by C. C. Hunter
Part of me wonders if this isn’t some of the attraction between us. Why I defended him to Ms. Anderson. Why I agreed to meet him at the coffee bar. Maybe wounded people are subconsciously drawn to each other.
That would explain why Alex couldn’t understand. Maybe people walking around with empty spots instinctively recognize each other’s pain.
I want to help him fill his empty spot, too. I remember the red Skittles text messages and his buying them for me, and how that made me feel … happy.
“What’s your favorite candy?”
“Red Skittles.” He grins.
“That’s mine. What’s yours?”
“Those soft caramels.”
“Favorite band?”
“The Black Keys.”
“Favorite thing to do?” I ask.
He smiles and I know he’s thinking sex. I hit him in his chest. “Besides that.”
He laughs. “Kiss you.”
“Favorite thing to do that doesn’t involve me. And if you say kiss someone else, I’m going to hit you.”
His grin widens. “Lie in bed, listen to music. It’s like a reward after I’ve been successful at something, like a boatload of homework, or acing a test.”
“What’s—?” He puts his finger over my lips, as if to stop me from asking another question. “We should be reading these. It’s almost three.”
“I know,” I say. “But there’s so much I want to know about you, and this feels good.”
“Yeah, it does.” He touches my face.
I look at the stacks of papers. “We’re about more than this, right?”
“Hell yeah.”
I wave a hand to the papers. “That scares me.”
“I know,” he says as if he understands.
“This—” I wave a hand between us. “—kind of scares me, too.”
“Why?” Concern fills his eyes.
“Because I’m an insecure twit sometimes. Because I’ve had my heart broken twice. Once by Alex and once by my dad. Because I’m scared of losing people, and maybe it’s because—” I wave to the papers again. “—I lost people I loved a long time ago.”
“I wouldn’t hurt you.” He pauses, then says, “If you’re not a little bit afraid, you’re not doing something right.” He said it like it was a quote from Einstein or Freud.
“Who said that?”
“My lousy-ass father, but he had that one right.”
“How bad was he?” I hurt just asking the question.
“Bad enough.” He looks down, letting me know he’s not saying more. I want to insist it isn’t fair that I’m barfing my problems on him and he’s not sharing. But something tells me it wouldn’t help.
I pick up the first sheet of paper. He picks up one. We start reading.
“It says here that Emily was born on November sixth. I was born on November eighteenth.”
He looks up. “They could easily have lied.”
“Yeah.” I continue reading. Emotion fills my chest as I read the pleas from the Fullers to the kidnapper to bring their baby home. I find myself staring at Mrs. Fuller’s face again. The uncomfortable feeling has me remembering being on that dirty sofa. I’m so scared, and I’m hurt because … I close my eyes and I hear that voice again. A man’s voice. Your mama and daddy don’t want you anymore.
And for one second, I swear I see his face. Red hair. Dark eyes. He scares me. I don’t like him. Then I remember the bruise in the photograph. I get chills.
Cash touches my arm, but I gasp as if …
“You okay?” He pulls his hand away.
“No. Yes. I think…”
“What?” he asks.
“It’s as if I remember other stuff, but it’s not all there.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Someone telling me that my mama and daddy don’t want me anymore. Part of me is so scared to remember, but another part … if I was really kidnapped I want that person to pay for it. He hurt me. He hurt the Fullers.
Right then I know: I may not be ready to tell Mom, or even Dad, but I need answers. And I need them now.
“Can we go to the adoption agency tomorrow?”
22
Monday, at one o’clock, we pull up in front of A New Hope Adoption Agency. I texted Lindsey last night and told her I was skipping school again. She asked if everything was okay. I texted back. I’ll explain later.
Cash and I met and spent an hour at Whataburger. He kept telling me what I should and shouldn’t say. You’re just here wanting to meet your birth parents. I’m just a friend here to support you. You’re supposed to act cool, not desperate.
But now, staring at the building, all I’m feeling is desperate. “I’m gonna screw this up,” I tell him when we get out of his Jeep.
“No, you’re going to be fine. Just remember what I said.”
“But I’m shaking.” I hold out my hands to show him. “I don’t think I can do this.”
He squeezes my arm. “It’s okay. You’d be nervous if you were just here to ask about your birth parents.”
I bite down on my lip. “If they kidnapped me, they’ll lie. Why did we think this is going to work? It won’t.”
“If they lie, I’ll be able to tell.”
“How?” The one word comes out too strong.
“I’m good at reading people.”
“No one can read people that good.”
“I can. My dad taught me. Look, if they’re behind the kidnapping, they’ll be nervous and I’ll know.”
“If? You don’t believe they’re behind it? You still think my parents did it,” I accuse him.
“That’s not true,” he says. “At first I did. But not anymore.”
I realize I’m overreacting because I’m so nervous. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared.”
“It’s okay. I’m with you.”
He takes my hand and we walk inside.
“Can I help you?” A woman wearing a green suit stands up behind the counter. She’s about my mom’s age.
