In Another Life

by C. C. Hunter

  * * *

  “How was dinner?” Mom asks when I get home.

  I’d told her I was meeting Dad. I figured if I lied and she found out, it would’ve been worse.

  “It was okay,” I say. “How was the writers’ meeting?”

  “Good.”

  I smile. “How did it feel going without the wig?” I’d encouraged her to do it.

  She grins. “One woman came up to me and said she’d been dying to get her hair cut that short. I told her I’d been dying to do it, too. I didn’t say literally.”

  I laugh, and it’s like a big weight off my chest, knowing she’s not going to flip out about my seeing Dad. Maybe, just maybe, my life is going to be okay after all.

  I head to bed, put on my sheep pj’s, and call Cash.

  “How did it go?” His tone is boyfriend-sweet and concerned.

  “He’s doing it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” Buttercup jumps up and curls up beside my leg.

  “And he’s not telling your mom?”

  “He wanted to, but I threatened him.”

  “What did you threaten him with?”

  “Just to pickle his balls.”

  “What?”

  I chuckle. “Nothing. He’s staying in a hotel tonight and picking me up in the morning after Mom leaves for work. I’ll get up and pretend I’m going to school.”

  “Wow,” he says. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “How are things there?” The pause says it’s not good. The thrill of my success fades. I run my hand over my dog, who looks up with complete love.

  “They’re still not talking. She didn’t go to work today either.”

  “Did she sleep in my room?” Then I correct myself. “In Emily’s room?” As sure as Cash is, and even as almost sure as I am that I’m Emily, I can’t help but think how it’s going to feel if I learn I’m not her. If I have to go back to believing I wasn’t wanted.

  “Yes.” Cash pauses. “Oh, I’ve decided what to do about the video of Paul.”

  My gut knots up. “What?”

  “I got Paul’s number from Mike, the guy I know who’s dating Paul’s sister. I’m going to send Paul the video.”

  “What are you going to say to him?”

  “Just that I know he did it and if he ever crosses me again or messes with anyone at school, I’ll turn him in.”

  “You’re … not going to turn him in?”

  “No. When I talked to Mike, he told me some stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Paul’s got it bad with his dad. His mom died several years back. Mike said last year, CPS was looking at removing him from his home. His dad beat him up pretty bad.”

  “And he’s still living with him now?”

  “Yeah. If a parent goes through some classes, they don’t take the kids away.”

  “That’s wrong.”

  “Yeah. So I don’t want to be the reason his dad jumps Paul’s ass. I mean, the Fullers have insurance, and it’ll pay to fix the Jeep.”

  My chest suddenly feels heavy and light at the same time. Part of me doesn’t want him to go easy on Paul. Yet, I’m so proud of Cash for doing this. “I think I love you,” I mutter. When I hear what I said, I palm-bump my forehead.

  “What?” he asks.

  I could lie, but … “I said, I think I love you.” I hold in that gulp of air, afraid it’s too soon.

  He’s quiet for a long uncomfortable pause. “You think you love me? But you’re not sure?”

  I breathe, and then I laugh. “I love you,” I say. “Paul doesn’t deserve that you do this, but because you are who you are … I love who you are.”

  He’s quiet again. “I think I love you, too.”

  I clear my throat. “Think?”

  “I love you.” He sighs. “I’m not going to deny that I’m nervous about how all this is going to work out. But we’ll manage, right?”

  “You mean if I’m really Emily?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re not related.”

  “I know, but I think it might be weird … for them. The Fullers.”

  That piece of news cuts deep, because I know how much he loves the Fullers. Oh, he doesn’t say it, but I know it. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t care who I am.”

  “We’ll work it out. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Promise?” I ask.

  “Promise,” he says. “Now, answer a question. And I want the truth, okay?”

  “Okay.” I’m nervous, unsure what’s so important.

  “What did you mean by ‘pickle his balls’?”

