by Laura Steven
The biggest night of her life and she’s asking me about how I am.
I fight the urge to clasp the phone to my heart. This is all I’ve wanted from her for so many years. To feel like she cares about me as much as I do about her. To feel like I am as interesting as she is.
A hollow thought strikes me around the temple. Is this just another side effect of the pill? What if it’s the pheromones making Keiko write songs about me?
Or is it because the pills have influenced the way I act around Keiko? Has being more assertive with her – calling her out, running ahead without her – shocked her into seeing me?
Mind still in turmoil, I type a response.
It’s going well with Haruki, I think! He’s a cool guy. And my dads like him, which is good. MIT . . . ahhhhh I’m so excited and nervous about finally sending the application off, but it’s coming together. Leo’s looking over it right now. So weird after so many years of fantasizing about it. And no, I regret to inform you that there has been a turnip massacre. He accidentally used weed killer instead of plant food. Our backyard is a root vegetable graveyard right now.
We talk for hours, about both of our stuff, and I seriously wish I was with her for real. I wish I could see her face light up as she tells her mom her big news, and I wish I could run through the night with her over and over again as we fall asleep, squashed together in her bed like we always do.
I wish I could understand what’s going through her head right now – and what’s going through my own.
The next day, Haruki seeks special permission from my fathers. Not to marry me, for we are in high school and that would be absurd, but to take me to a cosmology event at the Wolfendale Observatory that lasts until midnight. My dads have never exactly been curfew types, but then again, I’ve never had the hottest guy in school ask to take me on a late-night date before, so.
As it happens, I’ve already done my homework so they’re remarkably chill about the whole thing, even helping us prepare a little picnic basket full of black pepper cashews, boxes of freshly chopped fruit, cheese pastry twists and bottles of fizzy peach water. Just despicably cute, to be honest.
Then Vati drives us up to the observatory, tucked away in an area of National Park that’s a designated Dark Sky zone. This status means the night sky is protected, and lighting controls are in place to prevent light pollution, so on a clear night, you can see what feels like the entire cosmos. We drive up the dirt track surrounded by giant elms, the sky already darkening to a dusky purple.
‘Have you been here before?’ Haruki asks me. We’re both sitting in the back of the car, and for once, Vati is too busy swearing about potholes to eavesdrop.
‘I came a lot as a kid, but not for a few years. Not since they got the new Skywatcher Equinox telescopes. You?’
Haruki shakes his head. He’s staring up at the sky through the car window, an awed look already on his face. ‘Nah, never. I don’t know what to expect.’
‘Stars.’ I grin. ‘A lot of them.’
We wave goodbye to Vati, who promises to chain-drink espresso so he doesn’t fall asleep before picking us up at midnight. Last time he so much as touched espresso, he decided to paint the porch pillbox red, so this fills me with horror and also excitement to see what kind of state the house will be in on our return.
Trekking up to the observatory – built of smooth wood and glass to blend into the forest – I wrap my jacket tighter around me. It’s a little chilly between the trees. Haruki offers me his chunky beanie hat, and I tug it gratefully over my ears.
Our footsteps crunch on the leaf-covered track, and silence settles comfortably between us. Haruki’s breathing is steady and deep. The woods feel endless around us. The air is full of crisp potential. The night itself seems woven with peacefulness.
Being around Keiko lately has felt so spiky, so frenetic, so loaded. It’s nice to leave all that behind for a night and just . . . be.
We show our tickets at the door of the observatory and head upstairs to the main viewing deck. Haruki lets out a long slow whistle, and deservedly so. The structure is built into the side of a hill, so not only can you see an enormous panorama of night sky, but also a plunging view of the forest-filled valley below. Telescopes jut through vast open windows, offering a 360-degree view of the National Park and the sky above it. Tonight, there’s not a cloud to be seen, so even though it’s not fully dark yet, the sky is already glittering with stark white stars.
