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Diane grabs onto my elbow and maneuvers me to a table in the far corner of the coffee shop. We pause in front of an older African-American couple, who are sitting side by side. The man is wearing a black suit and a somber expression. The wedding bands on their fingers tell me they are married. He has his arm around the back of the woman’s chair, like it’s the most natural thing to do. But the air that surrounds him — it’s full of confidence and self-assurance.
And I instantly know. He is the type of man that never cowers.
“Diane,” he greets, his voice deep and gravelly. His gaze slides over me, and he gives me a nod. “Hello, Grayson. Have a seat.”
How does he know my name?
And why the hell am I here to meet this couple?
Diane practically drags me to sit, and I fold myself into a chair, opposite of the couple. I’m suddenly overly conscious of the hole in my white shirt and my faded sweatpants.
The woman who hasn’t stopped staring at me smiles when I’m seated. There’s something kind in her expression, almost like she’s trying to be careful not to spook me.
“Why don’t you introduce yourself to Grayson?” Diane clears her throat, crossing her arms over the table. “We can start there.”
The man nods again, before he removes his hand from the back of his wife’s chair and he leans forward. “I am Benjamin Hale, but commonly known as Judge Hale. An Associate Justice to the Supreme Court.”
My mouth falls open, and I simply stare back at him, aghast.
Why in the world am I sitting across from a judge? But wait, not just any judge. But someone from the goddamn Supreme Court. My jaw snaps close, and I clear my throat. If he notices my mind-boggling shock, Benjamin Hale doesn’t point to it. Instead, he motions toward the woman sitting next to him. “And this is my wife.”
“I’m Dr. Naveah Hale, Head of Neurosurgery at Solomon Hospital.”
Somehow, I’ve entered a twilight zone, and absolutely nothing makes sense.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter, my finger digging into the hole in my shirt. “I mean, why am I here?”
Judge Hale pushes the thick folder that he has in front of him toward me. “Go ahead,” he encourages. “You can go through it, and maybe you’ll understand why.”
I do just that, because he gives me the “no-nonsense” vibes. I’m not going to lie, but my bones are literally shaking when I open the folder. The first thing I see is a photo of my mother.
A younger version of her, anyway.
My heart thuds in my chest, and it feels like my lungs are about to collapse within the walls of my rib cage. As I sift through the folder, there are more photos of her. All of them are younger, happier…a healthier version of my mother.
I know it’s her. The face, the smile…the thick, fluffy hair that resembles Noami’s so much. I know it’s her, but it’s a woman I barely recognize.
This is not my mother.
The woman I remember is a drunkard, an addict — someone who never laughed, someone who loathed her children.
A woman who died alone while waiting for the man she loved — a callous, forsaken, cold-hearted and loveless woman. Someone cheap.
That’s the mother I remember, not the one in the photos. The one wearing expensive clothes, with a big house and flashy cars in the background. She is an impostor.
“Keep going,” Dr. Naveah coaxes gently. “We know this is all very confusing, but it’ll make sense once you see the rest and we’ll gladly answer any questions you have.”
The next polaroid photo I find is my mother holding a baby. “This is me,” I whisper under my breath, incredulously. I recognize myself as a baby, because my mother showed me a photo before. Of me, when I was barely a year old.
I find more photos of me in the folder. As a baby, a toddler and then a little older. Each photo looks like it has been kept with utmost care, without any wrinkles and preserved.
The last one in the folder is of me, on my sixth birthday, but after that, there are no more photos. The rest of the folder is empty.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and look up at the faces of Benjamin and Nevaeh Hale. “What does all of this mean? I don’t…understand. Who are you to me? How do you have these photos? What is your relationship with my mother?”
“Hadley, your mother, is — was, my younger sister. The only sibling I had. That makes me your uncle and Naveah, your aunt,” he says, ever so calmly. As if he hasn’t just turned my whole life upside down.
The world spins and tilts on its axis, before it rights itself. Cold sweat beads on my neck, and I stare at them blankly.