  We laugh at the same time.

  * * *

  Dad and I are led to the same room as before. While Mr. Wallace recommended I make an appointment, I was afraid of being turned down. So we just showed up. I sit down and hug myself from the cold and nerves. Not sleeping last night didn’t help.

  “You okay?” Dad asks.

  “Nervous.”

  “It’s all right.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. His touch sends pain right to my heart. The pancakes I ate this morning are now sitting in my stomach, heavy, and no longer so sweet.

  I smile because I know he’s doing it because I asked, make that pressured, him. Either way, he gets brownie points.

  The door to the room opens. I actually jump. Because we waited so long last time, I expected the same today.

  “Hello.” Mr. Wallace walks in. I swear he’s wearing the same black suit and red tie. But I do notice something different. In his hand is a manila envelope. My paperwork? “Mr. Holden, I presume?”

  Since Dad had to show his ID to the clerk, the man’s not merely presuming.

  “Yes.” Dad stands and offers him his hand. “I believe we met before.”

  “You’re right, we did.”

  I stand and offer my hand as well. I’m alarmed by how damp Mr. Wallace’s palms are. Is he planning on lying again?

  We sit down.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet us on short notice,” Dad says.

  “Not a problem.” Mr. Wallace’s gaze shifts to me. “I’m actually happy you stopped in. I tried to call, but the contact information we have is no longer current.”

  Thank God. “Anyway, after you left last week, Ms. Holden, I pulled your file. I was disappointed it was listed as a closed adoption.”

  “Closed?” Dad sits forward.

  “Yes. It means…”

  “I know what it means,” Dad says, “but we were told if our daughter ever decided to look into it, she’d be allowed.”

  “It is allowed. We contact the birth parents and see if they’re willing. Ultimately, it’s the birth parents’ choice. But since your daughter came from the state, all those adoptions are closed.”

  I remember Cash telling me this. So Mr. Wallace isn’t lying. Not about that.

  Dad shakes his head. “I could swear we were told this was considered an open adoption.”

  Mr. Wallace frowns. “I’m sorry you misunderstood. I think I have a copy—” He reaches into the envelope and pulls out some papers. He pushes them across the table to my dad.

  Dad leans in to read them.

  “Look at the third paragraph on the second page.”

  Dad does. He reads it, then he turns to the last page, and I see him look at the signatures at the bottom.

  “I guess we got it wrong.” Dad looks at me with sympathy. “I could swear we spoke about it.”

  “The adoption process is such an emotional time, facts are often misconstrued. However, because I could tell your daughter was serious about needing answers, I—” His gaze shifts to me. “—I reached out to your birth mother.”

  I hear what he’s saying and realize then that this means that I’m not Emily Fuller. I swear my rib cage shrinks and I feel different emotions vying for space. Regret. Resentfulness. So I did want to be Emily. I wanted to be her so I’d know I wasn’t just thrown away
. I wanted to believe that my parents still loved me. That they’d built a shrine for me.

  Mr. Wallace pulls at his tie. “Unfortunately, she’s not open to a meeting. However, she took it upon herself to write a letter in hopes of offering you some answers. I hope this will help you find what you think you need.”

  I don’t know what I expected to feel, but it wasn’t this. I’m suddenly angry, furious—so pissed, I want to scream. She gave me away at almost three years old, and she doesn’t think I deserve to meet her! Five minutes. Ten tops. What would it cost her?

  “That’s not right!” I say. “I deserve to meet her!”

  In about three minutes, we are out the door. I’m sitting in the bucket seat of Dad’s sports car. I stare at the envelope in my hand. I even asked to keep the paperwork, and Mr. Wallace agreed. Surely if the papers were fake, he wouldn’t have …

  “Are you going to read it now?” Dad asks.

  “No!” I stuff it into my purse.

  “Do you want to get lunch?” His voice is gentle. He knows I’m hurting. He cares. Shouldn’t that be enough? That I have a mom and dad who love me?

