“Thank you again. You really made her morning.” She swallows, clearing her throat before she adds, “And mine too.”
I grab the money off the counter and pull every single dollar I have on me and give it to her. And it still doesn’t feel like enough. “She’ll hardly remember the material things you couldn’t give her. She will cherish the love you had for her when she looks back and she’ll thank God for you.”
There’s shock and wonder on her face as I hurry away. I know it’s what I want to tell my mother but will never get the chance. But it’s the closest opportunity I’ll ever have. The affection she gave me meant more than anything she couldn’t afford. I lost sight of what was important because I was angry with her and my father. She did the best she could, and it was more than enough.
I rush out, heading for the motel and don’t look back even when I hear the woman shout another, “Thank you,” along with the little girl doing the same. Because I will lose the little self-control I have remaining.
When I get to the room, I drop the items on the bed and let myself feel the pain and take several deep breaths as the tears fall.
I’m in the same position about twenty minutes later when I get a message from Brooke.
Brooke: I’m at the hospital with my mom if you want to stop by. They said she’ll be here for a few more days.
I stare at the screen for several seconds. The hospital is the last place I can handle right now. The gas station almost did my emotions in.
The moment when the woman and her husband were leaving with their baby boy flashes through my mind. The sight was picture-perfect. That’s when I recognized that people in the same building are having the best day of their life while others are experiencing the worst. Some leave with a new baby; others depart without their loved one.
I pull my birth certificate out of my pocket and study the document.
The hospital.I do a double take at the place of birth—Marrero. Then read the hospital name again. That’s on the other side of the river. Why would Mom drive to the Westbank to have me?
It’s probably another dead end, another glitch in my head that’ll make me think I’m crazy. Like I’m wishing my mother away. I just need something to make sense. Something real. The truth. Even if it hurts. Again.
The following morning, I’m waiting as the doors finally open to the records office. There’s only one person ahead of me, so I approach the clerk soon after.
“I need my birth records.”
My gut says she’s going to tell me no but I’m so relieved when she requests, “Name, date of birth, and I need to see your identification.”
I provide everything she requires then wait until she verifies a few more details.
Afterwards, she hands me a folder. “Here you go.”
I peek at the first page. My breath catching as I read a name I don’t know—Freya Frugé.
“Is there something wrong?”
Yes. Very. I’m not crazy. But I’m still debating that detail as I pull out the paper.
“This isn’t my mother’s name.”
The lady seems a bit flustered for a second as she asks me to verify the information then says, “That’s your file.” She skeptically asks, “Were you adopted?”
“No. The birth father’s name is right but that’s not my mother. Is there any more information? Any paperwork on Freya? I don’t know who she is. I’ve never heard that name in my life.”
“Her maternal chart is confidential. Only the files pertaining directly to your birth are available to you. I can’t give you any other records on her without permission.”
This is unbelievable yet finally making things make sense. Like what Grandma said, what Dad said. Everyone is really lying to me.
“Do you need to sit down?” she asks. “I can get you some water or something.”
“No, thanks.” I need answers, not a water break.
The entire ride home, I call Dad over and over, but there’s no answer. When I arrive at the house, he’s not there. Would he even tell me the truth with the concrete proof I have in my hands?
“Ms. Walker,” Anthony calls my name just before I make it to the door, but I don’t stop as I yell over my shoulder, “I have to go.”
My next stop is Uncle Shawn’s. But there’re no cars in the driveway. I call, waiting for him to pick up. When he does, I say without preamble, “I’m at your house.”
