Counting by 7s(2)

The woman has a thick ponytail of orange-colored hair. She doesn’t say hello. She just lowers her sunglasses and says: “Do you know Roberta and James Chance?”

I try to answer, but my voice won’t come out any louder than a whisper: “Yes.”

I want to add: “But it’s Jimmy Chance. No one calls my dad James.”

But I can’t.

The officer fumbles with her sunglasses. Even though she is dressed the part, the woman seems to be losing all of her authority.

She mumbles:

“Okay . . . And you are . . . ?”

I swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry and I feel a lump form in my throat.

“I’m their daughter . . .”

Dell Duke is out of the car now and he has my luggage with him as he starts across the sidewalk. Mai is right at his heels. Quang-ha stays put.

The second officer, a younger man, then comes around and stands next to his partner. But neither of them speaks.

Just silence.

Horrible silence.

And then the two police officers turn their attention to Dell. They both look anxious. The female officer manages to say: “And where do you fit in . . . ?”

Dell clears his throat. He suddenly looks like he’s sweating from every gland in his body. He is barely able to speak: “I’m Dell D-D-Duke. I work as a c-c-counselor for the school district. I see two of these k-k-kids for counseling. I’m just d-d-driving them home.”

I can see that both officers are instantly relieved.

The female officer begins nodding, showing support and almost enthusiasm as she says: “A counselor? So she heard?”

I find enough of a voice to ask:

“Heard what?”

But neither of the police will look at me. They are all about Dell now.

“Can we have a word with you, sir?”

I watch Dell’s sweaty wet hand release from the black vinyl luggage handle, and he follows the officers as they move away from me, away from the patrol car, and out to the still-hot pavement of the street.

Standing there, they huddle together with their backs turned so that as I watch, they look, lit by the low, end-of-the-day sun, like an evil, three-headed monster.

And that’s what they are because their voices, while muffled, are still capable of being understood.

I clearly hear four words:

“There’s been an accident.”

And after that in whispers comes the news that the two people I love most in the world are gone forever.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

I need to rewind.

I want to go back.

Will anyone go with me?





chapter 2


two months ago




I’m about to start a new school.

I’m an only child.

I’m adopted.

And I’m different.

As in strange.

But I know it and that takes the edge off. At least for me.

Is it possible to be loved too much?

My

Two

Parents

Really

Truly

L-O-V-E

Me.

I think waiting a long time for something makes it more gratifying.

The correlation between expectation and delivery of desire could no doubt be quantified into some kind of mathematical formula.

But that’s off the point, which is one of my problems and why despite the fact that I’m a thinker, I’m never the teacher’s pet.

Ever.

Right now I’m going to stick to the facts.

For 7 years my mom tried to get pregnant.

That seems like a long time of working at something, since the medical definition of infertility is twelve months of well-timed physical union without any results.

And while I have a passion for all things medical, the idea of them doing that, especially with any kind of regularity and enthusiasm, makes me feel nauseated (as medically defined, an unpleasant sensation in the abdomen).

Twice in those years my mom peed on a plastic wand, and turned the diagnostic instrument blue.

But twice she couldn’t keep the fetus. (How onomatopoetic is that word? Fetus. Insane.) Her cake failed to bake.

And that’s how I came into the mix.

On the 7th day of the 7th month (is it any wonder I love the number?) my new parents drove north to a hospital 257 miles from their home, where they named me after a cold-climate tree and changed the world.

Or at least our world.

Time out. It probably wasn’t 257 miles, but that’s how I need to think of it. (2 + 5 = 7. And 257 is a prime number. Super-special. There is order in my universe.) Back to adoption day. As my dad explains it, I never once cried, but my mom did all the way down Interstate Five South until exit 17B.

My mom weeps when she’s happy. When she’s sad, she’s just quiet.

I believe that her emotional wiring got crossed in this area. We deal with it because most of the time she’s smiling. Very wide.

When my two new parents finally made it to our single-story, stucco house in a development at the end of the San Joaquin Valley, their nerves were both shot.

And our family adventure had just begun.



I think it’s important to get pictures of things in your head. Even if they are wrong. And they pretty much always are.