by S. L. Horne
“Mom, if that is what it is, it’s a coin toss chance if I have it. Dad’s so young!” She stutters at the revelations running through her mind. “That’s a serious thing, you’re saying Dad’s not gonna get better, aren’t you? You’re saying I’m possibly sick, too?”
“Honey, no, we don’t know anything for su—” She gets cut off again by Elara.
“I’m looking at my phone right now. Huntington’s affects the brain. It’s nerve damage in the brain!” Panic wells up inside Elara. “It’s a fifty percent chance I have it, too. Oh my God, I can’t breathe right now.”
Her mother cuts in with, “You can’t have it,” and just as Elara goes to protest further, her mother finishes with, “you’re adopted.”
It’s all too much at once and Elara’s vision spins. She steadies herself on the ground. “So, Dad is sick,” she says, mulling over the words. “And you’re saying that I’m... adopted? Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Sweetheart, we were going to tell you, it just never seemed like the right time. Please don’t be mad at us,” her mother pleads.
“Mad? Don’t be mad? My dad is sick and I’m two states away and then you tell me I’m adopted. I’m worried and sick to my stomach, but I’m not mad. If anything, I don’t know how to feel about it. I have no idea what to do, Mom. I’m supposed to be inside right now still learning my new job and instead, I am out back in a dirty alley being told my dad’s in the hospital. I feel helpless, I feel... Well, I don’t know how I feel. I don’t even have enough money to drive back home!” Dread overwhelms her and helplessness seeps so deep it resonates into her bones. The conversation finishes with a rousing speech to ”think positive” and to ”not worry just yet” by her mother. The empty apologies for not telling her about her adoption sound informal and inconsequential.
Elara sits staring at nothing before gathering herself to return to her post. With her new apron tied around her waist, she dabs away the tears from her eyes and fans her face with a small notebook. She takes a deep breath and opens the door to go back inside, looking down at the floor to hide the evidence of her tears. She hurries into the bathroom and splashes cold water on her face. She smacks her cheeks, pats her face dry, and smooths her hair down before exiting the bathroom.
Chapter 8
The news of her father comes as a shock and the confession of her adoption on a different level. Elara tries to find perspective while one is horrifying and terrible, wrenching at her soul, and the other pulls apart the fabric of her childhood.
She has her own place now, a portion of an old warehouse made into apartments. The space allows for plenty of area to start research on her father’s condition and on her birth parents. Her adoptive mother was not keen on disclosing much information, giving her only the name of her birth mother and that the woman could not care for her when she was born. She also told Elara the state in which she was born, although Elara wonders if the information could possibly be correct. It is the same state she now lives in, an amazing coincidence if it is. She had thought she’d chosen this place at random but now believes there to be more to that decision.
Set on using her time wisely, she makes the room she paints in a multipurpose room for both her art and her research. She unpacks the folding table she purchased from the store and sets it up against one wall. Tearing the plastic off a new set of bedsheets, she shakes one out over the table. Opening the second table she purchased, she joins the two in an L shape, then connects an extension cord to the printer, and tacks on the wall. She tosses her remaining supplies into a box and organizes her art on the tableclothed portion before opening her laptop on the opposing side housing her printer.
With a cheap folding stool, she sits down in front of her makeshift desk. Intent on learning everything she can, she works diligently on maintaining her focus. On one wall, she prints and tacks up information about her father’s condition, and on an adjacent wall, she does the same with what little information she’s able to find on her birth mother.
Hours of work later, Elara realizes that the internet holds nothing about her real mother, and has so many theories about her adopted father’s condition, it makes her head spin.
She compiles a list of hospitals that were open when she was born and are still active today. Diverting her focus into finding out where she was born makes her think she can follow the trail better from there. The list is long and daunting, and Elara separates the names by county for easier access. Determined and anxious to find answers, she wants to drive to the facilities herself and ask for the records. The night hours have gone by while she searches and she needs to be up early for her next shift. Torn between pulling an all-nighter or going to sleep so she can be fresh for work the next day, she studies the information now covering her walls with uncertainty.
Yarn now strings from one piece of paper to another covering the walls of her home office, carefully cut out bits and lists among published articles concerning her adoptive father’s supposed condition. Her interest in finding her birth mother has taken over an additional wall and the wall concerning her father is now covered completely with those articles, much of the pertinent information now either highlighted, circled dramatically or completely blacked out. Elara compromises between work and sleep by printing out lists by county and folding them neatly for further study another day.
Her new place is tall with beams that stretch across the ceiling. A breeze seeps into the space and feeling the chill, she wears slippers to keep her feet warm. Wrapping her fuzzy robe around herself, she climbs the metal stairs to her bed which overlooks the rest of her apartment. She loves the feeling of her new home. It’s relatively small, but the tall ceiling makes it feel spacious. The landlord cut corners on making the building into living spaces, but there’s a feeling to it all that attracts and inspires Elara. Pulling back the covers and tossing off her shoes, she gets into bed. There are no windows, but the metal sheeting walls allow for neighboring noises to carry easily and she pulls a pillow over her head to drown out the invading sounds.