‘Told you,’ I whisper breathlessly, stunned by the effect it still has on me. The beauty makes my bones ache.
In all honesty, this place has a lot of emotional resonance for me. It’s where I first thought about the universe beyond our own tiny planet, back at the ripe old age of six. It’s where I had my seventh birthday party – Keiko was the only person to turn up, and to be frank, it was probably better for it. It’s where I demanded, at the age of eight, that I wanted to convert our attic into my very own observatory. Dad entertained the idea, even buying me a rudimentary telescope, but the light pollution in my town was too thick to ever really see anything.
Sharing it with Haruki feels more intimate than kissing ever has.
As it happens, we’re the only weirdos who signed up to an event called Intermediate Cosmology In The Forest late on a Sunday night, so it’s just us and the guide. This means we get a telescope each, and can ask as many questions as we like. I’ve already done this event multiple times as a kid so I don’t ask anything, but Haruki has lots of thought-provoking questions, some of which neither the guide nor I can answer. I love that he does. I love the way his brain works. I love that he thinks an observatory is a cool place for a date.
It’s weird, because lately, I haven’t felt the Matching Hypothesis hanging over my head as much. When we first got together, I felt like a fraud, rebelling against science itself, but now it all seems so absurd to reduce a person – whether yourself or someone else – to their appearance or social status. Because when it comes down to it, Haruki and I are . . . we’re extremely similar. We have the same values, the same interests, the same outlook. Same but different insecurities, same but different ambitious streak.
Not only does it now seem insulting to myself to say I don’t deserve him because of the way I look, it also seems insulting to him to imply he can’t look beyond that, to our values and interest and outlooks, our insecurities and ambitions. It’s just . . . it’s all insulting. The Matching Hypothesis. And I hate that I ever cared about it.
After the guide has finished her talk, she asks me how my dads are doing, then leaves us to enjoy the observatory in peace. We crack open our picnic basket and feast under the stars.
There’s magic in the air. For some reason, I find myself not thinking about the science behind what I’m looking at – at constellations and physics, or even how the telescopes were made. I just allow myself to enjoy the beauty, without questioning it, without interrogating it, without trying to make sense of it.
We’re sitting side by side on the wooden floor, arms pressed together, when he says, ‘You know, I kind of can’t believe we’re together.’
The me of a few weeks ago, maybe a few days ago, might’ve jolted at this. Might’ve assumed the worst, that he meant something bad by it. But I feel so at peace in so many ways, and the hurt never comes. I simply ask, ‘How so?’
He crunches through a cheese twist, flakes of pastry scattering over his crossed legs. ’I just . . . well, I never felt like I wanted a girlfriend, first of all. Not until we got close.’
‘What changed?’ Other than boosted sex pheromones, obviously.
‘I dunno.’ He finishes his twist and turns to face me. ‘You were just so different to the people I usually spend time with. In the best way. And I found myself wanting more and more of it.’ His warm hand cups my jaw, and he peers deep into my eyes like the secrets of the known universe are hidden at the bottom. ‘Being around you, talking to you. Kissing you. It’s just nice, and easy, and right.’
; I melt. Absolutely melt. ‘I feel the same,’ I murmur, closing the small gap between our lips. He sighs as I press against him, sinking into the kiss.
Eyes still closed, he rests his forehead against mine. ‘I think . . . I think I love you.’
Everything in my body explodes like fireworks.
The moment. The moment I’ve always fantasized about but never got. It’s here, and it’s perfect.
‘Wow,’ I say, unable to fight off the grin, which in turn makes him smile too. ‘I think I love you too.’
He chuckles. ‘Just, like . . . not as much as I love Vati. The guy is a hero.’
Right on cue, we hear the sound of Vati’s car horn, blaring through the night with no concern for the fact there’s a kestrel sanctuary next door.
18
I have the dream again that night, the fourth in a row, and I wake up feeling off-kilter. Again, I don’t feel fear in the face of that room anymore; just curiosity. I want to understand this integral part of myself.
