I sat back, staring at the screen, considering what could be changed in the search parameters. But there was nothing. I know how to search for people. Chasing people for questions of ownership was literally my job. And the search worked. It showed mom, it showed me as a familial link. What was missing was anything to show mom in South Carolina, apart from my birth. More than that it showed nothing for mom before late twenty-forty, like she appeared, fully formed, from nowhere.
A news article from a few years ago flickered across my mind. I searched for it online. It was the story of an Air Force major who discovered his parents weren’t Taiwanese, but Chinese, sent to America as spies, though they never did. The article linked back to similar cases over the decades, most were from Russia and the old U.S.S.R. There were a few dated in the five or six years around twenty-twenty. Some were blatant attempts to insert Russians into American politics, others were less obvious, people emigrating while pretending to be from another country, like Ukraine, or Poland, countries with ex-pat Russian communities from the days of the U.S.S.R.
I inspected a picture of a woman with long red hair who’d been convicted of being a Russian agent, imprisoned, then deported. From the details given she would have been ages with mom. Was that what happened? Mom was sent from Russia, or somewhere, to be a pretend American?
Surely there would be some sign. There were no memories of mom speaking a different language, well, some Spanish, but she never got beyond a few stilted phrases to express thanks or ask for help in a local bodega. Mom never woke up from a nightmare babbling in Russian, never idly scrawled Cyrillic characters while on hold, didn’t have thick accented friends drop by on a regular basis, didn’t take regular unexplained trips to isolated spots.
As far as I knew.
What about during school time? Mom could have gone anywhere, met anyone.
There’d always been the belief that when mom was dead then maybe some of her secrets would work loose, that I’d discover the reasons for such a self-contained, insulated from the past, existence. Friends at college had spoken wide eyed of things discovered after a parents death, of the layers which opened to reveal this whole other person who’d lived and done unimagined things.
My experience moved in the opposite direction. There were no layers to peel, the only other life for mom, at this point, was entirely imagined, and where the imagination took me was uncomfortable.
A laugh forced it’s way out as a second, less paranoid but more outrageous, idea loomed up. Maybe mom was an alien. Either Men-in-Black, or a mother-ship, would be along shortly. Cradling the coffee cup I stared at the waves and smiled, letting the idea of mom being from a distant planet amuse me.
The desire to find mom’s past, my history, grew like bamboo, shooting up from a sprout of an idea to be the tallest thing on my horizon, crowding everything out. Maybe it was grief, or just the mystery that I’d been left. When I found whatever cousins, or second-cousins, or other vague relations, I wasn’t sure how the meeting would go, whether meeting them was even something to do. ‘Hi, I’m the daughter of the aunt who disappeared thirty years ago’ didn’t feel like a great introduction.
But in the end the need to know was stronger.
Work didn’t like the idea of an unplanned sabbatical but I had the required seniority, even if it meant saying goodbye to a partnership. Ralf said to take as long as required, but gave no intimation that he would be visiting anytime soon.
After the pregnancy test confirmed my suspicion I assumed he’d come.
Maybe he would if I’d told him. I tried to, but the words wouldn’t form, stolen by the child forming inside me. If I’m right, and it’s eight weeks, then my child already has a heartbeat and fingernails. Will it be a girl, or a boy? What would mom have said? What did she say when she found herself pregnant with me?
One thing that is decided though, I’ve rented a house. It feels very reminiscent of mom, history repeating itself, right down to the sneaking suspicion the realtor is letting the house out on the side. It’s a sprawling three story place with a middle floor which is open from front to back, with a few supporting pillars. Light floods in as the sun rises above the Atlantic, then bestows final pinkish red hues while sliding behind the headland.
Very swiftly the house becomes home. I asked the realtor to inquire about a selling price and arrange to have some things packaged and sent from back west. It’s oddly comforting to have mom’s truck parked in the garage. Eventually Ralf comes to visit. When he arrives the feeling of being home was utterly complete.
‘That sunrise is awesome,’ Ralf said, sitting on the edge of the bed with a cup of coffee in hand, the light giving him a halo, an aura, of contentment. A week after arriving and the stress of work has dissipated. This morning he didn’t reach for his phone to check emails as soon as he woke.
‘Ralf.’
