All she knew about her mother is that she was a straight A student who hadn't wanted to be burdened with a child at such a young age, that she had hidden her pregnancy from everyone and that she had left her with the adoption agency with nothing but a pink blanket and a worn velvet rabbit.
She knew nothing about her father, nothing at all.
***
She was eighteen when she found out that her mother was dead.
Apparently she had died in a fire, killed in her college dorm, only months after she had abandoned her daughter.
Her father had vanished off the radar and she didn't know if he were alive or dead.
She loved her adoptive parents but she really wanted to discover her roots.
It hurt to be so alone.
***
She looked at herself in the mirror. She was taller than her peers and gawky, long chestnut hair hanging around a thin, high-boned face, slanting hazel eyes and a stubborn chin. She wondered who she looked like, whether it was her mom or her dad. She had no photographs, no memories and she wanted, oh how she wanted, to find something, anything to connect with.
***
Her adoptive grandma claims that the family home is haunted. She doesn't laugh, there are cold spots and she never feels safe there. She looks in the phone book for priests and exorcists but feels too foolish to phone.
***
Robert Singer is an old friend of her grandmothers. He speaks softly and kindly to her, his face half-hidden by an old baseball cap, his mouth obscured by a grey beard.
Whatever he does seems to do the trick and she is so grateful. She offers him coffee and he sits opposite her, staring at her, his piercing gaze making her just a little uneasy.
"You remind me of someone I once knew," he says, gruffly and she wants so much to know more.
"Can you tell me who it was?" She says, foolish and excited, knowing she might be on the road to disappointment but wanting just the same.
"Who was your momma girl?" He says and when he hears her name he gulps down the coffee and shakes his head, his rhumy eyes filling with tears, "can you come with me?" He asks and she nods, her heart in her mouth, wondering.
***
Robert Singer's salvage yard is cluttered and grimy. His house is ramshackle, full of strange symbols and shelves full of books. She stares at the books in awe, wanting to touch them, her excitement growing with every single step.
She sits at Robert's – call me Bobby – table and drinks coffee. She likes hers sweet and frothy and Bobby grins at that, fond affection running through his every glance. She is so at home there, cosy by the fire, that she almost doesn't hear the low rumble of the car engine or see the big black car draw up in the driveway. She stands up and stares out at the sight, her mouth dry, her heart in her throat.
The man who enters is not her dad, she knows it instantly, but she also knows he is someone she should care about, someone who will care about her. He stands before her in a worn old leather jacket, patched jeans and biker boots that have seen better days. There are laughter and age lines around his green eyes and his face is scarred but handsome. Silver threads through his blond hair and his smile is warm, shocked but gentle.
When he takes her in his arms she knows, knows that her father is dead, that she is an orphan, that she will never get to talk to her parents, to know them, to be with them. She also knows, by the way the man holds her, that she will never, ever feel lonely again. She has roots now and she can embrace them, so she leans into the hug and lets the man cry into her hair until he is calm again.
***
His name is Dean and he is her uncle. He is in his mid forties but doesn't look it. He is sharp, cocky and there is something knowing about him, something world weary but accepting and she loves him instantly.
He asks her name, her age, where she was bought up and she answers, watching his face, trying to read his expression. He keeps staring at her, murmuring how much she looks like 'him', how she has his expressions, his smile. She accepts the beer that Bobby gives her and drinks it down with relish. She sits in a huge chair beneath the large red symbol on the ceiling and doesn't flinch when Bobby whispers something that sounds like 'Christo' to her. When she gets up to use the bathroom and both men smile at her proudly, she feels as if she has passed some sort of test.
When she gets back Dean is on his feet and he holds out his hand to her.
"You wanna go for a ride?" He says and she nods, her head full of so many questions. He grins then, light and happy, and he takes her hand and pulls her out into the cool night, opening the passenger door and letting her sit beside him in the big, black car – an Impala – he says, a little proudly. She snuggles into the soft leather seat and feels so much at home there that tears sting her lashes and she turns to her new Uncle, wondering.
"How did he die?" she says. It wasn't quite how she wanted to know, but the question burns her and she needs an answer.
"Saving the world," her uncle says, proudly, softly, his voice wavering, "you've got a lot to live up too."
She nods, swallowing, wondering how she can possibly live up to that. Dean seems to read her mind. He shoves across one of the big tomes that she had been admiring at Bobby's and grins.
"How about a little research," he says and she nods, hair falling over her face. Dean takes breath and thrusts something over to her and she stares down at it, knowing, without question that the smiling young man in the picture is, indeed, her dad.
"Where to?" Dean asks, revving up the engine so that it growls and moans, the car straining at the bit like a wild animal.
There is no doubt, no hesitation and she feels no regret when she leans back into the seat and smiles.
"Wherever the road leads," she says and Dean laughs out loud, the name of her dad soft on his lips, barely audible but enough for her to hear.
She is home.
End