HeartLess

by Love, Kristy

  I shoved the second box out of the way, frustrated. Those were the two boxes my mom said contained the pictures, but there wasn’t anything in there that I wanted to use. I was about to stand up when another box caught my eye. It was tan with large red flowers on it. The box was wedged under a metal shelf, most of it obscured by shadows, but one corner was sticking out as if someone had recently gone through it. I crawled forward, pushing other boxes out of my way, then grabbed the box. I pulled it closer and blew the dust off the top, coughing as it tickled my throat. I slowly lifted the top off, and there was a baby picture of me in the lap of two people I’d never seen before. I picked the picture up and squinted at it, flipping it over to the back. I recognized my mom’s handwriting that was scrawled on the back. It said Gina and Jake with Bianca. Aged five months.

  I turned it back over, staring at the people. I wondered who they were and why their picture was shoved in this small box. I dug through the box some more, finding more pictures. At the bottom, there were newspaper articles. There was an obituary for Gina. Her last name was Fair as well. My brows furrowed as I scanned over the short obituary. It didn’t list a cause of death, though she’d died when I was about nine months old. My eyes stuttered over the part where they listed who she was survived by.

  Survived by her mother and father, Linda and Alex, and her daughter Bianca Fair.

  I gasped as I looked at the smiling face that accompanied the obituary. Who was this person?

  I dug more through the box, almost frantic. I found a newspaper article.

  Pittsburgh Couple Found Dead in Home, Baby in House

  What? I read the article as my hands shook. My mind refused to make sense of the words on the page, tripping over letters that I knew made up words and sentences and paragraphs. I had to reread it multiple times to get it to sink through the fog clouding my brain. Apparently, Gina and Jake were drug addicts. They’d recently been released from rehab, both of them. They’d been home three months before they died of a heroin overdose. Their daughter, Bianca, was in the house the whole time. For two full days, Bianca had been in the crib, crying, her diaper soiled and leaking. Apparently, the state of their apartment was so abysmal that the police officer who had rescued Bianca had cried during the press conference he gave. The baby was remanded to the custody of Linda and Alex Fair, Bianca’s maternal grandparents.

  Holy. Shit.

  This was about me. This article was about my parents, my real parents, and me. I was that baby, left in that filthy crib in that disgusting house. I gripped the article tighter in my hand, creasing it. I clutched it in my hand, digging through the box. There were three articles total. All detailing the squalor I’d apparently lived in and the neglect I suffered.

  I’d been in foster care for a brief time. A stranger had cared for me while my biological parents went through rehab. A drop fell on the article, staining the paper and my vision blurred.

  This was me. This was my past, my start in life.

  I gasped, my thoughts finally catching up. My parents weren’t really my parents. They were my grandparents.

  I’d been lied to. My entire life, my entire existence, was a lie. I was an only child, but not the only child of Linda and Alex. They’d had another daughter and had scrubbed her existence from everything. There were no pictures of Gina. They never mentioned her. It was as if she was a dirty secret, one they didn’t want to even acknowledge. But why lie to me? Why not tell me where I came from?

  I shoved everything back in the box and climbed the stairs on shaky legs. My parents… No, my grandparents were in the kitchen. My grandmother was having a glass of wine while she made dinner. My grandfather was telling her about his day. Their laughter and voices filled the air, chilling me to the bone. My legs felt like Jell-O, and my mind felt like it was covered in molasses.

  “Bianca?” my mom said as I entered the room. Was she my mom? My grandma? I had no idea. I couldn’t think straight. Her eyes shot to the box I was holding. She dropped her wineglass, and it shattered, red wine spilling across the white floor and splashing against the cabinets, reminding me of blood. I sunk down into a chair. I held the box tightly, not wanting to let it go. I felt like it anchored me to the spot, to right here and now.

  Tears fell, and I let them. “You lied to me.” My voice came out firmer than I thought it would, though still scratchy and raw.