  Why isn’t it enough?

  “No. I want to go home.”

  “I can stay until—”

  “No. I’ll be fine. Just take me home. Please.” I look out the window so he won’t see my tears.

  29

  When we get to my house, Dad hugs me so tight and tells me how much he loves me. I think he wants to be my superhero again, but he can’t. He can’t fix this. I’m not sure anyone can. Before he drives away, he makes me promise I’ll call him after I’ve read the letter.

  I walk into the house. I’m greeted by Buttercup and Felix. I recall how damning it seemed that the Fullers and I both have cats with the same name.

  I go into my bedroom, followed by eight paws. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the letter.

  I slide my finger under the flap and feel the raw sting of a paper cut.

  “Shit.” I put my finger in my mouth to suck the pain away. Blood spills onto my tongue. I tell myself I don’t have to open it. Why should I care about her? My lip starts trembling, and I remember sitting there in that princess costume feeling so alone. Abandoned.

  I don’t have a clue what that letter says, but reading it can’t hurt any more than I’m already hurting.

  I pull out the letter.

  Before I start reading, I see the sheet of paper soaking up my blood. For some reason, that seems poetic. We shared the same blood. Maybe the same smile, the same facial features, but I’ll never know. Then I focus on the handwriting. It’s soft and flowy. Almost beautiful.

  I blink away tears and start reading.

  Dear Baby Girl,

  I have sat here in this hard wooden chair for over an hour trying to think how to explain things without telling you some of the ugly truths. And I have finally come to the conclusion that if I’m going to write this letter, I’m going to have to be honest.

  I was eighteen years old. I was naïve and believed in the good of everyone. I had met a man at college and he asked me to help him move. I said yes. He seemed like a nice guy.

  He wasn’t.

  I gasp and put my hand over my trembling lips when I realize what she’s saying. I have to wipe my eyes to keep reading.

  The bruises on the outside went away, but not the ones on the inside. I didn’t tell anyone. I was ashamed.

  I left school the next month and went back home to my family. Six weeks later, I learned I was pregnant. I did not believe in abortion. I didn’t know what to do. I looked into adoption. But the closer it came, the more I wanted to believe I was better than that. I wanted to believe that it wouldn’t matter.

  When you were born, you were so beautiful. I wanted to love you. I did love you in so many ways, but sometimes when you looked at me, I could see him. I tried, Baby Girl, I tried to keep you. I fought the depression, the anger, the nightmares of reliving that terrible night.

  I know you are not him. And you have no blame, please don’t take that on, but because of what he did, I was damaged and … you had his eyes, and the shape of his lips, and I knew I would never love you like you deserved to be loved. It got so bad, I couldn’t hold you.

  I let out a sad sound, and Buttercup comes up and rests his head in my lap. Felix paws at my arm.

  That man robbed me of the life I deserved, but I refused to rob you of the life you deserved. I hope your life has been filled with love and laughter. I pray you understand that giving you away was me trying to give you a chance.

  I ask you to forgive me for being a weak person and not being willing to meet you. I know I ask you to forgive, when I couldn’t forgive him. But I ask you to forgive me not for me, but for you. Bitterness is like a cancer. It can eat you alive. My life is sad. And when I think of you, and I do think of you, I imagine you full of happiness and dreams.

  Sincerely,

  Your Birth Mom

  My phone dings with a text. I lean over and see Cash’s name on the screen. I know he wants me to be Emily. Right now, I’d give anything to be Emily.

  I start to pick up my phone, but don’t. I don’t want to talk. I turn my phone off. I lie back on my pillow and cry myself to sleep.

  * * *

  Three hours later, I’m awakened by the familiar tapping on my window.

  I stand up. My face feels swollen, my chest and throat raw. I see the window open and I see Cash crawl inside.

