Echo (Black Lotus #2)(48)

“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 . . .

Disbelief consumes me as I read the words. I grow frantic as I continue to scour through the papers. I will my eyes to focus on the words, but I feel myself on the verge of flipping out.

This can’t be real. This can’t be true.

Mental Illness . . . Postpartum Depression . . . Manic Depression . . .

I keep reading, and with each word my mind fights to process, I come unhinged. The room begins to tunnel around me, and my chest tightens, making it difficult to breathe.

Prosecutor: “Mrs. Archer, did you negotiate the sale of your two-month-old daughter, Elizabeth Archer?”

Defendant: “Yes.”

A hysterical explosion of tinnitus ricochets in my head, piercing, shooting an unrelenting blast of pain. My hands clutch tightly to the papers as my vision teeters in and out of focus. I squint, determined to read further, but I’m fading out fast when my eyes scan: Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity.

The papers drop, scattering across the floor as my hands shoot up to my ears in an attempt to mute the high-pitched ringing, but it’s coming from inside my head. It’s splitting my skull as it builds. The welling of every emotion inside of me creates an unbearable pressure, and I need release.

I can’t take it.

It’s so loud, so painful, too alive, too much.

Oh my God! She sold me.

Shuffling over my own feet, I have no balance as I move across the room. I can’t hear anything aside from the squealing in my ears. I stumble and catch myself from falling, gripping on to the closet door handle. Gasping for breath, my eyes blur, and I begin crying—sobbing—wailing—screaming.

She never even wanted me.

Standing in the doorway to the closet, I grab on to the doorframe and hold tightly as I drop my head. My vision diminishes in a wild haze, and it’s too much to contain. I can’t handle the overwhelming hysteria inside of me anymore.

I can’t do it.

I’m going to rupture.

I can’t do it.