But as I watch her lying in the hospital bed, lost in the haze of sedation with a tube buried in her throat, I almost wish it were her heart. At least then I’d know that there’s some kind of surgery that could fix her.
There is no surgery that can fix Abby’s liver. They attempted to reverse the toxicity with corticosteroids, but she’s only gotten worse. If she doesn’t get a new liver, she could be dead in days. Her best chance at survival, due to her heart condition, is to find a genetic liver donor.
I squeeze Lynette’s shoulder and she sniffs loudly. “We have to contact them. We have to at least try,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “What will she think of us when she knows we lied to her?”
“She won’t think anything of us if she dies.”
“Stop that,” she whispers, her voice strangled by the truth of these words.
“It’s true. We need them whether we like it or not, and… she needs more from them than a piece of their liver.”
Just saying these words aloud fills me with a level of regret so heavy and palpable I feel as if I might collapse from the realization. I grit my teeth and attempt to swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I’m no longer the one person my little girl needs more than anyone.
Reaching forward, I pull a few strands of hair away from the tape holding Abby’s breathing tube in place. I want her to look her best for the photograph I’m about to take, quite possibly the most important photograph of her life. And she’ll be sleeping right through it. The moment I touch her warm cheek, her head twitches and Lynette pulls my hand back. She doesn’t want me to touch Abby’s face. She thinks it introduces germs into her nose and mouth and she’s afraid of what will happen if they have to give Abby antibiotics.
“I thought we wouldn’t have to tell her until she’s eighteen. I just don’t think I’m ready,” Lynette whispers as she reaches for the camera, which rests on the chair beside her. She holds the camera out for me to take, but she doesn’t let go when I attempt to grab it. “Wait. Let me fix her hair.”
I can hardly breathe as I watch Lynette smooth down Abby’s blonde hair. As similar as Abby’s hair color is to Lynette’s, she doesn’t really resemble either one of us. She has brown eyes while Lynette’s and mine are blue. She noticed this a few years ago and when she inquired about it, Lynette’s response was “Because you got all our best traits. That’s why you’re so much prettier than us.”
You don’t have to share DNA with your child to know when they’re suffering. Whether Lynette admits it to herself or me, the truth is that Abby knows she’s different. I read about adopted children who grow up feeling unwanted even when their adoptive parents make every effort to show them they are loved. This is one of the main reasons why I was so adamant about not allowing Chris and Claire Knight to have any contact with Abby after her first birthday. I knew that if there were a chance that Abby ever felt unwanted or unloved, she would go running to them. Now, I just want her to feel normal. If meeting them is what will save her life and give her back the sense that she is loved, I’ll do anything to give her that.
Lynette wipes tears from her face as she steps away from Abby and I take a step back to get a wider angle of the hospital bed. The lighting in this critical-care room is terrible. This isn’t something I ever imagined I would care about in the countless days we’ve spent in hospital rooms.
I take a few shots, feeling sick with myself as I walk around the bed to see which angle makes her look best. Every year, a few days before Christmas, we drop a memory card containing pictures of Abby into a joint safe-deposit box in Raleigh. The Knights also leave a memory card with pictures of themselves, and I can only assume it’s because they haven’t given up hope that we’ll introduce Abby to them. This is the first year we’ll be handing them the pictures in person as we beg them to save our girl.
Finally, I have to stop taking photos when I realize I’m about to lose my composure. Turning away from the hospital bed, I silently ask Abby’s forgiveness for photographing her while she’s in this state. She hates taking pictures, especially Christmas pictures, unless she’s had time to fix her hair and put on a nice outfit. The things thirteen-year-old girls worry about baffle me. I often wonder if she inherited this and all the traits I love so much about her from the Knights.
I turn around and Lynette is holding Abby’s hand again. “She’s lucky we adopted her,” she says. This time her voice is a bit louder than a whisper, as if she’s trying to convince me—or herself. “She probably wouldn’t have survived this long. She’s lucky to have us.”
“She needs to see those pictures,” I insist, but Lynette doesn’t look up or acknowledge my words.
Suddenly, Abby’s head jerks a bit harder and her fingers begin to move. My heart races as I rush to her side. Her eyes are still closed as tears begin to slide down her temples.
“What’s wrong?” I ask instinctively.
A soft whimper sounds in her throat where the breathing tube prevents her from speaking. She shakes her head, her eyes still closed as the tears come faster.
“Call the doctor!” I shout at Lynette, who is dumbfounded. Abby has been in a coma for seventeen days.
Abby’s cries become more high-pitched as she struggles to be heard through the tube. “Don’t try to speak, honey. The doctor’s coming. Just stay calm. Are you in pain?”
She shakes her head even more adamantly and finally she opens her eyes wide.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper as I reach for her hand, but she slaps my fingers away. “Abby, what’s wrong?” She reaches for the tape holding her breathing tube and I grab her hand to stop her. “Don’t do that.” She leans her head back and her muffled cries cease as she closes her eyes. “Honey, are you okay?”