Chapter 9
Elara pulls herself unwillingly from her bed, unable to sleep, yet unable to lay still. She returns to her drawing room, maps and papers are still scattered over the floor. She turns from the mess and picks up her paints instead.
The sound of a brush clinking in a cup breaks the silence weighing the room. Drying the tip, she picks up her paints and squeezes the colors onto a palette and into various small cups. The room is cluttered with brushes, cups, canvases, and everything she could desire to have for her art. Normally a mess like this would upset her, but in here, in this room, Elara relishes the feeling. In her art she is not dirty, she is not exposed. She is in control and at peace.
On a solid black background, she controls the paint as she pours, dripping the bright, unaltered colors against the pitch. The story of her painting unfolds in her mind.
There was a little boy with dark, tight curly hair who knew no parents. He wandered the roads of a small town, always looking up at the sky. He loved watching the change of the light in the day and the colors at night. Many times, people tried to become this boy’s family, as he was a much loved and well-mannered child. His face opened with joy and his hair sat falling down over his glittering eyes and brushing his shoulders when he tilted his head back, as he was often seen doing.
Specifically, by a woman and her husband who lived in the small town he traveled through.
While looking up at the sky, a horse and carriage were being guided along the path in his direction. The clopping of the horse’s hooves filled the ears of everyone around, yet the boy did not drop his gaze. His mind was elsewhere, watching the clouds pass by on a bright blue day.
The horses whinnied and raised their front legs in frustration, backing the carriage and jostling the aging couple inside. The coachman tried to calm the beasts, while the man in the cabin pushed aside the curtain to see what was the matter.
The small boy had walked directly int
o the path of the flustered horses, for his mind was in the sky. “Whoa, hold on there, child! Has your mother never taught you to mind your path?” The man stepped from the carriage and signaled for his wife to be still in her seat.
“I have no mother, Sir. I apologize for the disturbance, I did not see your cart.” The boy looked ahead of himself for the first time since entering the town. Small cottages lined the wide dirt road. The path had been raked smooth and compact, and no potholes ornamented the street as this was a settlement known for its wealthy occupants. Thatch covered the roofs of the buildings, and he could see fine clothes hanging on scattered lines for drying in the beautiful day's sun.
“Your father then, has he taught you no sense?” The dark tan slender man pushed his waistcoat behind him and bore his hands on his hips. A mustache sat pompously on his face, leaping up and down when the man spoke.
“I have no father, Sir. Please accept my humble apology and let me assist you and your wife in any way I am capable.” The polite boy slightly bowed toward the man, and his hair bounced in front of his face. Embarrassment shone in his eyes as he pushed it back and up-righted himself.
“No mother and no father? Who cares for you, pray tell me?” The man’s anger dwindled, replaced with concern. The door to the carriage door creaked open and his wife helped herself out, fighting with her vast skirts and ruffles.
“I have no caregiver, Sir,” said the lone boy.
“Oh, Hermie! Can we?” The man’s wife clasped her hands together in front of her wide waste, and her kind eyes pleaded to her husband. Fixing his waistcoat and admitting defeat, the man beckoned to the boy.
“You shall come with us then, we have the room and are on our way home. Tell me, child, what are you called?” The man placed his hand on the boy's head and guided him toward the carriage and the open arms of his beloved wife.
“I have no name, Sir.”
“May we then call you Windell, for it means wanderer? It seems a fitting name.” The man’s mustache stretched in a smile at his cleverness. The wife gathered the small boy they now called Windell in her arms and ushered him into the carriage to sit beside her.
The traveling bunch arrived shortly at the house of the couple. Their home resembled many of the others Windell saw when he entered the town, standing moderately tall and made of clay walls. It sat back a small ways off the road and in front of a large plot of worked land. Having laid him down for the night, the wife bent over Windell’s bed. She pulled the covers up to his chin and tucked the blanket snugly around his shoulders, sides, and legs. “There you are, snug as a bug!” she exclaimed gleefully. “My name is Bethia, but if you would like to stay with us, you can call me Mum!”
The man had never seen his wife filled with such joy. She brushed Windell’s hair out of his face and stared at him with a longing and faraway look. “You see, Hermie and I were never blessed with little ones of our own. I have always wanted a little one to tuck in at night. You sure are a cutie, aren’t you, Dear?” She pinched Windell’s cheeks, and warmly chuckled, unable to contain her glee. The man watched his wife shuffle away and blow out the candle, bidding the little boy a final good night.
Emotion wound like a bug caught in a spider’s web, and the boy wiggled his arms free from the blankets. He sighed longingly at the ceiling where thatch roofing blocked his view of the sky filled with blinking stars. The boy did not like the name the man had given him and did not particularly like the man himself. He was sorry to disappoint Bethia, who seemed to be a big-hearted soul, but the boy knew he would not be happy in this home. He waited until he was certain Hermie and Bethia were fast asleep, then made his bed and snuck out of the house.
