【悬疑】Mirror (14) Abby
I am a giant bundle of nerves on the whole bus ride to the hospital. Not trusting my legs to hold me up the entire way, I opted to sit in a single seat by the back door.
Bad idea. The sun beats down from the open windows with no mercy, heating up my right cheek and shoulder. I can almost hear my skin cry and freckles pop but couldn’t bring myself to care that I haven’t put on any sunscreen. Bus stop announcements in three languages come in one ear and go out the other, all sounding foreign, meaningless, distant. The guy standing next to me reek of weed, his head shaking in all directions like a bobbing toy. He seems relaxed enough. If I didn’t know it was one of the reasons Chase got into trouble, I might even consider giving weed a try.
Ugh, talk about messed up.
It sort of reminds me of the days I religiously stood by the mailbox at three PM everyday, waiting to catch the bill sent to dad for my ER visit. Sure, paying it off was not the only way to cover up the reason for the trip. I could’ve easily told dad I had a serious stomach cramp, which was very close to the truth, then I’d be off the hook. But I didn’t think I could live with that, no matter how ridiculously high the bill might be. So I let the unknown figure occupy my head like implanting a ticking bomb in my brain. To describe it was nerve-wracking would be the understatement of the year. Or so I thought, until this morning.
I examine a strand of silvery hair wrapped around my fingers. Even through my dark sunglasses, it looks almost translucent under the dancing sunlight. Stunning. Angelic. Alluring. These are the words Chase uses on me. But the fact is, unlike tigers and alligators or other animals that can become an instant attraction and center of attention—positive attention—people with albinism are portrayed as villains in movies and constantly teased for our appearances. I am just an extremely lucky exception blessed with friends and family who think I am beautiful, inside and out. But sometimes, that’s not enough to convince the negative me.
The bus breaks at a crosswalk with a violent jerk, followed by a couple honks and a wave of passengers knocking into each other. My forehead makes direct contact with the cold metal bar on the back of the seat in front of me. I flinch, rubbing the tender spot gently to ease the pain. Like a self-protecting mechanism, my sixth sense goes into overdrive, a dreadful feeling of impending misfortune creeping up on me. The air around me shifts, and I can see the world perfectly clear, just not with vision.
The bus jostles along as we slowly drive pass a big orange sign. Stinking asphalt invades my nostrils, making me dizzy. Some kind of road work ahead, I think. More people come on the bus, all shapes and colors. I dip my head, suddenly self-conscious by my looks. You’d think I could blend in fine in this diverse city, but people can always tell the difference. An Asian girl with Albinism is a rare specimen after all. Subtle glances that haven’t bothered me for years burn my cheeks like starving fire ants in the Amazon, the smartphones they hold in their hands ready to insult me and my unborn child—if I am indeed pregnant like I think Dr. Morris will tell me, of course.
Growing up with Albinism, I have always been torn on the subject of having a child. Normal, healthy people don’t know what a privilege it is to base their decision on love, money, family, age, etc. When your gene is considered poor quality, unworthy of passing on, producing any offspring subjects you to public disapproval and accusation of selfishness. It’s ironic how this barbaric and discriminatory bias can survive in this age and society people call civil and fair. I don’t think I am ready for that kind of open criticism. Not yet, anyway.
That’s not the only issue though. Over the years, I also wondered if my birth mother knew about this genetic disorder. Maybe she was lucky and didn’t develop the usual conditions I have to live with since I was born. Lack of education was not uncommon those days in her home country, and I would gladly accept the idea that I was an accident. Albino or not, I should be grateful for being sent to this world, for being lucky enough to get adopted by loving parents, even if I’ve been treated like a freak by others abouy 80% of the time. The other 20%, I spend thanking all available god for not kicking me to Africa where I could’ve been cut into pieces and sold to witch doctors, or raped as a cure for AIDS.
The evil me, however, likes to laugh in my face and call me a pathological liar. Yeah, deluding myself into believing her innocence is kind of ridiculous. I learned that far earlier than others of my age. Albinism has been around for centuries, thousands even. Surely she would know it ran in her family and the impact of poor eyesight and social isolation on their lives. Was it her plan, or traditional practice to keep healthy looking babies and get rid of useless burdens like me?
“General Hospital. Hospital General. Jung Yee Yoon.” The speaker calls out. I spring to my feet and dash out of the bus, more than happy to run away from the invasive eyes that follow me long after I am out of their vision.
I’ve been to this hospital a couple times for counseling, so finding my way to the building and office Mr. Morris indicated doesn’t pose as a big challenge. Two of the three waiting patients stir from the gray sofa seats at my sudden arrival, their curious glances darting at me almost instantly. The other one doesn’t look up from his cellphone. After giving the front desk lady my name, I bring the business cards on the counter to my nose, effectively covering my whole face with the assistance of the sunglasses. Um, there’s only business card, Dr. Mason Bauer, Psychiatrist. What is Dr. Morris doing in this psychology office then?
