Searching for a Stranger

Chapter One: Aspen

For as long as I can remember, I knew I was not related to my family. I mean, come on. My older  brothers have thin, blonde hair and perfect eye sight. I have thick, brown hair and I have to wear glasses or contacts. They have blue eyes, mine are brown. I know, I know, these are just small things. Of course everyone can look different in a family, but being the only Italian-looking person in my family of Germans struck me as odd. There was also one other thing that always bothered me. My parents have no pictures of my birth. They have pictures of me as a baby, and every single stage in between then and now, but nothing to prove my mom actually gave birth to me.

There are also a couple things that stand out to me more than my hair or eye color. First, my family loves to eat fruit. Namely blueberries and strawberries. We grow them in the backyard, and my brothers both own multiple purple and red-stained shirts. Me, I am allergic to blueberries and strawberries. And not just a little. Deathly. That's a little strange, right?

Second, I'm a people person. I love the lime light, I love showing off. Most of all, I love the camera. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but the camera loves me. My brothers? They are absolutely the shyest guys on the planet. Okay, maybe not the whole planet, but pretty close. And there's my parents, who would rather plant flowers or fix old bikes than go socialize. 

And lastly, everyone in my family is, in some way, an artist. One of my brothers, Ryan, illustrates children's books. My other brother, Gabriel, is finishing up architecture school. My parents paint murals on the walls of our house in their spare time, and my grandma makes intricate pottery. Don't forget my "starving artist" hipster aunt who tattoos people out of her apartment. And then there's me. I couldn't draw a stick figure to save my life. (Okay, that's a lie. I can draw stick figures. But that's about it.) This might seem like a small thing. I mean, I could learn, right? Yet eighteen years of art lessons, and no results. I'm pretty much the disgrace in the family.

I decided that I could ponder the differences between myself and my family my entire life, or I could get down to business and just straight-up ask. I was ten when I finally mustered up the courage to do just that.

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It was a sweltering day in Florida, and my dad was pumping my bike tires full of air before we went on our daily bike ride together. Through the open garage door I could smell the ocean breeze and I could hear the waves crashing up on the shore. I had made my mind up that morning; no matter what, I was going to ask why I was different. 

"Daddy?" I asked, handing him the cap to the tire.

"What's up, pumpkin?" He said, squinting up at me and wiping sweat off his forehead. He took a long drink from a tall glass of ice water and stood up, towering over me.

"Well," I started. "I've been doing a lot of thinking."

"Oh, have you now?" He chuckled. 

"Yes," I nodded solemnly. I faintly remember having my arms crossed behind my back. I had seen my father do this when he worked. He would cross his arms behind his back, one hand holding the other wrist, and pace back and forth in his office.

And then I did it. I quickly asked him in a breathless slur if I was adopted.

I remember the look on his face like it was yesterday. Wide eyes, open mouth, pale skin, and he kept itching his left ear lobe.  "I um, well, I uh.." He stuttered. He clamped his mouth shut and blinked his eyes slowly, deep in thought. "You know, sweetie, how about we talk about this after the bike ride, eh?" He reached out and patted me on the shoulder.

"Okay, daddy." I said. We got on our bikes and rode off. 

The whole bike ride, I thought to myself, I knew it! over and over. Of course dad wouldn't want to tell me I'm adopted without mom around. And of course, he took the long route. I was practically boiling over with questions. What ten-year-old kid wouldn't be? 

My dad avoided talking to me by taking out his camera and snapping pictures of scenery. Although the bike ride was beautiful and refreshing, I just wanted to get home. I wanted answer. I needed answers.  

When we got home from the bike ride, the sun was setting. My dad and I put our bikes away silently and trudged into the house. I remember him whisper something to my mom. "She knows," I think he said.

"Go take a shower, kiddo. Then we're going out for ice cream." He said. He gave me a small smile and then he and my mom disappeared into their bedroom.  I didn't even try to eavesdrop, I already knew what they were talking about. As I showered, I thought about my parents. My real parents. Who are they? Where are they? Why didn't they want me? All of these questions swirled unanswered around my head. 

Later, my parents took me to my favorite place on earth. Benny's Café. Benny, the owner, makes the best hot fudge sundae in all of Florida. He always used to put extra hot fudge on mine because he knew it was my favorite part. This particular day, he brought the sundae out personally and put two cherries on top. Benny is a stout man with a lazy eye and white hair. And although his teeth are crooked, he has the type of smile that can light up a room. 

"Here you are, Miss Aspen," Benny said as he set my sundae in front of me. 

"Thank you, Benny," My mom said with a smile. My parents let me eat all of the hot fudge off of the sundae before they started talking again. They kept shooting each other looks. I'm pretty sure they were talking to each other through telepathy. 

"Listen, sweetie," My mom started finally. She had her blonde hair pulled back, revealing her stunning features. She wouldn't even have to wear make-up and random men would stare. And her tattoo of two roses on her shoulder was peeking out from the neckline of her shirt. I always have loved seeing her tattoo. She got it to remember her parents who died when she was young. "You know your dad and I love you very much," 

"Mom," I said. I knew she was going to drag it out, and I just wanted answers. 

She sighed. I could tell she was trying not to cry. "Okay, okay. We didn't want you to know this early. But yes, you are adopted." 

Hearing it for real was relieving and sad all at the same time. My parents just stared at me, waiting for a reaction, but it never came. I just nodded. "What happened to my other mom and dad?" I asked. My calmness took them by surprise, I think, but they were glad I wasn't upset. 

"Your biological mommy was fairly young when she had you. She wasn't able to keep you. It's not that she didn't want you, she just didn't know how to take care of you." My mom told me. She had reached over the table and we were holding hands. 

"And my dad?" 

"We don't know who he was. Your biological mom didn't share his name, and it wasn't on your birth certificate." My dad said. He was eating some of my ice cream. 

"Do you know where my mom is? What happened to her?" 

"When we adopted you, she was living in New York," My mom said. She paused. "but she didn't want to stay in contact, so we're not sure where or what she's doing." 

There was more conversation between us, but I can't remember it, so it must have not been that important. 

That is how I found out I was adopted. 

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Hey guys! So I finally got around to finishing this chapter. I hope you all like it! Please don't forget to vote and leave me some feedback!

TTFN