  “Bianca,” my dad whispered, his eyes landing on the box as though it were a bomb about to go off. My mom’s whole body trembled like icy winds blew across her skin.

  “You lied to me. My whole life. Everything. It’s been a lie. You’re not my parents.” Fresh tears filled my eyes. My mom flinched as though I’d struck her.

  “We are your parents, honey. We’ve raised you since you were less than a year old.” My dad’s own voice shook with emotion as tears welled in his eyes. He was always the pillar of strength, the rock, the one we leaned on when things weren’t going right. Seeing him upset, even a small amount, sent the world crumbling around me even more.

  “Why was I in foster care?” For some reason, this one detail, this one little fact hurt my stomach. I’d read horror stories about foster care. Newspapers were full of stories of kids taken from foster care after being neglected, raped, molested, starved, beaten.

  “Because our daughter, Gina, didn’t want us to have custody of you. We’d tried to get you from her, since birth.” My mom wrapped her arms around her middle, holding herself together, leaving the broken glass and the wine spilled on the floor. Knowing she left it there, that she didn’t rush to clean up the mess, drove home how serious this all was.

  “Why?” I croaked the word out, my throat raw from emotions that threatened to bleed me dry.

  “You were born addicted… to heroin. They had to detox you, and we were afraid of what would happen if you were left in their care.” My mom choked on the words as she said them.

  “If they had to detox me, why did they leave me in their custody?”

  “Things were different then. Gina and Jake had a social worker they were working with.” My dad touched the box, leaving a trail through the dust that been knocked free. “Did you read all of it?” I nodded. “That’s why they were in rehab, the case worker made them go. They’d both been clean as soon as they found out your mother was pregnant with you. They relapsed pretty badly before you were born, but they went back to rehab afterward. Your mother completed the program.” My dad scrubbed a tired hand over his face. “They’d gotten clean, we thought, and seemed to be doing well. Unfortunately, things went downhill pretty fast.”

  “How’d you get custody of me?” I could barely process everything. My body felt cold and heavy. It felt like everything they were telling me was being processed and filtered through by someone else. Everything felt hazy and overwhelming.

  “The social worker reached out to us once they found out you had living relatives and offered to help us get custody of you to keep you out of foster care.” My mom moved closer, leaning across the table and resting her hand on mine. I raised my eyes to hers and saw tears swimming in her eyes. My mom wasn’t a crier. She often seemed too logical to cry actual tears. She processed and worked through her emotions with an efficiency that I often envied.

  “Honestly, we wanted you from the moment we heard Gina was pregnant. We were afraid for her. She’d been in trouble since she turned thirteen. She started drinking and smoking weed, then it progressed to harder drugs.” My dad sat in the chair next to me, putting his hand on my leg. It was as if my parents needed to touch me to assure themselves that I was really here, that I was okay. But I didn’t feel okay, I felt like everything around me was falling apart. I was waiting for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. “She dropped out of school and ran away when she was almost eighteen. She moved in with Jake, who was about six years older than her. We tried, Bianca. We tried to help her in every way we could, but once she turned eighteen, there wasn’t anything we could legally do anymore.” I nodded, processing thi
s. This kind of stuff happened in movies or books, it didn’t happen in real life, not to real people.

  My life was safe. I had parents who were supportive and overprotective. I had friends who meant the world to me. I got good grades, stayed out of trouble, and did what I was supposed to. Everything I thought I knew shattered.

  “Bianca, I’ve always loved you. I’ve always wanted you.” My mom’s voice wobbled with emotion, tears slipping down her pale cheeks. “We wanted to protect you from all of this because it’s ugly. I always regretted not getting Gina help, but I regret that you had to experience any of this. When they showed us pictures of the house you were living in and the condition you were in…” Her voice broke. She closed her lips, pressing them together firmly and shaking her head vigorously. Tears streamed down her face in earnest.

