TWENTY-ONE

Sylvie

For a long time I pretend to sleep. My father’s warning plays in my head on a constant loop: Don’t dig up the past. There’s nothing good there. Focus on the future. Thomas’s breath steadies; his lips send off tiny puffs now and then, like a little kid blowing out candles on a birthday cake. I have the urge to kiss him again, this time for longer, and I angle my head toward him, bit by bit, until I’m so close that his breath glances off my lips. But I don’t steal a kiss. It would be another crime he would add to the list. Anyway, I don’t want to kiss him. I’m just searching for a port in the storm.

I roll onto my side, count the snow globes lining my shelves, a habit from childhood. They look charmed in the moon’s glow. The farthest to the left was given to me on the first birthday I can recall, my sixth, about a month after I came to live in High River. I didn’t have any friends to invite to the party, so the guests were my new parents; our orchard manager, Eduardo; his wife, Carla; and their kids.

Eddie brought a piñata, Carla, homemade tamales. Mom and Dad gave me stuffed animals—a bear and a rabbit. The Lopez kids gave me their favorite snow globe. I still have it. Inside is a white castle. Tiny figures stand on the parapet’s walls. Some hold bows and arrows. I was amazed the first time I shook the globe. White flakes fell, a drawbridge opened, and a black horse charged out. The drawbridge had a magnet, so after the last snowflakes settled, the horse receded and it closed.

My name was spelled in fat letters on a carrot cake that had nuts. I picked the walnuts out, lined them around the edge of my plate to save for later. Back then, I hoarded food—slid it into my pockets during meals, then into the corner of my bedroom closet. When Mom finally discovered the food, she broke that habit along with the other ones.

My birth parents could still be alive . . .

I’ve never asked myself if I wanted to find them. They were dead—end of story. The idea that I might have the chance to stare into a face that looks like my own, learn about their lives, childhoods, and what we have in common? Meeting them would be as shocking as winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket. We could have the same laugh, eye color, smile. Maybe I’ll finally belong. Or they could be horrible people . . . or still long dead. It’s like being given a present wrapped in gorgeous, sparkly paper but not knowing if there’s a wonderful gift or a bomb inside the box.

If they were alive, would they want me to search for them? Show up on their doorstep? Here I am, the daughter you gave away. Surprise! I’m back! Hey, just wondering what went wrong? Were you sixteen and scared–never wanted a kid–low on cash? Or was it because you didn’t love me? Will my birth parents let me in when I knock? Politely refuse and shut the door? Will they be ashamed of me, too?