The night enveloped him, and he stared up at the sky with awe. The moon was full and bright; the stars twinkled in a silent dance with each other, and the night was warm with a soft, cool breeze. Returning to the road he’d traveled only hours before, the boy skipped along.
THUMP!
“Oy! Watch where you are walking!” cried a grumpy old tree, rooted at the border of the path and the forest. “What are you doing out so late in the night? Your mother must be worried sick!” Large bark pieces furrowed like eyebrows on the tree's face and his branches shuttered with his lecture.
“I have no mother, uh...” The boy stumbled to find the correct title to address the grumpy old tree with. “Uh, Sir?”
“Well, your father then! You shouldn’t disrespect your father by making him work all day, and then come home to worry about what you are off to at this late hour,” harrumphed the tree.
“I have no father, Sir,” he said.
“Well, you simply must apprentice under someone. Who cares for you, pray tell me?” questioned the tree.
“I have no caregiver, Sir.” The surrounding trees were beginning to shiver in the wind and slowly wake up to the disturbance.
“Virgil? Virgil, what is going on?” another tree asked as it turned its trunk to peer down at the scene.
“A boy, Eugene. He ran right into me!” Virgil recalled, still bitter about the disturbance. “He has no parents and no caregiver. I’m afraid he will need to stay with us. No other choice. Just is not right having such a young boy out and about in the night like this. Scoot over a bit, let him through. Let him through.” Virgil’s roots pulled from the soft earth and carried himself along. Eugene moved out into the path to allow the pair to pass.
“Follow me, young…” Virgil looked back at the boy. “Young…? Well, I’m not sure I know your name, Son!”
“I have no name, Sir.” The boy looked up the long trunk of the tree and waited patiently for a response.
“May I call you Gideon, for it means a child without parents?” And without a response from the boy, Virgil turned to lead him farther into the forest. Fellow trees parted to allow passage for the odd pair until they entered a clearing with trees whose leaves towered far over Virgil’s.
“We will stay here together tonight. A young child like yourself should not be out alone in the night. I am old and tire easily, you can rest in my roots when I bed down.” As suddenly as he had removed himself from the soil before, Virgil’s roots shuddered and dug deep into the ground again. Courteously, several of his roots formed an oval with peaks on each end, and Virgil shook out some of his leaves to make a soft bedding. “There you go, Gideon. Come, come, now lay down for the night.” The boy, now named Gideon, settled down into his freshly made bed and stared up at the sky.
Only, he could not see the sky as branches and leaves, layers upon layers blocked his view. The boy tossed and turned, attempting to catch a glimpse of even a single star. No matter how much he tried, he knew he would not be happy in this home. He pulled himself out of his bed, quietly as possible, and tiptoed his way out of the clearing.
With his eyes firmly on the sky above him, he attempted to find his way out from under the forest canopy and under the open night once again. Mistakenly, the boy entered a large cave which whistled and howled in the night breeze. The boy had wanted only to see the sky, and now it was so dark he could not see his hands if they were in front of his face! He began to clamber about furiously.
“Ho! Hold on there, child!” a voice boomed through the cave. “Have you come in to seek shelter from the night?”
Still scrambling around, the boy stopped and aimed his voice toward his addresser. “I have stumbled in here upon mistake, Sir, and I cannot seem to find my way back out.”
“You stumbled upon my cave? Where is your mother, Child?” the voice asked.
“I have no mother, Sir.” The boy continued to search the surrounding air until his hands found the wall of the cave.
“No mother, say you? What of your father then? Certainly, you have a father,” the voice said in a callous tone.
“I have no father, Sir.” Before the voice could ask anything further, the boy added, “I have no caretaker either, Sir.”
“This will not do.” An owl swooped in and circled around inside the cave to escape out int
o the forest again. “You must stay with me, in my cave,” stated the voice. “You may call me North Wind. I rest here before my long journey South every year.” Before the boy could utter a proper greeting in return, the North Wind continued. “Pray tell me, what may I call you?”
“I have no name, Sir,” said the boy.
“I must have something to call you by! I will then call you Perditus for it means one who is lost. Now, come this way and I will find you somewhere to lay.” The boy could hear the voice traveling farther into the cave.
He knew, without a doubt, he would not be happy in this home. Hoping the North Wind meant to lead him farther into the cave, the boy turned around and fled in the opposite direction. He burst out into the forest once more and for fear of having offended the North Wind, he did not slow down.
The canopy above him shimmered in ever-changing colors, light peeking between the leaves like a mirage. Motivated by the change, he continued toward the colors.
Wanting to find the source of the light, he cranked his neck upward. A loud “oof” of sound escaped his mouth as the air was knocked from his chest! Falling head over feet, the boy reached for his stomach and felt the branch he had run into. Ungracefully, the boy’s motion continued, and he rolled head over feet, head over feet, again and again. Bruised and shaken, the boy finally landed at the bottom of a small hill. He looked around him and noticed he had exited the forest into a vast field that stretched as far as the eyes could see.