She squeezes her eyes tightly shut and now it looks as if she’s in extreme pain. The nurse rushes in and I lock eyes with her. “I think she’s in pain.”
Abby’s cries begin again and she continues to shake her head. She wants us to know she is not in pain.
The nurse is confused. “Then what’s wrong, dear? Is it the tube in your throat? Because we can’t take that out. We’ll have to wait for the doctor to get here. He’s been paged. Can you wait a few more minutes?”
Lynette wears a guarded smile as she rounds the foot of the bed and reaches for me. She didn’t see what I just saw.
Abby’s cries grow stronger and the nurse appears worried. “You want a piece of paper to write something down?”
Finally, Abby nods and the nurse quickly leaves the room to retrieve a pen and paper, but Lynette beats her to it. She takes her phone out of her purse, opens up the notes app, and hands it to Abby. As she takes the phone from Lynette, she seems to be refusing to look at her. Her hand shakes as she types a few words then lets the phone drop onto her blanket.
The words on the screen break my heart into a million pieces: I want to see the pictures.
CHAPTER FOUR
THIS IS THE THIRD family dinner in as many days that Abby has refused to speak to us since we returned from the hospital four days ago. I want to shake her to force her to speak, but I know there’s only one thing that will bring back her voice. And I can’t give it to her.
She sits across from me, stabbing her dinner salad over and over again, oblivious of the shrill sound her fork makes every time it grates against her plate. She eats quickly, eager to get away from the parents who betrayed her. Brian also remains silent and, for once, I’m not happy about that.
When I met Brian my senior year at UNC Chapel Hill, he was working as an electrician for a company the university had hired to upgrade the lighting in the campus theater. I was twenty-one, talkative, and thin as paper. He was twenty-five with broad shoulders and hardly spoke a word the first three weeks we dated. There was a quiet gentleness about him that I found so completely enthralling. I wanted to crack open his shell and devour his secrets. He’s still a quiet person, but he’s been very vocal about Abby’s right to know her parents lately.
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Still, I wish he would say something instead of just shoveling salad and steak into his mouth. I wish he’d show me just a few words of support. More than anything, though, I wish he’d come off this idea that Abby is old enough to know Chris and Claire Knight. She’s only thirteen.
She’s struggling to push the last few bites of salad into her mouth. She hasn’t been able to eat much with the new medication they have her on, but it seems she’s determined to put all that food away so she can leave.
Her new meds may make her sick, but they saved her life. Brian didn’t want to try this drug, afraid the risk of more liver toxicity outweighed the possibility that she would come back to us. But I was right. And I’m not the type to say I told you so, but this would be the perfect time to say it. I was right about Abby being too sick to continue playing in that soccer game. I was right to take a risk on this new medication. And I know I’m right about keeping her from meeting her biological parents.
“Stop doing that. You’ll make yourself sick,” I say, putting down my fork as I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
She gags as she swallows the last bite of salad and rises from the table with her plate in hand. She disappears into the kitchen without a word and I stare at her empty chair as I listen to the faucet come on in the kitchen, then the opening and closing of the dishwasher door. Then silence.
I glance at Brian and his elbows are resting on the table as he stares at Abby’s empty chair. I want to ask what he’s thinking, but I don’t want to know. Soon, he stands up and reaches for my plate.
When the dinner dishes are clean, I lean against the counter in the kitchen and Brian leans against the island across from me. I stare at his feet for a moment before I look up. He’s wearing that expression I fell in love with twenty years ago, that hardness that masked the vulnerability underneath.
“She’ll get over this,” I whisper, hardly able to bring myself to say the words aloud. “Eventually, she will get over it.”
“Will we?”
“Don’t say that.”
He takes a step forward, his bulky frame towering over me as my back is pressed into the counter. “I don’t want to lose either of you,” he says gruffly as he lifts my chin. “But it looks like that’s exactly what’s happening. And you’re the only one with the power to stop it. It’s not too late to make the right decision, Lynette.”
He lets go of my chin and leans over. I close my eyes as I anticipate his lips on mine, but the kiss never comes. When I open my eyes, he’s gone.
If I give in to Brian, Abby will find out her birth parents are young, rich, and famous: a rock star and an author. How can a middle-class electrical contractor and stay-at-home mom ever hope to compete with that? I know we’re not competing for Abby’s love, but that’s exactly what it will feel like once Abby finds out their identities. Every time she speaks of them excitedly, I’ll wonder if she speaks about us like that to Chris and Claire. And she will speak of them that way.
They’re practically perfect. They donate millions to charity; they’re in their mid-thirties and still look like they’re in their twenties; and they’re still madly in love. You can see it in every photo of them ever taken. And the worst part: They live twenty minutes away. She’ll be able to see them whenever she wants.