It feels more significant, more meaningful, than ever, but I don’t know why. I’ve lived with this hole in my history for so many years. Why the burning intrigue now? Why does it feel paramount?
It’s raining out, and it’s a nice change of scenery – not to mention good for Vati’s turnip carcasses. Dad is working on his book in the study, while Vati is walking a disgruntled Sirius down by the river. They’ve got a sweet relationship, my dads. They don’t have to do everything together all the time to prove they care about and love each other. It’s just easy for them. I want that one day.
No, I say to myself, shaking away the habitual thought. I have it already. Or at the very least, I’m well on my way.
After reliving the night in the observatory for the millionth time, I make me and Dad cups of tea, replace all of Vati’s shampoo with garlic mayonnaise, then head up to my room to buckle down.
It’s a national holiday, so I’m not in school today. As I’m working on a personal essay for my college application, I find a roughly recorded version of Bones and Stardust on Keiko’s website, and I play it in the background.
Mistake.
After seven plays in a row, I haven’t written a single word of my essay. And I think I’ve figured out why I’m fixating on that dream.
Why are you so afraid of your own dimensions
When your dimensions are your history
There’s eternity
Within you
I think what she’s saying is that . . . she doesn’t understand why I hate myself when I’m a combination of actual stardust and the millennia of my ancestry. Just knowing that about yourself makes you feel both miraculous and inevitable.
Yet half of that equation is a mystery to me. I understand the stardust, but not my past. I don’t know who I am, on a bone-deep level. (Please refrain from any and all boning jokes. This is not the time.)
Non-adopted kids raised by their biological parents just take it for granted that they can pretty easily analyze their own personality, their own body, their own personhood, in the context of their mother and father. They can say, ‘I got my wit from my mom and my short temper from my dad, and the reason I have a long torso and short legs is genetics. I’m intelligent like my mom – with such an ability to retain information that I’m basically a living encyclopedia – instead of like my dad, whose logic and reasoning are sharp as a tack, but whose memory is that of a colander.’
They can do that ad infinitum, if they want to. And I can’t. As a scientist, and as a human being, that’s hard.
For nearly fifteen years, I have seen no pictures, asked no questions, and suddenly the absurdity of that strikes me. Sure, for a while I genuinely didn’t care. I had two amazing dads and that’s all I needed. But it’s been months and months since the dreams have started to inspire this curiosity, and I just . . . let myself suffer to protect my parents’ feelings. The Caro Kerber-Murphy M.O.
Same as I did with Keiko. I kept quiet about how she was making me feel, because I didn’t want to ruin things between us. And yet as soon as I began asserting myself, our relationship transformed into something better than it’s ever been.
Maybe that’s what’ll happen if I ask my dads for information about my mother. They’ll respect my scientific curiosity, respect that I did the hard thing and asked them. Hell, they’re maybe wondering why it’s taking me so damn long. Vati could’ve grown enough turnips to feed the whole of Canada in the time it’s taken me to pluck up the courage. You know, if he was in any way a skilled gardener, not a clown and a vegetable murderer.
It’s hard putting your own needs above others’, but maybe I don’t even need to do that? Maybe I simply need to value my needs equally to others’. Instead of constantly thinking about what’s best for them, I should focus on what’s best for us both. Maybe that approach will finally stop me from feeling like a sidekick in my own life.
Before I can change my mind, I grab what’s left of my tea and head downstairs.
‘Dad, can we talk?’
He turns away from the computer and lays down his glasses. ‘Sure. What is on your mind?’
Perching on the arm of the reading chair by the mahogany bookcases, I swallow hard and force the words out. ‘My mom.’
I can’t read his expression as he replies, ‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt out, filled with regret already.
Dad shakes his head. ‘No, please, do not be. I am surprised it has taken you so long to bring this up.’
