I nod. I get it.
Forget about my life with the crack whore.
Forget about her pimp.
Forget about my life before them.
I don’t blame them. I’d like to forget.
Why would anyone want to remember that?
“I hope this helps with some of your questions,” he says.
“It does. I’m glad I called you. It was Ana’s idea.”
Carrick smiles. “She’s one brave woman, Christian.” He glances once more at Grace. She nods, and it looks like she’s giving him permission. He hands me another envelope.
With a puzzled look at both of them, I open it. Inside is a birth certificate.
STATE OF MICHIGAN
CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH
State file number: 121-83-757899
Date filed: June 29, 1983
Child’s Name (First, Middle, Last, Suffix): Kristian Pusztai
Date of Birth: June 18, 1983
Gender: Male
Child’s Birthplace: Detroit, Wayne County
Mother’s Name Before First Married: Életke Pusztai
Mother’s Age: 19
Mother’s Birthplace: Budapest, Hungary
Fathers Name: Unknown
Father’s Age: Unknown
Father’s Birthplace: Unknown
I hereby certify that the above is a true and correct representation of the birth facts on file with the Division for Vital Records, Michigan Department of Community Health.
Kristian! A tremor runs up my spine. My name!
And the crack whore! She has a name.
From nowhere I hear her pimp asshole shouting. “Ella!”
Ella…short for Életke.
His usual epithet was bitch.
I shake off the thought.
“Why are you giving this to me now?” My voice is hoarse as I gaze at my parents.
“I found it with the letters and the drawings. In Mrs. Collier’s letters she calls you Christian with a K. So, if you wondered…” My mother’s voice trails off.
“Why did you change the spelling?”
“Because you are a gift. To us. From God.”
I stare at her. Stupefied. A gift? Me? All the shit I gave the two people standing in front of me, and this is what they think?
“We felt we owed Him. You’ve always been a gift, Christian,” Carrick murmurs.
Tears pinch the back of my eyes and I take a deep breath.
A gift.
“Children are a gift. Always.” Grace’s maternal adoration is plain in her glistening eyes, and I know what she’s left unsaid—that I’ll find this out for myself, in a few months. Leaning over, she smooths my hair off my forehead. I return her smile and, standing, pull her into my arms.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome, son.”
Carrick hugs us both.
I close my eyes, and fighting back my tears, I accept it.
Unconditional love.
From my parents.
As it should be.
Enough. I pull away. “I’ll read the letters later.” My voice is gruff with emotion.
“Okay.”
“We should get back to the others,” I mutter.
“Have you remembered anything?” Carrick asks.
I shake my head.
“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but don’t sweat it, son. You have us. You have your family. And like your mother says, the Colliers were good people.” Gently, he squeezes my arm, his warmth and affection radiating through my body.
We head back into the main living room, but I’m moving in slow motion, disconnected from my reality, my head ready to explode with all these revelations. I scan the room for Ana; she’s standing with Elliot and Kate at the kitchen counter, eating some canapés.
From somewhere deep in my brain, the part that stores my earliest memories, comes a fragment—a vision of a family gathered around a wooden table. Laughing. Teasing. Eating…macaroni and cheese.
The Colliers.
I’m distracted from my reminiscence by the sight of Ana with a flute of pink champagne in her hand.
Junior!
I move to take the alcohol from her, but Kate steps into my path. “Kate.” I acknowledge her.
“Christian,” she responds, in her usual abrupt way.
“Your meds, Mrs. Grey?” My tone is a warning as I stare at the glass in Ana’s hand, trying not to give anything away. But Ana narrows her eyes and raises her chin in defiance. Grace collects a full flute from Elliot, walks up to Ana, and whispers something in her ear. They exchange a furtive smile, and they clink glasses.
Mom! I grimace at both of them. But they ignore me.
“Hotshot!” Elliot claps me on the back and hands me a glass.
“Bro.” I keep my eyes on Ana as Elliot and I take a seat on the couch.
“Jesus, you must have been worried sick.”
“Yeah.”
“Glad that asshole is finally caught. His ass is on its way to jail.”
“Yeah.”
Elliot frowns. “You missed a great game.”
“Game?”
He wants to talk baseball? Is he trying to distract me? He’s pissed the Mariners lost to the Rangers today, but I find it difficult to concentrate on what he’s saying—my attention is locked on Ana. Carrick joins Ana, and Grace kisses him on the cheek, then moves to sit with Mia and Ethan—who are looking mighty cozy on the couch—leaving Ana to talk to Dad.
My father and my wife enjoy a lively whispered conversation.
What are they talking about? Me?
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, asshole.” Elliot pulls me back into our conversation.
“Sure. The Rangers.”
He punches my arm. “You get a pass,” he says. “You’ve had a tough few days. You know, you two should come see your house.”
“Yeah. I’d like that. Ana and I were planning to and then all hell broke loose.”
“Ana and Mia. Fuck.” Elliot’s expression is grim. “Glad your wife took that asshole down.”
I nod.
“Hi, Christian.” Ethan joins us and I’m grateful for the interruption.