  “You were underweight for your age. It was clear you’d been neglected for a long, long time and it’s one of our biggest regrets, that we couldn’t save you earlier.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t say anything else. My body was cold and numb. I felt the need to leave. The walls were closing in on me, and I needed space. I needed fresh air, and I needed to think. I stood up from the chair, my parents standing with me, moving closer, crowding me. “I just… I need some air.” I left the kitchen in a daze, my parents calling for me, but not coming after me. I ignored them. I wasn’t mad, not really. They’d done what they thought was best, but it didn’t stop the gaping hole in my chest that just felt empty. It didn’t help the years of lies that I felt pressing down on me, the realization that I’d had another mother, another father, who didn’t really love me, not really. They didn’t love me enough to get clean. They loved the drug more.

  Why did everyone always seem to love someone or something else more than me? Why couldn’t I be enough?

  I wasn’t enough for my parents.

  I wasn’t enough for Nash.

  I wasn’t enough for anyone.

  Was I ever going to be enough?

  Rain fell in sheets outside, an early spring storm. Thunder crashed, lightning streaked the sky. If I took the box outside, it’d be ruined in just a few short minutes. All the pictures, all the information would be lost to me forever. I stopped at the closet, grabbing my mother’s thick rain coat. I put it on and zipped it up, flipping the hood over my hair. I shoved the box underneath, not quite ready to part with it.

  Then I was outside, rain mixing with the tears on my cheeks. My shoes were soon soaked, and water sloshed around in them. The rain was cold, causing me to tremble with emotion and a chill.

  Before I knew it, I was knocking on Nash’s door. Even though he’d hurt me, even though I hadn’t been enough for him, I needed him. I needed him to tell me it was okay.

  His mom opened the door, taking one glance at me before pulling me inside. She peeled the wet jacket from my shoulders, then wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I clutched the box, keeping it close. His mom called for Nash, and I stood there, unseeing.

  “Bianca,” Nash said, grabbing my shoulders and stooping down to look me in the eye. “Bianca, are you okay?” One look at him and my fragile hold on my control blew apart. I dissolved into sobs. “What’s going on?” Nash’s voice was heavy with concern.

  I dropped the box to cling to Nash, my lifelong life raft. He’d always been the one I held onto when things were bad. He’d always been here, always. And I needed him to be here now.

  His arms came around me, holding me close as he pressed his head into my wet hair. “Come on, Bee.” He held me and moved me with him. My face was buried in his warmth, and I didn’t care where he took me, as long as his arms were around me. His warmth was grounding me to the moment, giving me hope that everything would be okay, that this was just a bump in the road.

  Albeit a rather large one.

  As soon as I was enveloped in his arms, I broke down. My knees gave out, and he caught me, preventing me from puddling on the floor. I cried so hard my body shook, and my words came out incoherent. Instead of talking, I clung to him. I buried my wet face in his chest and let go of all the hurt, betrayal, sadness, and fear I felt. I had no idea what all of this meant for my life. Did this change who I was? Should it?

  He took me up to his room, still wrapped in the blanket, then led me to his bed. I crawled on and reached for him, wanting to be close to him. He climbed in next to me, covering us with the blankets. We were a cocoon of warmth as he held me. His arms were around me, my body pressed into his. I was surrounded by his scent and him. It was like heaven, except the hell that had taken hold inside me.

  “It’s okay, Bee. I’ve got you,” Nash murmured against my skin, causing tingles to race along my skin. I closed my eyes, sinking into him, giving myself over to the warmth and comfort only Nash could offer. Tears continued flowing freely down my cheeks, and my body trembled with the sobs exorcising themselves from my body. My throat was raw. And through it all, Nash held me. He didn’t say anything or ask any questions, he just held the crumbling pieces of me together. He was steadfast and sure and everything I always knew him to be. I was incapable of being strong, so he was for me.

  At some point, I must have cried myself to sleep because I woke up wrapped around Nash. The sun was out, birds chirped, and lawn mowers ran. Somehow, life had kept moving after I’d been so devastated. I closed my eyes, sinking into Nash’s arms and fought against the urge to cry. My eyes felt like they were full of sand and my throat hurt. The emotional flu I’d been nursing since things fell apart with Nash was raging even worse now.