I force myself to talk. “Yes.” I walk forward and put my hands on the counter to keep from falling over.
“My name’s Chloe Holden. Your agency handled my adoption, fifteen years ago. I was hoping to get some information on my birth parents.”
“Oh. Well … Normally, this is handled through lawyers.”
“She’s representing herself.” Cash’s tone is confident.
“Do you have an appointment?” The question sounds curt.
“No.” I’m ready to bolt.
“We’re here. Surely we can talk to someone,” Cash insists.
“Let me see if Mr. Wallace has time.”
We wait twenty minutes before being led into a conference room.
It’s a small room that holds a long, dark wooden table and a strong odor of Febreze. I realize I half expected the room to have a dirty brown sofa and stained carpet. Nothing is dirty. It’s almost too clean, too sterile. But the air-conditioning is on in the room and hums cold air.
When the woman walks out, I hug myself.
“It’s going well.” Cash leans in and whispers, “There’s a camera, so don’t say anything.”
I nod. He squeezes her hand. We wait. And wait. And wait. A clock on the wall ticks off the time. One minute. Two. Three. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Cash offers small talk. Telling me about a trip he and the Fullers took to Hawaii. I try to listen, but my mind races. “What’s taking them so long?” I’m losing my nerve.
He doesn’t answer because heavy footsteps sound outside the door. I catch my breath.
It’s as if time slows down when the door opens. My heart thumps against my breastbone, I hear blood gushing in my ears, and I feel it. I feel the memory taking over my mind. I’m young, and exploding inside me is the pain of abandonment. My throat is raw as if I’ve cried too long. I’m afraid, afraid of strangers. Afraid of the man …
My fingers grip the arm of the chair like I’m at the dentist. I hate dentists.
C
ash puts his hand over mine as if offering confidence.
I stare at the big man with thick salt-and-pepper hair. Did it used to be red? He has dark eyes. Like the guy I imagined. He’s wearing a dark suit, but it’s the red tie that pulls my eyes to it. I force my gaze up to his face. Air catches in my throat. Am I looking at a kidnapper?
I can hear the voice again. You’re getting a new mama and daddy.
I don’t want new ones! I hear my younger self scream.
* * *
Cash felt the tension coming off Chloe in waves. The big man had a yellow pad with some scribbled notes. His gaze locked on Chloe as if trying to remember her.
The man moved his large frame closer and leaned over the table. “Hello.” He offered his hand to Chloe. “I’m Mr. Wallace.”
Cash stood up first.
His meaty hand slipped into Cash’s. And the first thing Cash noticed was his damp palm.
Never let your palms sweat. It’s a sign you’re up to no good.
“My receptionist didn’t get your name,” Mr. Wallace said to Cash.
“Cash Colton,” he said. “Chloe’s friend.”
“Yes.” He pulled his free of Cash’s grip.
Chloe stood and offered her hand to the man. He leaned in, and when he did, Cash read the note on the pad. Chloe Megan Holden. November 18.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Holden.” Mr. Wallace took the seat across from them. “Do you have ID?”
Nervous at them seeing Chloe’s license with all her information, he waited until she got it out and then took it from her and held it out, his thumb over her address.
The man didn’t say anything. “How can we be of help today?”
Cash waited for Chloe to speak. He was about to fill him in, but she found her voice.
“I’d like information about my birth parents.”
“I see,” Mr. Wallace said. “We handled your adoption?”
Why was he asking a question he already knew?
“Yes.” She fidgeted in her chair.
“Do you have a copy of the paperwork?” the man asked.
“Not on me.” Chloe sounded apologetic.
“How old are you?” Mr. Wallace pulled at his tie.
Like you don’t know. You got her birthday written down, idiot.
I’ll be eighteen November eighteenth.”
Mr. Wallace picked up a pen. “Are your parents aware of your interest in finding your birth parents?”
“Yes. They’re just busy.”
The man nodded. “Well, I can certainly understand your need to get answers, but unfortunately, with you not being eighteen, I can’t proceed until I have your parents’ consent.”
Cash watched the man straighten his tie again, and his eyes darted back and forth.
Watch their hands and eyes—it’ll tell ya if someone’s lying.
“But it’s only two months,” Chloe said.
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Wallace shifted.
Cash noticed the droplets of sweat on the man’s brow.
“Is there some paperwork they can sign to save them from coming here?” Chloe asked, sounding slightly less nervous.
“I’m afraid they or a lawyer will have to show up.” The man’s tie got another tug. “I hope you didn’t drive a long way to come here only to be disappointed.”
It wasn’t a question, but it was implied. The man wanted to know where Chloe lived. Before Chloe felt compelled to answer, Cash jumped in. “Thanks for your help.” He glanced at Chloe. “We’ll come back with Chloe’s parents.”
Mr. Wallace’s eyes flinched. “It would be best if you made an appointment. Then we’ll look at your file and see if it’s even possible to release information.”
“Why wouldn’t it be possible?” Chloe’s confidence now sounding.
