With my luggage now in one hand and a bag full of Annette’s homemade candy in the other, I give her one last hug and walk to the elevator. I take one more look back, and my heart aches as the memories of my entire childhood invade my mind. This is where I grew up; this is where I was loved and where I became who I am today. It is hard to look at our home and know that it will stay behind me forever.
As I enter the elevator, my body stiffens. A man is facing me. I wasn’t prepared for an encounter, and I’ve let my guard down—and I hate when that happens. His angst is so overwhelming that it sends tremors through my muscles, making my hand shake, and I nearly drop my candy bag on the floor.
I’ve come across him before. He has a girlfriend who lives in the building. Every time I see him, he puts me on edge. He’s agitated and pacing around the tiny elevator’s space. He presses the parking button a couple of times, as if that would make the elevator go faster. I don’t know what is going on with him, but I could take a couple of guesses. Drug addiction could explain the strong craving that flows through him. His emotions are too disturbing, and I wish I wasn’t trapped in here.
I can’t imagine how he functions like he does. It makes me feel sorry for him, and it makes me want to help, but I know better. Every time I see the man, his emotions are running on extremes, and he’s never polite. His expression pierces you, always cold and always asking, “What are you looking at?”
Oh, only the full gamut of your unreasonable emotions, I’d like to say.
I slip to a corner of the elevator, trying not to make eye contact with him. I take a deep breath to calm myself, I close my eyes, and I concentrate on the only thing that can help me—water. I imagine the ocean, I imagine myself floating on the waves; I imagine the water embracing me like a blanket and, slowly, my own emotions start to surface again.
It’s easy to grasp onto my excitement to reach Washington, the island, and my new home. However, it doesn’t matter how strongly I’m connected with my feelings or how much I think of water. His anxiety is still lurking around me, and all I can do is hope that this journey ends soon. I’ll be glad when I no longer need to take elevators.
When I finally make it to the parking lot, Uncle Henry is there and standing next to his Porsche. He says the car makes him feel young. He just recently turned forty, but he looks like he’s in his late twenties—his brown hair is salon-perfect, not a single strand of gray in it. He tells me healthy food choices are what keep his face wrinkle-free. He really doesn’t need the car to feel young when he already looks it.
“Livia!” A smile takes over his face when he sees me.
“Uncle Henry!” I give him a hug. “Thanks for taking me to the airport.”
“No problem at all. I thought it would be nice to talk to you before you leave,” he says, taking the suitcase from my hand and shoving it in the Porsche’s tiny trunk.
“About what?” I ask.
Uncle Henry sounds more concerned than usual. He has always helped me deal with my abilities, especially the empathy. He is the only person who knows about the other ones. He doesn’t think we need to involve my parents with the full extent of my circumstances. They’re already frustrated about not being able to help me.
When we get into the car and he still hasn’t answered, I say, “Nothing has changed. I can’t totally block people’s emotions yet, but I’m hoping I won’t have to deal with it as much after we move.”
“How about your other abilities?” My uncle looks at me with a crease in his brow. He is trying to shield his emotions around me, and he usually does a very good job. In teaching me how to defend myself against others, he also learned to do it himself.
My parents are not quite as good as him— emotions oscillate; they have depth and they constantly change. When someone tries to shield what they are feeling, I feel their emotions as artificially smooth pretenses that usually don’t match their facial expressions; like my uncle right now. He looks concerned, worried even, but his emotions come to me as flat happiness and serenity. This is what gives him away.
“Honestly, I haven’t been paying attention to my abilities. Since I was around friends the entire summer, I didn’t put them to the test. It was, really, a nice break.”
I know why he’s so worried. He’s always worried, afraid someone will find out I’m different and use me as lab rat.
“Uncle?” I persist when he stays silent.
He sighs and stares over the steering wheel. “Same as always, Livia, you know you can’t risk exposing yourself—”.
“Yeah I know. I’ll be careful,” It is almost second nature for me to give this response.
We merge onto I-495, heading east to the airport. Uncle Henry hasn’t mentioned anything new in the search for my biological parents, even though he promised to make it his priority two months ago.
“So, I was wondering if you had done any—”
“Your dad and I are looking,” he snaps, “but the more we look, the less hope I have. I really think they’re not around anymore, Livia, and when you ask too often, you upset your mother. You already have two parents who love you, and I believe it’s time you let this rest.”
“‘All men by nature desire knowledge’,” I challenge.
“Aristotle,” he says without missing a beat.
I nod.
My dad and I have this thing we call quote of the day. We’ve been doing it since I was eight. We say a quote that best describes something that happened that day and we have to guess who it’s from. Uncle Henry and mom participate every now and then, and ever since my memory developed, I’ve become pretty good at it.
For a while now, I’ve desired the knowledge of who my biological parents are. I was adopted when I was two days old. Someone dropped me off at St. Cecilia's Church and Convent of New York with instructions to contact Mrs. Berwick, who is my mother today. She and Dad took me in, and I’m very glad that they did. They say it was the best gift they ever got.
For some reason, whoever left me at the convent wanted the Berwick couple to have me, and we have no idea who this person might be—but I do know one thing: he or she holds all the answers I seek.
As Uncle Henry drives me to JFK, I observe the city one last time, and wish it were easier for me to be around people. If that were the case, I could stay in New York and I wouldn’t need to leave the people I love behind. Those few people include my friends Alyssa and John, who visited me last night to say goodbye.
We have lived in the same building since we were little kids, and we went to school together. We spent the summers together. We went to Italy and Spain together. Uncle Henry has an apartment in a little town in Italy called Parma, and he helped us convince our parents the trip would help us perceive the world with new eyes.
“It’s always good to be cultured and know what’s out there,” he said. As it turned out, we traveled for two months and we studied the Italian language and culture—with my memory, I had to pretend I was less fluent than I’d really become. Then, we went backpacking in Spain, where I had an incredible time and learned yet another language.
Alyssa, John, and I made memories that I hope will tide me over until I can see them again. After all, I’m already missing Alyssa’s loud laugh and John’s stupid jokes.