  “You’re going to have to quit cutting off your phone. I can’t handle it.” He moves in, takes one look at me, and doesn’t even ask. He pulls me against him and I go straight to more tears.

  When I’m no longer making desperate sounds, he pulls back. “What happened?”

  I bite down on my lip. “I’m not Emily. My father was a rapist. My mother couldn’t bear the thought of touching me.”

  He just stares at me. “Who said that?”

  “She wrote me a letter.” I motion to the bedside table.

  He stands there with disbelief in his eyes.

  “They even gave me a copy of the adoption papers.”

  “Can I see them?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He picks up the letter. “Is that blood?”

  “A paper cut.” And I feel like I have one right across my heart, too. He reads. His jaw tightens with each word he takes in. Then he puts it down and looks at the other papers.

  “It’s a lie, Chloe. I don’t believe it.”

  I shake my head. “The agency wouldn’t have given me all this if it was a lie. Dad’s and Mom’s signatures are on the paperwork. Her signature is on the paperwork, too.”

  “It could be fake.”

  “It’s not fake.”

  He pulls me against him again. His arms are so warm. He leans down and says in my ear, “It’s a lie, Chloe.”

  I look up. “Why would anyone lie about that? Why would anyone write such a terrible thing if it wasn’t true?”

  “To convince you to stop looking.”

  I shake my head. “Cash, it’s over. I’m not Emily. I know you wanted me to be.” I feel more tears forming. “I’d give anything to be her now. But it’s not true. I’m a product of rape.”

  “No! Don’t you see? They wrote a letter to keep you from trying to find out anything else.”

  I drop down on the bed. “Stop! Give it up! I just need to accept this.”

  I eventually talk Cash into leaving. I find my phone and realize I have ten messages from Dad. I text him and say I’m okay, and thank him for doing it. He texts back and asks if he can call me. I reply I’m not ready to talk.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon with a cold rag on my face, so when Mom gets home, she won’t know I’ve been crying.

  Of course, that was futile. When she walks in the door, hugs me, tells me she loves me, I break down in tears. I blame it on being the new kid at school. I blame it on missing my old friends. I blame it on PMS.

  She tries to blame Dad, then Cash. />
  “No. I swear.”

  We go outside to the porch swing. Mom sits down, and I stretch out, rest my legs on the arm of the swing, and place my head in her lap. She runs her fingers through my hair the way she used to when I was upset about something. In a calm voice, she talks about her day and her book. She laughs and smiles, and I realize how much I’ve missed her. How much I love her. And how deep down I’m still scared to death the cancer could come back.

  I also realize that my birth mother had done the right thing. She may not have loved me. But I have a mom who does. Yeah, she’s been through a rough patch, but everyone is allowed to screw up sometimes.

  * * *

  Tuesday was payday. And when Rodney saw his check, he realized he was going to be short two hundred to pay his bills. Luckily, he knew where he could get it. And since he’d wanted to check in with Jack anyway, why not make it a face-to-face.

  He got in his car and headed to A New Hope Adoption Agency. When he walked in, there was a couple sitting in the waiting room. He walked up to the counter, where a middle-aged woman sat thumbing through some paperwork.

  “Jack in?” He leaned against the counter.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Her tone was uppity.

  “I don’t need one.” He started down the hall.

  “Sir?” she called out, but he ignored her.

  He moved to the office in the back and opened the door without knocking. Jack, sitting at his desk, looked up. His expression went instantly to fear.

  Rodney’s suspicion rose. “She came to see you again, didn’t she?”

  “No,” he said. But that one word had lie stamped all over it.

  Rodney shut the door. He rushed to the desk, placed his hand on Jack’s fat neck, and pushed him, chair and all, to the wall.

  “Don’t lie to me, Jack. I hate it when people lie!” He tightened his grip until he felt the man’s neckbones were about to pop. “Now, I’m gonna let you go, but if you don’t start talking, I’m gonna finish what I started. You understand!”