Chapter 17 - The Name I Was Given
I drove to Maine alone.
Mara wanted to come.
I told her no.
That was not noble.
I was scared.
The house sat on a rocky stretch of coast where my father used to disappear for weekends.
I found the file beneath a loose floorboard in his bedroom.
Gerald had been right.
Names.
Birth dates.
Payments.
Original mothers.
Adoptive families.
Then I found mine.
ADRIAN JAMES WHITAKER.
Original name: Adrian James Cole.
Birth mother: Rebecca Cole.
Adoptive parents: Thomas and Evelyn Whitaker.
I sat on the floor for an hour.
Maybe longer.
My mother was not my biological mother.
My father was not my biological father.
The Whitaker bloodline I had spent my life being measured against was paperwork.
I laughed.
Then I threw up.
Then I laughed again.
Mara called.
I answered.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
I couldn't say it.
She waited.
That was one thing Mara was good at.
Waiting without filling silence.
Finally I said, “I'm adopted.”
She inhaled.
“Oh.”
“That's all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don't know.”
“Okay.”
Another silence.
Then she said, “You're still annoying.”
I laughed.
It came out broken.
“Thanks.”
“Come home.”
Home.
The word landed strangely.
I drove back the next morning.
My mother was waiting at the apartment.
I handed her the file.
She read my name.
Then sat down.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because your father made me promise.”
“Stop blaming dead men for choices you made alive.”
She closed her eyes.
That one hurt her.
Good.
Then I hated myself for thinking good.
She told me Rebecca Cole had been seventeen.
Poor.
Alone.
My father had arranged the adoption through the foundation.
“Did she want to give me up?”
My mother didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
“Is she alive?”
“I don't know.”
“You never looked?”
“No.”
I stood.
“You stole me too.”
Her face collapsed.
“I loved you.”
“I believe you.”
That surprised her.
Then I added, “And you still stole me.”
She cried.
I didn't comfort her.
Later that night, Mara found me on the balcony.
She handed me coffee.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
I looked through the glass.
Five children were arguing over pizza toppings.
Five.
Maya was there.
Still shy.
Still watching.
Still not ours in the way we wanted.
Then Milo shouted, “Adrian! Maya says pineapple belongs on pizza!”
I opened the door.
“Absolutely not.”
Maya smiled.
And for one second, I forgot my own name.
Then my phone rang.
A woman said, “My name is Rebecca Cole.”
I stopped breathing.
May you like
“I think I'm your mother.”
