Member-only story
Helping a Friend Find Her Birth Parents
I met Priscilla at a party at my boss’s home in 1992. She was his nanny and cared for his five-year old son. She was pretty in an unconventional way with gapped front teeth, a long face and stringy blonde hair. When she smiled she beamed like a distant star, magnetic and radiant. But she didn’t smile often. She was a shoegazer, eyes glued to the floor, aura tinged with leaden weight.
While partygoers gathered around the pool table, Priscilla leaned against a corner wall nursing a cocktail. I watched as guy after guy approached her. They’d spend about a minute flirting then walk away scowling as if they’d swallowed a bug. I asked my boss’s wife Candy to introduce me. Her response was memorable.
“Don’t think you want to do that.”
“Why?”
“You ever diffuse a bomb before?”
“I’m game,” I said.
“It’s a suicide mission.”
Candy led me past the DJ booth into the living room. Priscilla leaned against a sofa reading a novel. She appeared disinterested offering an upturned detached gaze like Lauren Bacall.
“I’d like you to meet my friend Loren,” Candy said. “He works in sales and marketing.”
Priscilla pursed her lips in haughty disregard.
