Chapter 34: Earth

I google adoption in the state of Washington and find out that when you're adopted, they change your birth certificate. There's a birth certificate in the file for both of us, but I wonder whether it’s the original.

I decide to make another call.

“Spokane Regional Health District.” The voice is chipper and young.

“Hello,” I say. “I've begun to suspect that I might have been adopted. Unfortunately my parents have passed away, and my aunt won't tell me anything.”

“That sounds like quite the hunt,” the woman says. “I'm sorry for your loss. Was it recent?”

I hate when people ask that. They mean well, but the implication is that unless my parents died in the last year, I should be over it. As if you ever heal from losing someone you love, someone you need. “Not really,” I finally say. “The thing is—”

“It's so hard,” she says. “I totally get it. I mean, last year, my dog Freckles got hit by a car, and I couldn't get out of bed for like a whole week. I lost six pounds.”

Six pounds in a week? That seems. . .excessive.

And if I had a dollar for every time someone compared my parents' death to the death of a beloved pet, I could open my own startup, complete with name brand tacos. It’s exactly why I avoid sharing what happened to Mom and Dad.

“A car?” I finally force myself to say. “That's awful.” I don't mention that my parents died from being flung out of a car two feet in front of me. The last thing I want is more awkward condolences from someone who doesn't know me, didn't know my parents, and doesn't really care. “About the records—is there any chance you might have access to the original birth certificate?”

“Hmm,” she says. “Usually we do retain the original, even when it's changed. Let me check for you. Can you give me your name and date of birth?” After I do, I hear the clacking of keys on the other side of the phone. “This is curious. There's only one birth certificate on file, but another record's flagged. It's archived with the microfiche, for some reason. Hang on, let me see whether I can pull it up.”

I wait, trying to avoid seeing Declan's clean-shaven face every time I close my eyes.

I check my phone again while I’m waiting. No reply, so I text Jesse. Again. I'M WORRIED. I’m definitely entering full-on panic mode.

He finally replies.

-LEAVING NOW. DON'T WORRY. I'M FINE.

“Okay.” I hear the sound of her popping gum. “I found the file. It's not an original birth certificate. It's a petition for adoption, but it was redacted for some reason. Your parents' names are on the file, but not the names of your birth parents.”

Ohmygosh ohmygosh, we were adopted. I should be more shocked—but instead it’s like the answer to a question I never knew to ask.

“Hello? Did I lose you?”

Right. I have to say something. “Um, I’m here.” I clear my throat. “Could you email it to me?”

“Well, we're supposed to go through a whole open records request process,” she says. “I'm happy to walk you through it.”

I groan. “I'm only seventeen. I'm not sure when or how I can figure that out. I don't have a printer or a scanner.”

“Oh.” The woman's quiet. “It sucks to lose someone. I really hope you find some answers. If you send me your address, I'll email it to you. It can be our secret.”

Guilt surges through me for my unkind thoughts about Freckles and this woman in general. I’m a jerk. “Thank you so much. You really don't know how much this means to me.”

I stand up and sit down a dozen times while I wait for her file. I look out the window repeatedly. When my email finally bings, I immediately open the attachment. Just like the kind woman said, the names of our birth parents have been redacted. All that’s left is a black blob where they would have been.

I want to scream.

Then I notice the date on the petition. We weren't adopted until I was three years old, and Jesse was four and a half. The same time Mom ran with me on Terra.

Why don't I remember those first three years of my life?

I close my eyes and try to imagine a mother or a father who are different than the ones who died in the accident, but I draw a blank. I'm so close to finding out the truth, but other than having my suspicions confirmed that we were adopted, this file doesn't help. Until I notice that a word near the page number of the petition has been redacted, too, probably because the name of the petitioners, my parents, was part of the label on the page number.

On every page but the second to last.

At the top in fuzzy but legible print, it reads, “Sterling Adoption Petition.”