‘Yes,’ he sipped his coffee.
‘You know I’ve put some weight on.’
‘Not that I noticed, not really. You look terrific.’ He reached a hand back and stroked my leg through the duvet.
‘We’re pregnant,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Pregnant. Embrazada. Yun.’ The languages he’s proficient in. The room was silent and changed. The air of lazy morning tranquility morphed into the late afternoon mugginess which could presage a coming storm, or just remain oppressively energy sapping.
‘I thought you were on the pill.’
‘I am. I called my doctor. She thinks that maybe I got out of sync after mom died. I know there were a couple of times when I wasn’t sure if I’d taken it.’
‘And now you’re pregnant.’
I scooted up the bed to cuddle against him. ‘We’re pregnant.’
He stood, I almost tumbled off the bed. He turned. Seven days hadn’t been enough to put any real color on his torso. The pinkness from sunburn seemed to accentuate the paleness of his skin. His stomach had never been toned and as he moved towards his mid-thirties was giving signs of paunch which would be tricky to move without concerted effort.
Maybe we could tone up together.
‘Are we?’ He asked. ‘I don’t remember us discussing children. Then I don’t remember discussing you throwing up your job and moving to the other side of the country. But I see your mom’s old truck here which makes me think that you intend the move to be permanent, and we didn’t discuss that either.’
And then we argued.
When the cab arrived to take him to the airport we didn’t even say goodbye. He was waiting out front and I stayed up on the second floor watching a stiff wind whip spindrift from wave tops and feeling adrift.
The first time I met Ralf we were opposing council. His handshake lingered just a little longer than everyone else and, through an otherwise tense discussion, he always had a smile when I spoke.
After our clients settled he asked me on a date, via text.
And now it was over. The clinching cliche was his ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’ Words which accused me, and threw doubt on him. Exclusivity was another thing we hadn’t discussed. After four years it hadn’t crossed my mind. Maybe it hadn’t crossed his, just coming from the other direction.
Darkness rose, something I was getting used to. Instead of light surrendering the day by setting the water aflame, I watched night own the ocean, saw stars lay claim to the sky.
The stars were fully out when hunger finally moved me. I went down to the kitchen and stared into the fridge. It was full of things Ralf and I’d intended to eat over the next four or five days. Looking at it made me feel queasy, but at the same time hunger churned me. A vision of the large meatball pizza a nearby place made sprung up, and my saliva glands went into overdrive. Before I could think it through mom’s truck was pulling down the road, the gentle whine of the motors were almost soothing, but I wasn’t fully engaged in driving and at the South Street interchange I missed a light turning red and within fifty yards a siren blipped and flashing lights were in my mirror.
‘Ma’am, could I see your licence?’
I opened my purse and handed it to him. He looked at it with the light of a torch, then bent down and peered at me. He was a fit late-fifties, or tired mid-forties. His name badge said Harris.
‘Is this your licence, ma’am?’
I looked over, and saw the faded plastic of my moms old card. ‘No, sorry. That’s my moms old one.’ I fished mine out of the purse and held it out. ‘Can I have mom’s back?’
‘Misusing a license is a misdemeanor in this state.’ He went to tuck the licence into a pocket, and I burst into tears. ‘Ma’am?’
‘I’m sorry. My mom gave it to me when I was five. I’ve kept it in every purse since.’ A sob struck me and I fought for breath, ‘She died, I’ve been here scattering her ashes and looking for family, and today my boyfriend decided he didn’t want to be a father.’ With that the well stopped right up. ‘Officer Harris, I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten since last night and I should have been paying attention to the traffic lights. Please, give me a ticket if that’s due, but I beg you let me have my mom’s old license back.’
‘Where are you heading to eat?’
‘Bendino’s.’
‘You’ve got good taste. Tell Tony that Danny Harris sent you, and you’ll get a discount.’ He passed a ticket and mom’s license back through the window. ‘You can put the saving towards paying the ticket. Please drive more safely. Evening ma’am.’
The police cruiser pulled away with a blip of the horn and I sat looking at a sixty-five dollar fine for speeding.
Part One Here
Part Two Here
Part Four on Thursday
text by stuartcturnbull picture by AberrantRealities via Pixabay
