Echo(57)

I run my hands along the paper that separates me from my mom, and my apprehension grows. It’s the conundrum of whether this envelope holds hope or dejection. Will this lead me to answers or just create more questions? And do I even care? It’s not like she means anything to me, right?

And then I wonder why I never did care enough to learn about her. Maybe it’s because Pike was enough for me to fill that void of family. I mean, he never could fill the void of my father—nobody has the power to do that—but Pike did become my family. He was my protector and comfort, and I didn’t feel like I needed anyone else because he was enough.

But now he’s gone.

And so is Declan. Even though he keeps me around, he no longer belongs to me. But did he ever?

These few weeks since everything came crashing down, my loneliness has grown to a point of neediness. And now a part of me feels like I need this, whatever it is that’s inside of this envelope.

“Tell me, Lachlan, are your parents still alive?” I ask in melancholy, confused about my feelings, wondering if there’s anyone else here on this planet that can relate to me.

“Yes.”

“Big or small family?”

“Big.”

“Close?” I question.

“Yes.”

Sad warmth creeps along my cheeks, and I take a moment to push the feeling aside before speaking again. “I never had that.”

He doesn’t respond, but what is there to say?

“Would you like a distraction?” he offers, and I sigh in exasperation, “Please.”

His smile is friendly as it grows, and he takes my hand, guiding me to stand.

Handing me my coat, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

He then takes me to Caffé e Cucina where we indulge ourselves with cappuccinos and kouignoù amann, which Lachlan promises I’ll enjoy, and the French pastry doesn’t disappoint.

We spend a leisurely few hours getting lost in conversation. He tells me stories about his time with Declan at St. Andrews, as well as a few funny tales from his own childhood in Scotland. I ask questions about the culture, as does he about life in the States. It surprises me to find out he’s never been to the US. I tease him about eating beans for breakfast, and he teases me about the fact that getting a thirty-two ounce soda, or as he calls it, fizzy juice, is a commonality in the States.

Lachlan provides me with a good afternoon, doing exactly as he said he would by giving me a distraction. I haven’t spent much time with him overall, but it’s nice to feel like I have friend here, someone I can talk to and laugh with. Lachlan makes it easy for me to feel relaxed in his presence, and I enjoy our friendly banter.

But now, the joviality is gone as I sit here, back in my room in Gala. Since I returned, I’ve been sitting here with this envelope, debating on whether or not I should just throw it away, trash it, burn it. Or should I open it and read it. I asked Lachlan, since he knows what’s enclosed, if it was worth me reading. His response was vague, telling me that people find comfort in various ways, and only I could make that decision.

And I did. You see, as much as life had failed me, as much as I wanted to pretend I didn’t waste my time on hope anymore—I still hung on to it. And that evening, sitting in my quaint room at the Water Lily Bed & Breakfast in Galashiels of Scotland, I made my decision and allowed that hope to bloom inside of me. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I had a mother out there that wanted me but could never find me. That maybe the envelope held the key to my maternal Godsend. But what I learned next frightened me, and let me tell you, I wasn’t a woman who frightened easily.

The first thing I see when I pull out the contents from the envelope is a mugshot of my mom. I recognize her face from the photo I’ve always had of her. But in this picture, she looks wrecked with a blotchy face and ratty hair. I stare into her eyes, eyes that look like mine. Along with the mugshot are a stack of court documents, a birth certificate, and a contact printout for Elgin Mental Health Center.

The State versus Gweneth Archer catches my eye when I begin to read. Her name’s Gweneth. She’s always had a face from the one picture I have of her, but I’ve never known her name until now. I start scanning the court documents, and my stomach begins to twist when I hit certain words. With jittery hands, I flip through the papers. My heart rate picks up in shock and confusion as my eyes dart back and forth, unable to focus on the sentences.

Defendant . . . Child Neglect . . . Abandonment . . . Illegal Sale of a Child . . . Communications Fraud . . .