I push off the counter and head upstairs. As I reach the second floor, I hear a sound coming from Abby’s bedroom. I tiptoe toward her room then I close my eyes as I listen. She’s playing her guitar and my eyes instantly well up with tears when I realize she’s singing “Blackbird” by The Beatles, a song about learning to fly with broken wings.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice in four days. I want to go in there and hold her and tell her everything will be okay. But if I can’t tell her everything, then that will just be a lie. I can’t tell her the reason she feels like a caged songbird. I can’t let her fly away.
CHAPTER FIVE
I LAY MY GUITAR on top of my bed and grab my laptop off the nightstand. I sit cross-legged as I set the computer on the bed in front of me. Flipping open the screen, I type in my password then open my browser to my bookmarks. I stare at the name of the website for a moment before I click on it: birthrecords.com.
I know my dad’s credit-card number. I have it saved in a text file because my dad was tired of giving it to me every time I wanted to download a new movie. But my parents will definitely notice a charge on their account made to birthrecords.com. Then I’ll lose my credit-card privileges and they’ll probably move us to a remote island in the South Pacific with no Internet access. Well, my dad will probably protest for a couple of days before he gives into my mom, as always.
I open up my “Saved Orders” page and stare at the “Submit” button. Just a few more clicks and I can have the name of the agency that handled my adoption. That doesn’t mean they’ll give me the names of my birth parents, or that the agency still exists. All it means is that I’ll have one more piece of the puzzle. One tiny piece of a puzzle that’s missing half its pieces. It may seem insignificant and pointless, but it means the world to me.
Why can’t my mother see that?
If I knew what hospital I was born in, or what time I was born, I could go to the county courthouse and search the birth records myself. But my parents have already admitted to lying about this information when I asked them about it years ago in casual conversation.
“Mommy, where was I born?”
“In a hospital, of course.”
“What hospital?”
Mom and Dad exchanged shifty looks as they used their ESP to come up with a lie. Always covering their tracks. God forbid I should want to know anything about my true identity.
I wonder if I look more like my biological mom or dad. I wonder if they play music like me. I wonder if they live here in North Carolina or somewhere cool like New York or Hollywood. I wonder if they broke up or if they had more kids after they gave me up. Maybe I was the only one they didn’t want.
Most of all, I just wonder if they ever think of me.
I open up a new tab on my browser and begin a new search: abigail jensen adoption decree. I hit go and, of course, nothing related to me or my parents comes up. But that hasn’t stopped me from repeating this same search string a billion times over the past three days. Since he gave me the idea.
I open my email next to check for new messages and I’m relieved to find I have two. I already feel like a ghost in this house. I don’t think I could handle being invisible to my friends.
I check Amy’s message first.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Subject: Lameness
Vanessa’s party isn’t gonna be a sleepover anymore. Her parents flipped out when they heard boys were coming. Her parents are the worst.
I chuckle at the last sentence in my best friend’s email. She doesn’t know what I found out a few days ago. If she knew, she would have to agree that my parents are the worst. At least, my mom is.
I type a reply to Amy telling her I’m not sure I’ll be able to go to the party anyway. My parents only let me go back to school today because they think it will get me talking to them again. They’re afraid of me being around a lot of germs while my body is adjusting to the new meds. I hit send then my finger trembles as I click on the next email in the queue.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Subject: homework
did you take down the page numbers for warner?
I smile at the obvious ploy to start up a conversation. Caleb Everett is the last guy I would expect to email me. He’s been sitting next to me in Mr. Warner’s algebra class for four months and he hasn’t spoken to me all year. Though, I have caught him sneaking glances at me once in a while. I just figured that was the way he was with all girls.
I’ve never actually had a boyfriend. Not that this is terribly uncommon for girls my age. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined w
alking the halls hand-in-hand with Caleb ever since we ran into each other in the hospital four days ago.
I was getting ready to leave my hospital room, but I was still waiting for my parents to bring my street clothes. They were settling the financial stuff down the hall from my room and I was getting pretty impatient. Grabbing the back of my hospital gown to hold it closed, I slid out of bed and tiptoed to the doorway to peer down the corridor. That’s when I saw him.
Caleb was running his hand over his messy light-brown hair, his gaze pointed at the floor in front of him. He looked worried and this intrigued me enough that I actually forgot where I was for a moment. When he looked up and straight at me, I didn’t look away fast enough. His green eyes locked on mine, then that frown on his face turned into a warm half smile that could literally give me a heart attack if I weren’t on my new meds.
“You’re in Warner’s class with me,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. There was no way I could mistake sitting next to him for an hour a day for the past four months.
I nodded, tightening my grip on the back of my hospital gown and hoping he didn’t look down at my feet. My mom didn’t bother painting my toenails while I was in a coma. It didn’t seem important at the time.
He stopped just a couple of feet away, close enough for me to smell the warm, fresh scent of his black T-shirt, which bore the logo of a band I’d never heard of. God, why was he smiling at me like that?
“I heard you were in the hospital.”
“You did?” I replied, my voice a bit shrill as I wondered what exactly he heard and who he heard it from. He probably thought I was totally lame and sickly.