She asks me one more time if I want to report and I say no.
"You can change your mind at any time."
I take the rest of the pills, and Sylvia explains my follow-up care. "You can call the Infectious Disease Clinic at this number and make an appointment for no more than two weeks out, okay? You're going to need to get tested for HIV again and follow up with your gynecologist and GP. If you don't have one, I'm going to write another number for another clinic. Remember, if you suffer any flulike symptoms you have to go to a doctor right away."
Sylvia squeezes my hand. "I know this is a lot, Rowan, but you've been so brave today. You're going to be all right. Remember, you can call here any day, any time. I'm also including this sheet of support groups that you can go to if you feel like you need to talk to someone. Now, this is important: you have a ten-day supply of the HIV postexposure medications. Make. Sure. You. Take. Them. And get the prescription for the thirty-day supply filled as soon as you can."
Eventually, Sylvia stops speaking doctor, and tells me I can finally take a shower. I take off the hospital gown, kick it aside, and wait for the warm water to come on.
I stand there thinking about BioMom, Mom, Hunter, Cole . . . The Perv. I think about the men I've given my body to whose names I didn't care to find out.
As the water goes from warm to scalding, I force myself to review the specifics. I see The Perv's yellow teeth, Cole smirking on his lawn. Hunter parking the car in the emergency room lot. I stand bitter with hate, choking back vomit, and ask aloud, "How did I get here?"
I turn the water off and attempt to wrap the towel around my body. When I can't make the corners meet around my chest, I chuck it across the room and turn my attention to the scrubs Sylvia gave me. She said I didn't need to relinquish the dress, but I didn't need a reminder of that day hanging in my closet.
The dress isn't anything special—a pink-and-white-striped jersey-knit swing dress from Old Navy. Mom said she liked it when I came out of the fitting room, and the dress magically became worth the $26.99.
It suddenly becomes clear—I did this. I let the love of BioMom, of Hunter, of Cole, of all of them decide my worth. My wounds are the reckoning of my choices, and my choices led me to this—sitting naked in a hospital bathroom.
I hate myself, but I don't want to. I put the scrubs on and promise to love myself, to know my worth, to never be here again.
* * *
Two weeks shy of my thirtieth birthday, my family and I travel the four hours to the Boston suburb of Newton to bury my thirty-four-year-old cousin Alanna, who died of cancer. Arrangements are made for our caravan of twenty-plus to stay at the Red Roof Inn off I-90. In the lobby, Aunt Audrey demands that we change hotels and tells my father she is disgusted with our accommodations. That it's the sort of place that asks for a photo ID when you pay in cash. That prostitutes have lain in our beds.
I've gotten rashes from dirty microfiber and rinsed strangers' fluids out of my mouth using lipstick-stained Styrofoam cups from motels just like this one. I remain silent.
She and our clan make jokes about hookers and the truckers who bed them. I can't decide if it's better or worse that, in my case, money never changed hands, and I allow myself to laugh along with them—I'm not that girl anymore.
I lie in bed that night, unable to sleep. I sit up, and begin scrolling through the Casual Encounters: Married for married; Dom seeking sub; Looking to eat pussy tonight. It has been almost six years since I left the SANE Center—six years since I stopped giving my body away. And I wonder if perhaps I am still not healed or cured or fixed. I wonder if I left the SANE Center that night knowing I'd never be able to make sense of why the woman who brought me into this world cast me out so effortlessly, that the answer wouldn't be found in the beds of strangers, that I'd have to be okay with the fact that some men and women need to adopt children in order to have the family they have always dreamed of.
* * *
Exactly one year, three weeks, and five days later, it is November 9. It is a Thursday, my longest day. I wake up at six to be at work by eight. At noon, I leave work and commute the hour and fifteen minutes east to study creative writing from 2:20 to 5:10. After class, I drive through rush-hour traffic, and arrive at the house on Elderberry a little after seven, stomach rumbling, head pounding, eyes closing.