A sense of foreboding rolls over me. Good stuff rarely happens in my life, but weird stuff like this? This is more my speed.

I know what Jesse will say.

Maybe I remembered the name Sterling. Could it have worked its way into my subconscious? Maybe none of what I dream about is real. Maybe my injuries haven’t been as bad as I thought and they’re better the next day because of a good nights’ sleep. Am I exaggerating how bad they are to myself so that I can create more evidence of a world that doesn’t exist?

Maybe maybe maybe.

Maybe I'm crazy.

I pore over the social services file again, hoping something else will pop out in light of the adoption, but nothing does.

Until the last page.

It's just a requisition for a renewal of time at the group home. It's nothing I haven't seen a dozen times with various dates, but this time, a name stands out. I never thought much about the power in names. I flip back through the past forms, and sure enough, it's the same name on every form. How did I never notice this before? I guess sometimes your brain sees what it expects to see, and not what’s there.

Under the line for my social worker's name, two words are printed neatly. Danica Rosenbaum. Not Declan.

But I met with Declan, a large, powerful man, dozens of times. I've seen him over and over, whenever I caused a problem or some kind of issue arose. I'll never forget the first time I met him, the day my parents died.

I still thought he wanted to help me then.

By the time he pried me away from my aunt and stuffed me into that psych hospital, and then when he released me into the group home with all the crazies and jerks. . .by then I knew. I've never seen or heard the name Danica Rosenbaum in my life.

I call back. “Social services,” Tanya says.

“Tanya, my favorite person today.”

“Who is this?”

“It's Bethany,” I say. “Major crimes.”

“Oh, right. Are those children. . .did they recognize them, or you know, did the records. . .” She trails off.

“They were a match, but here's the thing. There's a discrepancy in the file and their aunt's fixated on it. That happens sometimes. The human brain's a funny thing. She won't accept that they're really dead until she can make sense of this. We won't be able to get her to leave until I can tell her that I've spoken with you, and that I have some kind of explanation. The file you sent lists their social worker as Danica Rosenbaum.”

“Okay,” Tanya says. “Did you need to speak with her?”

I consider this briefly—processing that there is a Danica Rosenbaum. That’s not an error, or she wouldn’t be offering to patch me through. “No, I don't, but I would like to confirm that the name is correct. The aunt is absolutely positive the social worker was a man named Declan Rosenbaum. Maybe it's a husband-wife team?”

Tanya laughs. “No chance of that. Danica's gay, and she’s been gay since long before it became cool. No husband. No brother, either. In fact, I can go one better. I've worked here at social services for twenty-two years and I can personally reassure you that there's never been a man by the name of Declan working here. Every single note logged on this case was put in by Danica herself. There's no mistake. The kids' aunt is welcome to call me if it will help. Or I'm sure Danica would be happy to reach out, too.”

I should thank her. I should say something, but I can't. I'm too sick to speak. I hang up the phone, hoping as I do that I never need Tanya for information again.

How could there be no Declan?

I know his face as well as I know my parents, er, my adopted parents. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Strong jaw, bitter eyes, wry mouth. Most importantly, if he wasn't my social worker, who was he? He took Danica's last name, so perhaps she could tell me, but something makes me believe that if she cooperated with him, calling her would only lead him to me faster.

My sense of panic redoubles. We're not safe here. We need to leave now.

When Jesse walks in the door, our duffel bags are already stacked and waiting.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Alora?”

“Declan is here.”

Jesse closes his eyes and sighs, but when he opens them I don't see panic. I don't see terror. I don't see fear.

I see sympathy.

Concern.

“I'm not crazy, Jesse. I saw him, I swear.”

He walks past me and sits on the patched beanbag chair. “I believe you.”

“You do? Then why are you sitting?” I pick up one of the bags. “We need to go.”

He pats the beanbag next to him.

I shake my head. “I don't want to sit down. I want to leave, right now. We need to get out before he finds us.”