I pace my agitation across the short length of the white room, my fingers flexing at my sides as I go.
“She infuriates me like no one else can. She pushes my buttons without even trying. All she has to do is exist, and I’m pissed off.” I stop with my hands on my hips, facing the frail man in the hospital bed. His eyes are tired, but they cease tracking my movements as I still; then his eyes trail carefully to the chair in the corner, and I know without him uttering a word that he’s telling me to sit my ass down.
So I do.
I found my birth father several years ago. I’d always had a burning desire to find my birth parents, so as an adult, I put the Sullivan family money to good use and did it. My birth mom passed away at only nineteen in a car accident, the same car accident that left my father with spinal cord damage and confined him to a bed, where he can’t do much of anything except watch and listen. He can speak a little, but it’s obviously difficult for him, and he gets frustrated easily.
When I first found him, he was in a long-term-care facility that left a lot to be desired. I wasted no time in moving him somewhere better, cleaner, with staff actually equipped to handle someone with his needs. He might be paralyzed and have trouble communicating, but he’s still a person and deserves to be treated as such.
He was surprised when I found him. He wept openly the moment he saw me. I didn’t even have to introduce myself. One look was all it took. That first encounter was emotionally draining, for sure. Despite his struggle with speaking, he managed to tell me I looked like Mom.
Hearing that filled me with this overwhelming sense of belonging. Even if she was gone, she’d been real, and I was a part of her—of him.
At first, I didn’t want to tell my adoptive parents that I was looking for my birth parents. A part of me felt ashamed for even caring about them. They gave me up, after all, and I ended up in and out of homes until the Sullivans adopted me. I still don’t know what they saw in me, what made them choose to adopt a boy who was starting his teenage years, but whatever the reason, I’ll always be grateful to them. I finally found my birth father through newspaper articles the private investigator located, detailing his time as a high school hockey player and on through the accident.
“I’m ranting again, aren’t I?” I ask my father.
He blinks once, slowly and deliberately. He gives a strangled “Yes” in answer.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Do you want me to put the TV on?”
“N-no.”
I cross my ankle over my knee. “You want me to keep going?”
“Yes.” I detect the tiniest hint of exasperation in his voice and have to fight a smile. It’s amusing, the times when he sounds so much like an annoyed father with me.
With a shrug, I continue to fill my father in on all things Lennon Wells. To no one else would I say a word, but to him I feel comfortable speaking about her—not because he can’t tell my secrets but because he doesn’t come from that elitist world.
From the information I was able to gather, James Conroy and Elizabeth Adams were high school sweethearts who got pregnant with me when they were practically kids themselves and gave me up for the chance at a better life. I’m sure there’s more to the story than that, especially since no one from his family has ever bothered to visit him, but I’ve chosen not to delve into the murky waters of family secrets. Besides, I’ve accomplished what I wanted: I found him and my mom, too, even if I’ll never get the chance to meet her.
A whole hour goes by of me telling him about Lennon, and he absorbs every detail eagerly. This is probably the most exciting information he’s ever gotten from me, since most of my daily visits include me filling him in on the basics of my day, which are almost always the same, and watching hockey games together.
I stand and stretch my body, which has been scrunched in the chair for too long. “I better go. I need to grab dinner before I head home.”
His eyes have grown heavy through my talking, and I know he needs a nap. After squeezing his hand, I head out, letting the nurse know I’ll be back tomorrow.
After leaving the building, I step out onto the busy evening street, headed to the subway station a few blocks away. I’m already placing the order for dinner on my phone.
I’ve taken this same route every evening for years now.
That’s never bothered me before, but tonight the monotony of it feels tiresome.
Is this all I am? All I have to live for? The same thing day in and day out?
I spend the subway ride thinking about how I’ve let myself get to this point. I don’t go out much; my friends in the city are sparse; and I don’t date, either, instead opting for a meaningless hookup when I have an itch to scratch. I don’t want to get attached.
I did that once, and look where it got me.
After getting off the subway, I swing by the restaurant and grab my dinner, adding a generous tip to the jar.
“See you next week, Sulli,” the owner, Joe, calls after me, only reaffirming what I’ve already realized tonight.
I tip my head at him, otherwise giving no response. I’m too busy having an internal crisis to form words right now.
My apartment is only a block from here, so it doesn’t take me long to get to the building.
Flicking the light on when I get inside, I’m immediately greeted by a low, growly meow.
“Hey, Cheddar.” I set my food down on the side table and bend to scoop up the chunky cat.
I had no intentions of ever having a pet, but when my elderly neighbor could no longer care for him, I decided to adopt Cheddar, and he’s been in my care ever since. I feel bad that I’m gone a lot, leaving him home alone, but at least he knows he’s loved. The thought of letting him go to a shelter had made me feel physically ill. It reminded me too much of myself, how I’d ended up in foster care just waiting and hoping for someone to come along and take a chance on me.
After I set him down, he follows me into the open-layout kitchen. I pay a pretty penny for my apartment, but it’s worth it. The views are great, and while it’s small, it has an open floor plan that makes it feel larger than it is. I could afford something bigger, sure, but I’m usually working late, so what’s the point?
As I take my food out of the to-go boxes and set it on a plate—trying to give myself the illusion of a home-cooked meal—Cheddar circles between my legs, purring. I grab his food, pop the top on the can, and dump it in his bowl. He meows happily when I set it on the tile floor and then goes to town on the wet food.
I carry my dinner to the couch, then sit down and turn the TV on.
Cheddar joins me on the couch, licking his paws.
Scratching him behind his ears, I say, “It’s just me and you, bud.”
And never before has a statement felt so completely and utterly lonely.
