Discovery Story

It can’t be true. Adopted… adopted… adopted. The mocking voice of the devil chants tunelessly through my head, pounding into my skull, willing me to break. Like a continuous headache that not a single drug can cure, for it is a drug itself. Running from him is not an option for wherever I go he will stalk me a menacing presents in the darkest shadows.

In a sad, ironic sense, it’s comical to think only a few mere hours ago I was your average, normal, happy (in a cute teenage way), girl. Already that innocent sense of security seems a decade away. This is one of those situations that is impossible to grasp unless you are personally experiencing it. Such as a story on the news, where a poor child’s mother is the vulnerable victim of a crazed gunman. An extreme example I realise, still let me explain; you imagine it happening to you, you play it over in your head believing you can understand the loss, and emotions that the grievers are going through. In reality you are a million miles away from being able to begin to comprehend how it feels. In reality you are crying for yourself, preparing yourself for a possible situation, an occurrence in your life, where you will bid use that hatred of the human race. That is why up until now I had no idea how it felt to find out you are not who you think you are. Your identity, your family… your life is just a huge cover-up, a lie.

It has hit me like being woken up from warm, safe sleep by having ice-cold water poured over your head. I supposed if I was to psycho- analyse my self then I would say that at the present time I’m still in a state of shock. Still taking in the contrast of hot and cold and the unexpectancy. Still not quite able to comprehend my, my well what can I call it? My misfortune, that word seems suitable although it doesn’t begin to describe the immensity of my feelings. The misfortune that my real mother didn’t want me, that I was denied, rejected like an old, cracked, useless vase. I wonder if she ever loved me, or did I disgust her, like a speck of dust on her shoe? Does she ever think about me? Wonder what I look like, what kind of person I am? I doubt it; if she did she would have found me, battled against all odds to let me know who I am. I am going to find out whom she is. I am going to meet her, I have to I can’t bare not knowing. I’ve given my “mum” an ultimatum, either she tells me who my real mother is, or I leave, get up and go. Melodramatic I realise but I’m not sure if I am in an entirely sane state of mind at the moment. I doubt I’d be able to leave but I must find out the truth, I need to know.

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I don’t know what to do, should I stay and wallow in this pit of self-pity? Being adopted isn’t an everyday occurance. I mean the freak chance of a disasterous earthquake in England, now that I’m prepared for, but adoption? In the past I’ve never consided it. It’s rather amusing really- all those pompous self-righteous friends of my “mum” always pointing out the similarities between us, trying to sound gracious and humorous in their own little ways. They couldn’t have been more wrong. I want to phone Kate but the closest phone’s in the study and who knows where “mum” is lurking, wanting to catch me vulnerable, away from the territory of my room for a “chat”. Kate will help; she’ll get my head straight. Kate… My sister, my saviour, my buoyancy aid through life. It was so hard when she went away; she was my ally against “mum”. The two of them always argued, I don’t really know what about, usually over the most pathetic things. Of course when she went away “mum” picked on me instead, never satisfied until she had me feeling miserable and unworthy. There’s not a chance in hell that she’s adopted too though, “mum” and her are identical. I wonder if she knew? No, she would have told me she wouldn’t keep anything from me; “mum” must of lied to her too. I hated it when she moved out. She comes and visits, but it’s just not the same. The atmosphere is tense and unnerving without her jokes and lighthearted comments. The pleasant smell of the combination of her perfumes no longer exists in the sterilised air of the house, which has stopped feeling like a home, and a part of me is missing. I don’t mean her leaving ripped my heart out, but it made it feel like I was an orange with one of my segments missing. An incomplete sphere of normality that had been slightly mutated. Yes, I think I’ll take the risk and phone her.

I creep out of my room, careful not to make any noise that may attract attention to my presence. I battle each floorboard one by one trying to take the slow and steady approach. I reach the stairs. Now I’m in no-mans land without protection, far away from the sanctity of my room. I’ve come this far, now there’s no turning back. Leaning heavily on the banister I take on the task of descending the stairs. One, two, skip the creaky third, four. No! I reach five and it squeaks like a demented mouse. I stand stock still my blood pounding in my head; I can’t hear anyone coming so I continue downwards my blunder making me even more cautious.

I get down the stairs with no more problems, my ears sensitive to the slightest sound. The study door is just a small number of steps away, almost there, my hand grabs the handle… “There you are Jennifer darling, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Busted, “So near yet so far” I think to myself.

“Hello Vivienne, ” I reply using my mothers name rather than the mannerism of mum. This effects her, I can tell by the expression that flicks over her face. She wore that same expression when I confronted her over the adoption papers that I had found whilst looking through piles of old documents for my passport. A sort of crushed, hurt, confused expression. I don’t care, she’s not the hurt one, I am.

“I am just going to phone my non-related sister if that is okay with you,” I inform her rather than ask and step into the study, brushing past her.

“Jennifer, wait a moment,” she pleads, grabbing my shoulder.

“It’s not Jennifer, it’s Jen!” I scream at her, “ I hate Jennifer and I always have done, I doubt if it’s actually my real name anyway, and don’t you dare touch me!” I shout angrily letting lose my emotions.

“I’m sorry, I was just going to say there is no need to phone Katherine, she’s in the kitchen at the moment,” she said quietly, dropping my shoulder.

Kate was in the kitchen? I digest this information, Mum must of called her. Kate had come all the way down to comfort me? I love her so much, she’s so considerate and it must have been inconvenient for her.

I run to the kitchen, and she’s standing there, good old Kate. I grab hold of her giving her a huge bear hug, and I start crying all over again. She only hugs back weakly, which is unlike her, “ Jen, I think we need to talk,” she states.

“You’re telling me!” I say in an attempt at being cheerful manner but by the tone of her voice I get the feeling we’re not quite on the same wavelength.

“Well how about I make us all a pot of tea?” I had been oblivious to the fact that mum had slipped in the kitchen behind me, and it made me jump when she said this.

“Yes, that would be nice,” replied Kate answering for the both of us.

“There’s something we need to talk about Jen,” Kate said gently to me. “Why don’t we both sit down?”

But I know, I know what it is as I start to back away, horrified by the truth. I can’t believe I didn’t realise sooner, how stupid was I? It’s clear now. Clear and confusing and twisted, but it’s the obvious answer. Kate my only sister is actually my mother. I turn and run, out the door, outside I sprint. I don’t know where to I’m just running in an attempt to escape the harsh truth.

By Sarah Bailey