There’s a taut pause as we both try to figure out how to proceed.
Dad nods gently. ‘I feel your other father should be here for th—’
‘You rang?’ Vati waltzes in, still dripping wet from the shower, in an ancient bathrobe. ‘Who put aioli in my shampoo? With the lemon juice I put in my hair for highlighting, I smell like salad dressing. Which is fine if you are a salad. But I am not. I am a man. Who smells of salad dressing.’
‘Your timing is quite remarkable,’ Dad says.
‘I am always listening, Michael. This whole house is bugged like the headquarters of a drug ring.’ He taps his ear as though there’s an invisible earpiece in there. Maybe there is, you never know.
‘Caro would like to talk about her mother,’ Dad says softly. ‘Do you think you can hold a serious conversation for more than eleven seconds?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Vati says. He opens Dad’s desk drawer, pulls out some parcel tape, and proceeds to tape his own mouth shut. The only logical solution, I’m sure we can all agree.
‘Very good,’ Dad says, gesturing for his very strange husband to take a seat. He sinks into the antique leather armchair by the bookshelf.
In a small voice, I ask, ‘Who was she?’
Dad leans back in his chair and sighs. Not in an angry or sad way, just like he’s preparing himself to talk. ‘There are parts of this story that are . . . not pleasant. I want you to be prepared for that.’
My chest starts to thud. ‘I know. I think I’ve seen some of it in my dreams.’
Dad rubs his eyes, places his glasses on the bridge of his nose, then takes them off again. He’s nervous, and it’s unsettling, because he’s never nervous. Vati watches him with wide eyes.
‘Very well. Your mother was a woman named Annie.’ His voice is steady, but not as robotic as usual. There’s a warmth in it, albeit with a little tension stringing the words together.
‘She was born in Tennessee and lived in Florida, where she worked as a waitress. She loved country music and horse-riding. When she fell pregnant in her mid-twenties, her long-term partner – a high-school sweetheart – left her in the lurch. She was a strong woman, and she decided to raise you without him. Unfortunately, there were complications when she gave birth. Nothing life-threatening, but a fourth-degree perineal tear, which required surgery and a long recovery time. Not easy with a newborn and no support from a partner.’
Quickly, as though to save him the trouble of saying it – and me the trouble of hearing it �
� I say, ‘So she put me up for adoption.’
‘No.’ He folds his hands together in his lap. ‘This next part might be difficult to hear. If you would like me to stop at any time, please say so.’
Trembling, I mumble, ‘Okay.’
‘Following the surgery and the trauma it left behind, Annie became addicted to prescription painkillers. Opioids. Still, she tried to maintain a normal life, giving you the care and stability you deserved. For the first year, that was exactly what you received. But despite all her best efforts and rehabilitation programmes, Annie’s drug use spiralled until she was no longer able to take care of you. I do not want to go into details, but eventually, your circumstances became so dire that social services took over your care.’
I shudder involuntarily. ‘So social services just . . . put me up for adoption? What would have happened if my mom had eventually gotten sober?’
Dad’s gaze drops to the ground. ‘Annie died of an overdose one week after you were taken.’
My chest cracks open.
My mom’s name was Annie. She was a music lover, a waitress, an addict.
She is dead now, and has been for many, many years. The grief hits me like a physical blow.
I will never, ever know her.
Vati stands up – mouth still taped shut – reaches into a hidden pocket in his wallet, and pulls out a pristine photograph of my mom bouncing me on her hip.
She is beautiful. And she looks exactly like me.
High forehead, strong jaw, narrow nose. Dark blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. A small beauty spot on her left cheek. Dimples as she smiles.
In the picture, she looks so happy that it breaks my heart. She has no idea what’s to come. All she knows is the pain she’s already feeling – the pain she is smiling through, because she has me in her arms.
I stare at it for so long that I stop seeing it, and then some more. Finally, Dad breaks the silence. ‘Do you want to talk some more?’