  “Are you okay?” Nash asked, his eyes trailing over my face. We were cocooned in the blankets, and he was so close our noses touched.

  The wrongness of the situation hit me. I shouldn’t be here, wrapped up in Nash. Not now. Not after everything that had happened, not when the world was crumbling down around me, and I had no hope of being saved. “Yeah,” I murmured, pushing the covers off my body and trying to get up. Instead of letting me go as he had before, he held me tighter. It felt good. I’d been so convinced no one would want me, it was nice that he wanted to hold onto me.

  “I’m glad you came to me, especially with everything that’s happened in the last few months.” His fingers swept through my hair. “What happened last night?”

  I sniffled, then lifted my eyes to his. “I found out everything is a lie,” I croaked. My voice was hoarse from how hard I’d cried last night. “I was looking for some pictures in the basement to do a history project and I found this box. When I opened it, everything changed.” I swallowed, hoping to soothe my aching throat. “My parents? They aren’t my parents. They’re my grandparents. My real parents, they died from a heroin overdose. I was left in a crib, filthy, hungry, and crying, until someone finally checked on them. It had been days, Nash. Days.”

  “Bee…”

  Now that I’d started talking, it felt impossible to stop. “Everything I thought I knew isn’t true, not a single thing. My parents aren’t my parents. My parents are dead. I feel so…alone. Hollow. I don’t know what to do or think or say. I feel betrayed, and I don’t even know if that’s okay. My parents—grandparents—they saved me. I could have been in the foster system and who knows what kind of horrors I’d experience. I could have died in that house, waiting for someone to find me.” His arms spasmed around me like the thought of all the horrid things that could have occurred scared him too. “I never would have met you if they hadn’t taken me in.”

  Nash’s face was twisted in agony like he was physically hurting along with me. “I’m sorry, Bee. I wish I knew what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just glad you were here last night. I didn’t even think before I showed up here.” I touched his face, half hoping it was all a dream. If it were a dream, then the revelations of last night could be a bad dream. It also meant that I wasn’t here, with Nash, talking with his arms around me.

  “You know I’d do anything for you. You have no idea how awful I’ve felt.” He grabbed my hand tha
t had been fisted in his shirt, tangling our fingers together. “I need you to know how sorry I am.”

  “Yesterday, it felt like such a huge betrayal. You going to the dance with Stacy, our kiss. It felt like the worst thing that had ever happened to me.” A tear slid down my cheek, and he brushed it away with a thumb. “Now, everything is a mess, and I don’t know which way is up.” I still hurt over what had happened with Nash, but the bigger pain was the truth about my birth. I felt ripped in two, and no amount of sewing would ever stitch me back together.

  He continued holding me, his free hand stroking my back, my arms, my hair. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I have so many thoughts running through my head. Why did they have me if they were so messed up? Why didn’t they get clean? Am I tainted now? I was born addicted, does that mean if I drink, I’m destined to become an alcoholic? Or a drug addict?”

  He looked at me thoughtfully, like he was measuring what to say and how to say it. “You’re not tainted, Bee. Not even a little bit. You’re incredibly smart, you’re a control freak, you like organization, you’re the most loyal person I know, you’re an amazing friend. You’re gorgeous.” His words lit me up like a Christmas tree. “You didn’t know these things before last night, and you were fine. Don’t let them take that from you. Don’t doubt yourself, your worth. Because you’re worth so much more than that experience.”

  I closed my eyes, wishing so much that I could absorb the things he said, that I could erase the doubts I had now. “Thanks, Nash.”

  “I’m serious. What they did was fucked up, but what you do going forward is up to you. Don’t let them define you.”

  I nodded, resolve building in my gut. My birth parents had tried to take so much from me. I wouldn’t let them take my future. I’d worked hard in school, with my friends, with my family, and junkies wouldn’t taint that. “I won’t.”