“Come this way.” The lady instructs with a jerk of her head before disappearing behind the desk. From my peripheral vision, the guy obsessed with his phone gets up to his feet and protests, “Hey, we were here first. How come she gets to see the doctor before us?”
“She’s seeing a different doctor!” The lady snaps, “you will get your turn when YOUR doctor is done!”
That shuts the guy up, but stirs up my curiosity even more. Exactly what warrants this special treatment? Is that because he has a Friday night date? He looks young, pretty cute in a disturbing way due to his resemblance to the Mr. Hairless Ferris. I seriously hope he doesn’t lose his hair like Mr. Ferris. But if I were to be honest with myself, a better guess would be Dr. Morris wants to get this over with pretty bad, to give me more time to consider my “options” at this early stage.
The door opens. For politeness sake, I take off my sunglasses, dropping them into the purse with the business card. I squint my eyes, my vision getting clearer as my eyes adjust to the overhead florescent lights. A short, tanned lady with graying hair stands two feet away, her mouth forming a perfect O, eyes flickering like I sometimes do as our glazes meet. I have a slight suspicion that she has Albinism as well. Nah, her skin is too dark. While I internally laugh at my silliness, she rushes back to her desk and returns in five seconds, the shock in her face replaced by confusion.
“Can you confirm your name and date of birth?” She inquires after she regains composure.
“Abbigail Louie, July 4th, 1999.” I verify.
She tilts her head and thinks for a couple more seconds before finally ungluing her eyes from my face, brows drawn together as if she still doesn’t quite believe me, or I remember my own name and birthday wrong. I take out my wallet from the purse and present her my ID. She lifts her glasses for a closer look, then gives me a slow nod of approval. Without further comments, she turns on her heels and trots off toward the narrow hallway.
Okey dokey. This is starting to feel more and more weird......I try my best to keep up, tripping on my feet every couple steps on the queaky clean vinyl flooring. The floor plan is like a maze, perfect for a scavenger hunt, but not so great for people without a good sense of direction or memory, like me. We make turns every five steps before finally arriving at a vacant office.
Holy cow! It’s almost as big as our living room. Medical books of all sizes line one wall on a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, overlooking a large hardwood desk clean enough to operate a surgery. Two comfortable looking guest chairs park in front of the L-shaped desk like the front row seats in a theater showing a 3-D forensic science movie, close enough to watch worms crawling out of a corpse laying on the table for autopsy.
I shiver. Pushing the vivid image to the back of my head, I settle on the third guest chair by the door, dreading the lonely, unnerving wait after the lady’s exit.
“Dr. Morris will be with you soon.” She tells me, her professional tone not giving away anything, but seemingly eager to linger. As much as I hate to admit, a stranger’s company in this steril place is quite comforting. It even surprises myself, given how relieved I was when I left the bus less than 30 minutes ago. So sadly, I welcome her stay, hoping she would hang around untill Dr. Morris shows up.
A male voice calls from the room next door, muttering something about needing help. She answers immediately, giving me one last inquisitive look before finally leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.
I sigh. Eerie quiet descends on me like a wet blanket soaked with rain, making me shiever once more. Three knocks tap on the door. My heart skips a beat as I jump to my feet. Dr. Morris steps inside, a little startled from seeing me so close to the entrance. He must be expecting me to be sitting by the desk.
Managing a small, stiff smile, he sticks out his hand in greeting, “it’s nice to see you again, Ms. Louie.”
“Hi, Dr. Morris.” I shake his hand, and add, “you can call me Abby.”
“Okay, Abby then.” He walks over to the desk, guesturing for me to follow before he finds the tall leather chair behind it, “I apologize for being late. Come sit over here.”
I sit as he instructs, my back rigid as a board. The cushion of the chair is indeed comfortable, but I doubt the conversation we’ll be having would be the same.
After studying my face for a full minute, Dr. Morris rests his hands on the desk, eyes fixed on his intertwined fingers, contemplating like he’s struggling to find the appropriate words. Geez, the suspense and the unknown. I really hate that feeling.
“Ahem,” he clears his throat and starts talking, his voice low and hesitant, “I am sure you are very curious about the reason I ask you to come here today.” His eyes slowly travel to meet mine, “but before I can give you a good answer, or come to a sound conclusion, I need to ask you a couple questions first.”
Losing control of my impatience, I blur out, “Am I pregnant?”
“What?” He cocks his head, confusion written all over his face.
“The pregnancy blood test!” I remind him in agitation, my pointer finger tapping on the imaginary lab order on the desk in front of me. “The blood test I did when I went to the ER, remember? Did it come back positive?”
Realization dawns on him after a few moments, then he chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I demand, a little more than pissed off.
“Oh, no! Sorry about that.” He looks genuinely apologetic, but simply can’t contain his amusement. Lips still twitching, he sucks in a couple long breaths before he replies, “No, you are not pregnant.”
