So Much More(51)

She sits down in the chair across from me and stares unblinkingly with her discerning eyes. “The time has come?”

I nod and sniff again. “I need to figure out who I am. I don’t think I can do that until I have some answers, you know?”

She nods. She knows. “Did I ever tell you I grew up in foster care?”

“No, you never told me that. Is that why you do what you do?”

She smiles thoughtfully, but sadness tugs from deep inside trying to dissuade it. “Yes. I was nine when I went into the system. I remember my parents. I know who they were, and I wish I didn’t.” She takes a deep breath. “My foster parents were my salvation. They cared for me until I was eighteen. I believe there are superheroes walking amongst us. Or maybe they’re heavenly angels. I’m a Batman fan, so I tend to lean toward superheroes. They’re dressed in skin to look like you and me, but they have an exceptional ability. My foster parents had it.”

“What is it?”

“They had the ability to make someone who felt unseen, unwanted, and unloved feel special. They saw me. They wanted me. They loved me.”

My mind goes to Seamus. He’s the only person I’ve ever met, who made me feel that way.

“And I feel like it’s my responsibility to do my part in trying to make those connections for children in need: the unseen, the unwanted, the unloved. And it’s also the reason I take it so hard when I fail a child like I did you.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t your fault, Claudette.”

Tears are spilling quietly from her eyes as she shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. You have no idea how badly I feel about what happened. Still.”

I don’t want to talk about it, but I also don’t want her to feel in any way responsible for what happened. “Claudette, you know I don’t talk about that day, but I will say this, you’re a Batman angel. He was an evil bastard.”

She nods and switches topics. “Your birth parents’ names were undisclosed, even on your birth certificate. It was all part of the private adoption, which we know wasn’t on the up and up. The only information provided was that your mother was under the age of eighteen.”

“I know. I went to California hoping against hope that I’d find a needle in a haystack. I lived in the neighborhood near the hospital I was delivered in. It was a small beach community just up the coast from Los Angeles. A quiet place, lots of mom and pop businesses, and a nice stretch of boardwalk that attracted a kind crowd. It was laid-back and welcoming. I know it’s stupid, but I prayed that I’d run into her.” I huff. “My mom is probably long gone. She probably doesn’t even live there, but it was the most painless attempt I could make. And it offered escape from here. From hell.”

“So, what’s the next step?”

“I need to talk to Trenton Groves. He and his wife were the ones who adopted me at birth. Maybe he can give me details about my birth mother.”

She’s unblinking again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Are you sure you want to face that monster?”

I nod, more to myself than anything. “I need to. I have a gut feeling that he’s my only hope of finding my birth parents.”

“Where is he?” she asks hesitantly. She already knows I know or I wouldn’t be here.

“Prison. In Springfield, on drug charges. I’ve been keeping tabs on him. It’s been easy, he’s usually incarcerated.”

“Oh. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I wasn’t surprised either. He’s not exactly an upstanding citizen.” A few years ago I read the transcripts of the trial that convicted he and his wife of my abuse and neglect. Decent humans don’t do that to a little girl.

“You’ll need to get him to add you to his visitation list and make an appointment to set up a visitation time,” she coaches.

“Done. Tomorrow at ten in the morning.”

Her eyes dart to the side. She’s not looking at anything, she’s thinking. “I’ll drive you. I’ll go with you.”

I was praying she would. I don’t want to do this alone. “You’re sure?”

“This is how I begin to make amends,” she says solemnly.





I want to tear my pages out and run away with them like a thief





present





The building is cold. The concrete, the steel, even the fluorescence of the abundant overhead lighting is stark and house an inherent chill. I’m still wearing my coat, scarf, and gloves, and there are goosebumps covering every inch of my skin under all the layers of clothing.

Claudette is holding my hand with her left and fiddling with the clasp on her purse with her right. The fiddling is a passive attempt to speed this along, silently chiding the sluggishness of the process.

“Faith Hepburn,” a guard’s voice booms through the small holding room we’re seated in. It rattles me like two giant hands clutching my shoulders, a stiff jerk forward and back. I look around the room and feel heat light on my cheeks like a beacon exposing my whereabouts.

Claudette hesitates at my new-to-her legal name, but rises first, and I follow her lead.

We walk wordlessly behind the guard through a maze of secured doors before we’re seated in front of a reinforced window with an old school phone receiver on each side. The chair opposing ours is vacant, but only for a moment.