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“Two days, beautiful.” Those amber eyes leave my face and travel down my body and up again, pausing at my wrist. “I love your new charm, by the way.”
“New charm?”
“Take a look.”
Theodore walks down my front porch while I’m busy staring at the jeweled crown on my wrist. It’s white gold with black onyx stones surrounding the bottom half with two letters engraved inside. A giant T & G with the numbers 10:04 next to it. It’s beautiful and makes me smile and I’m wondering when Theo had a chance to pin it there.
Must’ve been while I was sleeping. And what does the 10:04 mean?
He’s too good to be true.
He’s going to ruin me.
Bill.
Bill.
Super-saving flyer from a grocery store.
Another bill.
Some offer for a free manicure if I book a pedi at the new spa.
The fuck? “Why are there black rose petals in here?” My hand pushes aside all the mail I’ve collected over the last few days, not looking to see what was here before since I know most is trash, but this is out of place. I’ve never bought nor have I received a black rose before, and this one’s dead, completely dry and brittle and as I lift the stem from the bowl, the rest of its petals fall.
Did Elise bring this in? Am I that out of it, I didn’t notice the rose?
It was lying on an envelope with my name written across the front in a very neat penmanship, the stark white of the paper casing now stained by the last imprints of its petals. Setting everything else aside, I open the closed flap and pull out a small stack of folded papers.
The company heading is one from the orphanage I grew up in—I’d know the symbol anywhere—and this fills me with trepidation. My heart races and hands clam up, but as I unfold the documents, the first line breaks my heart.
Voluntary Relinquishment of Parental Rights
Voluntary.
Voluntary.
I can’t move past that word as it says so much within the confinement of nine letters. The truth is sledgehammering into all my processors—lashing at my nerves with sharp claws, and my chest grows tight. My eyes fill with tears the further down I read, slicing me open as the truth is screamed within each line.
I’m unwanted. Abandoned.
The room feels small and my breaths are coming in sharply, the pain intensifying, but more so when I see their names spelled out above a pair of signatures belonging to the couple who brought me into this world: Richard and Carla Burgess.
“I don’t even have their last name?” I say out loud while mentally I’m asking who named me. Whose surname was donated to the unwanted child tossed at the system without looking back? Turning to the last two pages, I encounter a bank statement with a large sum deposited days after I was given to the orphanage and a letter of agreement.
My eyes skim each line with watery eyes while stumbling into the nearest wall; I slide down and sit, feeling as though the walls are caving in. Question after question rushes through my mind. About who they were or are. About who really gave me this house.
Was he my biological mother’s brother, or my father’s?
Then, I ask myself, why now?
Why give me that lump sum along with this property?
With every tick of the clock, my chest tightens. It hurts. Physically and emotionally, I ache in a way I’ve never encountered before. Can’t breathe, and I let the papers fall to the floor. “I need to get out of here.”
Jumping up from my position on the floor; I grab my wallet and keys, and rush out the door. I’m in such a rush that I don’t remember getting in my car and driving toward Pike’s Place. I’m on autopilot and come to when I walk to my favorite artisan stall inside the market.
Everyone looks at me funny as they pass. Staring at the redheaded woman with blotchy skin, tears running down her cheeks, while wearing the equivalent of workout clothes; a sports bra and leggings. I was going to go for a run after handling the bills; I’d wanted to clear my head and work through each beast’s placement on the Astor Gallery pieces.