I let out an audible sigh of relief. Love or not, being knocked up before 18 is never easy on any girl. But now the question is, why else would he want to see me?
Dr. Morris shifts in his seat, face turning serious again as he reads the scrutiny in my eyes.
“First question,” he starts over, “how are you feeling?”
“Uh...honestly?”
“Of course.”
“A little nervous,” I answer, “you know, i was sure I was pregnant after I got that voicemail from you.”
A nod. “And a little hungry. I’ve been up since five and only had a pretzel for lunch.” I say as my stomach growls.
“No, I meant after the ER visit, have you had any similar cramps?”
“Oh.” Now I feel stupid. Did I sound like I just asked him to buy me lunch? “No, it went away. No more cramps. My boyfriend and I overreacted.”
He scratches his stubbled chin as he considers my response, but doesn’t look satisfied, so I quickly add, “and I promise to make an appointment to see that OBGYN doctor, um...tomorrow.”
That doesn’t impress him. As if he hasn't heard it, Dr. Morris asks, “What about emotionally?”
I ponder this for a couple seconds. “Well, I feel lucky I am not pregnant. You know, being underage with Albinism and all.” I try to sound nonchalant as I explain. “But even if the result were positive, I’ll figure out a way to make it work, whether my boyfriend wants to keep the baby or not. Neither abortion nor adoption is an option for me.”
”Why?”
“I was adopted. My birth mother abandoned me when I was a baby.” I pause. The words are too hard to force out of my mouth. This is the first time I discuss this touchy topic with a stranger. Well, not a total stranger, but definitely not someone I am familiar with. Although mom and dad have always been upfront and open about my adoption, the insecurity in their eyes is more than enough to make me lock up my feelings and hide the key in the darkest corner of my heart. “I promise to myself I would never do the same to my child regardless of the circumstances.” I tell him adamantly.
His eyes light up like a kid who’s just discovered a big bowl of Halloween candies under his bed. “You knew you were adopted?”
“Yes. My parents told me that when I was ten.”
“Do you know if you have any siblings?”
The idea has never crossed my mind. All these years I’ve been focused on the contempt towards the woman who left me at a village temple without any item that may serve as a clue for a future reunion. Clearly she didn’t want anything to do with me, ever. But treating two children the same way? That’s more evil than what I think a mother is capable of. Or, it was just me that she wanted to get rid of. This possibility sickens me even more.
“No, not that I know of.” My statement is as close to the truth as can be. “Mom and dad never mention it. If I had a sibling waiting for adoption at the time, they would’ve definitely taken in both of us. And even if they couldn’t for some reason, they wouldn’t have withheld that information from me.” I elaborate with confidence, finishing with a bitter tone, “but if you were referring to siblings she had kept and raised, I have no way of knowing.”
A long pause passes before Dr. Morris speaks again, “have you tried to find your birth mother, to know more about your other family?”
“I have no reason to, and wouldn’t.” I answer solemnly, “It’d hurt my mom and dad. But about three years ago, I overheard them talking about an adoption agency, TLC Agency. It closed due to some financial issues, and they were trying to find contact information for the agency staff they dealt with at the time of my adoption, to see if they could help the families that had paid big bucks for adoption fees.”
“I see.” He scrunches his forehead, the wrinkles adding ten years to his age. I am about to worry about his dating life when he leaves his seat abruptly and excuses himself, “could you wait here for a minute? I’ll be right back.” Then he heads straight towards the door, leaving me by myself again.
Uh? What the...Did he just get a telepathic call from the ER? I don’t remember seeing him check a pager in the middle of our conversation. Not that I was expecting a deep discussion about my “issues”, but that was kind of rude. I let out a heavy sigh before leaning back in the chair, waiting for his return with my eyes fixed on the boring white ceiling.
Less than a minute later, the door swings open and a tall, lean man rushes in the room with Dr. Morris in tow, his flaming red hair flying towards me. I can’t read his face clearly, but his urgent footsteps tells me the message he comes to deliver is very important. It’s only when he positions himself a foot away from me, studying me from different angles like a doctor would read an X-ray photo, that I am able to do a little analyzing on him myself.
He’s wearing a white lab coat with the name “M. Bauer” embroidered on the chest pocket. Ah, he must be the psychiatrist on the business card at the counter. He looks shaken, his face flushed and brown eyes wide. The lips that only part slightly in the beginning quickly turn into a jaw-dropping “O” as he scans every feature of my face, the same way the front desk lady did. Not like the way people stare at me when they notice my abnormality though. He’s intrigued, bewildered, as if I was a potential cure to a disease he’s been struggling to fight for years. The invasion of personal space should’ve annoyed me, but somehow, I am not offended. Not in the slightest. For a quick second, he raises his hands to both sides of my head, only to put them down right away in an apparent attempt to resist the urge to touch me, to see if I am real.
“Un-be-lie-va-ble!” He marvels. Pulling out a cellphone from his coat pocket, Dr. Beauer informs me, “Abby, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”
