move on.”
    Penelope wasn’t too happy with that answer, but for my sake, she decided to accept defeat. And believe me, she wasn’t used to being wrong.
    I, on the other hand, was now strangely calm about the whole discovery. I could always tell when Donatella was making up facts or exaggerating a story, but her biological father explanation felt authentic. And the truth was, this boring version of events fit my life. I knew I didn’t have exotic roots like Penelope did. It made sense that I was related to people who had annual reunions in a campground in Wisconsin. And I was ready to feel connected to anyone, no matter who they were.
    â€œHey!” Penelope jumped out of her seat over at the crafts table. “Didn’t Stevie say she liked to go camping?”
    I had forgotten all about that conversation a few days earlier in the Anchor Café. It seemed a million miles behind me.
    â€œYep,” I said, “in Maine.”
    â€œWell Maine’s just like Wisconsin,” concluded Penelope, “cold at night and miles of trees. I bet she knows exactly where you can get all this junk.”
    We locked up the shop early and headed over to the library before it closed at five o’clock. As we trotted down Harbor Street, something occurred to me.
    â€œIf those kids are there again, Penelope, I don’t want to talk to them.”
    â€œWhich kids?”
    â€œYou know, that class that hangs out over in the corner with that teacher guy, Gordon.”
    Penelope stopped in her tracks.
    â€œBut they were