“It depends on the type of adoption. If it was a closed adoption, we—”
“It wasn’t closed. My parents said anytime I wanted information, I was allowed.”
“Of course. I won’t know until I look at your file.”
And there it was. The first lie. “We should go.” Cash stood up.
* * *
“That was a waste of time,” I say the second we step outside. My chest feels heavy and I’m still shaking.
“No, it wasn’t.” Cash reaches for my hand.
“We didn’t get crap.” The only thing keeping me from crying is knowing I’ve done it way too often around Cash.
“He’s lying.”
I remember him saying he’s good at reading people, but seriously … “How do you know?”
“His palms were wet when he shook my hand, and—”
“So were mine.” I walk faster to keep up.
“Yeah, because you were nervous. Why do you think he was nervous?”
His words zip around my head as I try to believe them.
He clicks his Jeep open, then looks back at the building as if he thinks someone is watching. I turn, and see the blinds shift as if someone was peering out.
“You think they’re watching us?” I lower my voice.
“Yeah,” his voice seethes. “Shit. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have parked here.”
I get into the Jeep. He walks around and does the same.
I sit, trying to absorb what he just said. Then I shake my head. “He couldn’t have lied. He didn’t tell us anything.”
Cash dips down to look at the building again. “He said he never looked at your file.”
“Why do you think he did?”
“He had your full name written out on the yellow pad and your date of birth. You never told him either one. He’s hiding something. We just need to figure out what.”
Cash drives off.
I’m still trying to digest what Cash means, when he says, “We need to get our hands on the adoption papers.” He looks at me. “Did you look everywhere in your house for them?”
“Not … in Mom’s room.”
“Is your mom going anywhere today?”
“I don’t know.”
He frowns. “Next time she’s out, you look for them, okay?”
“Yeah. But how will that help?” Frustration leaks out.
“I think it should say if it was an open or closed adoption.” Then he says, “Shit.”
“What?” I ask.
“I read that if an adoption is through the state, like CPS, then it’s closed.”
“But my mom always said I could find my birth parents.”
“Maybe she just said that to make you feel better.”
“I don’t think so.”
He squeezes my arm. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Then why does it feel like it isn’t?” Tears fill my eyes.
“I’ll figure this out.” He turns and looks at me. “We need to get our hands on your file.”
“How? They won’t give it to me.”
“Then we take it.”
“Take it?” I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
I hear him exhale. “Let me handle this.”
“Handle what?”
“How to figure this out.”
“You said ‘take it.’ You can’t break in or anything.”
“Let’s concentrate on reading all the paperwork from the Fullers’ file. I’ll keep trying to find the nanny.”
“And if you can’t find her?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
* * *
I arrive home at the same time I would have if I’d gone to school. Mom’s sleeping on the sofa. She’s still in her pajamas. She didn’t get out for a walk today either.
I wish they’d call her to work already.
I try to wake her, but she mumbles something about how she needs to sleep. I do my homework. Later, I fix us both a grilled cheese. She eats only half, refuses to drink one of her calorie-laden shakes, then tells me she’s going to her room to read.
I stay up watching Law & Order, hoping she’ll eventually join me. She doesn’t.
I finally
go to bed and pull out the paperwork from the Fullers’ file. I face away from the door so if Mom walks in, I can hide them. I read the article about the nanny telling the police about the man who spoke to Emily that day at the park. I get chills when I read her description. Red hair. Brown eyes. Could it have been Mr. Wallace?
I recall the image of the face I got a glimpse of in my mind. Did the two men look alike? I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.
My phone dings with a text from Cash. Want to talk?
I text back yes. He calls. I stuff the papers back in my backpack just in case Mom wakes up and pops in.
“You okay?” His concern flows through the line.
“Yeah,” I say even when I’m not sure it’s true, and drop back on the bed.
He tells me about his job at the auto shop and his friend Devin, who works there. He’s a couple years older than Cash, but Cash relates to him because Devin spent some time in foster care, too. I tell him about Cara and Sandy back home. How it’s sad when I went back home because our friendship had felt forced. Then he tells me to get on YouTube, and we listen to music together. He picks a song and then I pick one.
It’s good. It’s easy. It has nothing to do with what happened today. Nothing about my adoption or me being kidnapped.
We stay on the phone almost an hour. At the end of our conversation, he tells me he plans to read the rest of the Fullers’ papers, and it all comes back. The uncertainty. The fear. The questions.
“Did you read some more?” he asks.
“A little.” I close my eyes not wanting the conversation to go there. “I’ll read more tomorrow.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie again, but I think of the face I imagined, and fear rides my spine all the way up to my neck, and I feel a headache coming on. “Just tired.”
We hang up. Exhausted, physically and emotionally, I fall right to sleep. And I stay asleep until I’m jolted awake by Mom yelling out my name.
I jackknife up. Mom’s standing on the side of my bed. A storm of emotions swirls inside me. I can’t catch my breath. I feel like a fish out of water, gasping. My lungs finally open. I suck in air.
“You okay? You were screaming.”
My face is wet with tears. “A nightmare,” I mutter.