I can tell Mom has been waiting to see me all day, for she is already halfway down the stairs by the time I unlock the door. I am tired, and am in no mood.
When I turn on the kitchen light, she smiles and says, "Give me your hand."
She is holding a silver Sharpie and is excited.
"Mom," I moan, "can it wait? I need to go to the bathroom."
Mom begins drawing a smiley face on her palm and holds her hand up for a high five. "This will only take a second," she says, grabbing my hand and pressing our palms together.
She laughs as I look at the silver smiley face on my palm. "What is this?"
"It's World Adoption Day," she says.
"What?" I say with a chuckle.
"World Adoption Day. I saw it on Kathie Lee & Hoda this morning. You're supposed to draw a smile on your hand and put it on the Internet."
She takes my hand and brings me up to her bedroom and begins to fuss with the DVR. "Here it is, here it is!" she squeals, clicking the remote.
As per usual, Mom has misunderstood the requirements. Each individual person is supposed to draw a smiley face on his or her palm and take a picture to post on Instagram.
It is then I realize Mom has never viewed me as anything but an extension of her entire being. That despite not being bound by blood, a family history of heart disease, or brittle bones, all I am has been given to me by her.
"You know," she says, eyes glistening, "you can still post that even though you're not adopted."
"What are you talking about?" I laugh.
"You were made for me," she says. "I was always your mother, and you'll always be my daughter. Didn't you say you have to pee?"
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, a huge and unrelenting thank you to my publisher, my mentor, and most importantly my friend, Kaylie Jones. Kaylie, you not only believed in this project and this book from the beginning, but you also believed in me. I don't know where I would be without your generosity, support, and wisdom. Not only am I a better writer for knowing you, but I am also a better person. You are my rock, my hero, and my dearest friend. I love you.
To Laurie Loewenstein, whose keen eyes, generous feedback, and countless edits turned this manuscript into a book. Thank you for never failing to reply to an email, answer a question, and provide encouragement when I needed it most. I am so incredibly lucky to have you as an editor, but even luckier to have you as a friend.
To Beverly Donofrio and the first readers—Jennifer Albers, Natalia Duran, Alex Grabovskiy, and Melanie Pierce. Without your feedback, suggestions, and sharp eyes, this manuscript would certainly have died in workshop.
To Johnny Temple, thank you for taking a chance on me and for providing the world with an opportunity to read stories.
To my KJB fam—thank you for accepting my weird, and never judging me for it.
To Jennifer Jenkins, my partner in crime, whose quick replies to eleven p.m. freak-out texts always kept me grounded. Thank you for all you do, and for all you've done—I love you.
To the team at Akashic—Johnny, Ibrahim, Susannah, Alice, Johanna, Aaron, and the interns—you are living proof not all heroes wear capes. You make it look easy, but I promise your sweat doesn't go unnoticed.
To Erika Anderson, Kevin Clouther, and Kristina Lucenko, who also believed in me from the beginning. Thank you for making me understand it's never too late to realize a dream, and for believing in me. Without you, I'd have certainly been an accountant.
To my loving parents, whose love is the foundation of this story and all I do. Mom and Dad, everything I am is because of you, your love, and your support. In my entire life, I don't think I'll ever be
able to show the full scope of my love and gratitude, but damn it, I'll try. I love you both, today and every day.
And lastly, to Bryan, the love of my life, who spent countless nights listening to me read aloud, curse my computer, and held me while I cried—I couldn't have made it without you.
LAUREN J. SHARKEY is a writer, teacher, and transracial adoptee. After her birth in South Korea, she was adopted by Irish Catholic parents and raised on Long Island. Sharkey's creative nonfiction has appeared in the Asian American Feminist Collective's digital storytelling project, First Times, as well as several anthologies including I Am Strength! and Women under Scrutiny. Inconvenient Daughter is her debut novel, and is loosely based on her experience as a Korean adoptee. You can follow her at ljsharks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Published by Akashic Books
©2020 Lauren J. Sharkey
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-709-9
eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-837-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943818
First printing
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Website: www.akashicbooks.com
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