I walk past the kitchen table to grab a beer from the fridge, and notice
the mail's in. Mark must have picked it up before he left for his meeting.
I sift through the envelopes. There's only a few, and they're all junk. A
package is sitting there, opened. I flip one of the flaps over to see
Mark's mom's return address. Of course. I prepare myself for another
useless kitchen appliance and look inside the box. Instead of the usual
Mrs. Cohen Original, however, there's just a stack of papers with a letter
on top.
'Mark- I found these and figured you might want to take a look at them, didn't want to throw them away without your permission. Enjoy sweetie, call me.
Love, Mom'
I move the letter onto the table and begin skimming over the papers. They're all old pictures and papers Mark did when he was little. Interested, I bring the box over to the couch and sit down, pulling the stack onto my lap. On the top is mostly schoolwork, aced spelling tests and math quizzes. As I get deeper into the pile, the graded papers turn into pictures, at first drawings of houses and dogs and 'still life's obviously set up by what was probably a first grade art teacher. After these the drawings are seemingly done for fun. They look like storyboards, and I cant help but smile to myself, they remind me so much of Mark's current sketches he integrates into his notes, reminding him what he wants any particular scene to look like. After all the schoolwork and drawings, is one photograph. A copy of a professionally shot family picture. Mr. And Mrs. Cohen stand behind their two children. Mark's dark tinted hair is neatly parted and Cindy's blonde curls are perfectly in place. Her blue eyes noticeably glow. So do Mrs. Cohens. And Mr. Cohens. Mark's light brown eyes are dull, yet piercing, different. I place the stack back into its box. Until now, I haven't noticed the name written on the lines on the tops of these papers. The first one says "Mark Jameson". So does the second, and the third, and the fourth. They all do. I look through every single paper again, until I find one with the name "Mark Cohen" written on it. It's a simple drawing, of what seems to be a family. A small figure hunches in the corner, with crayon brown hair. A figure at least three times as large looms over him, with dark hair and prominent blue eyes. An average sized depiction stands on the other side of the paper, holding what seems to be a baby. The background of the entire picture is scribbled in red. I read the note from Mark's mom a couple more times, and decide the only thing left to do is wait for him to come home, then figure out what this is all about. Minutes later, the doorknob jiggles and I hear it open.
"Hey Mark?"
"Yea?"
"What is this stuff?"
"What is what stuff?"
"This stuff...that your mom sent."
He looks over my shoulder at the pile. "Oh. It's nothing...just old school stuff. She thought I'd want it."
"Why do they all say Mark Jameson?"
"What can I say, I was a quirky kid."
"Oh." I'm confused, but I know him well enough to let it go. If I pry, he'll get mad, in turn I'll get mad, and it won't be pretty. "You still are."
He smiles and picks the box up, bringing it into his room. Through the doorway I see him sit on the bed and leaf through every paper separately, as if examining the validity of each one. He stares at the papers for another couple minutes before I walk towards his room and stand in the doorway, leaning on the frame. I can tell he hears me at the door, his head pulls up slightly, but he never looks back at me. Every paper he holds seems to stay in his hand longer than the last. His face is twisted in a struggle somewhere between honesty and façade. He drops each paper listlessly into another pile and then reaches to take a sheet from the other. The discard stack grows larger than the original, Mark looks down to notice his finger is dotted with blood from a paper cut. He acknowledges it, but continues sifting, not bothering to even wipe the small wound. After going through the entire box, he holds the family portrait in his hand and looks up at me with the most honest, unprotected eyes I've ever seen. He searches my face for any hint of understanding, compassion, reassurance. Those sharp brown eyes have displayed so many emotions in their time, and all I can see now is pain, and hurt, and fright. He's scared. There's something he's scared to tell me.
"I'm adopted."
'Mark- I found these and figured you might want to take a look at them, didn't want to throw them away without your permission. Enjoy sweetie, call me.
Love, Mom'
I move the letter onto the table and begin skimming over the papers. They're all old pictures and papers Mark did when he was little. Interested, I bring the box over to the couch and sit down, pulling the stack onto my lap. On the top is mostly schoolwork, aced spelling tests and math quizzes. As I get deeper into the pile, the graded papers turn into pictures, at first drawings of houses and dogs and 'still life's obviously set up by what was probably a first grade art teacher. After these the drawings are seemingly done for fun. They look like storyboards, and I cant help but smile to myself, they remind me so much of Mark's current sketches he integrates into his notes, reminding him what he wants any particular scene to look like. After all the schoolwork and drawings, is one photograph. A copy of a professionally shot family picture. Mr. And Mrs. Cohen stand behind their two children. Mark's dark tinted hair is neatly parted and Cindy's blonde curls are perfectly in place. Her blue eyes noticeably glow. So do Mrs. Cohens. And Mr. Cohens. Mark's light brown eyes are dull, yet piercing, different. I place the stack back into its box. Until now, I haven't noticed the name written on the lines on the tops of these papers. The first one says "Mark Jameson". So does the second, and the third, and the fourth. They all do. I look through every single paper again, until I find one with the name "Mark Cohen" written on it. It's a simple drawing, of what seems to be a family. A small figure hunches in the corner, with crayon brown hair. A figure at least three times as large looms over him, with dark hair and prominent blue eyes. An average sized depiction stands on the other side of the paper, holding what seems to be a baby. The background of the entire picture is scribbled in red. I read the note from Mark's mom a couple more times, and decide the only thing left to do is wait for him to come home, then figure out what this is all about. Minutes later, the doorknob jiggles and I hear it open.
"Hey Mark?"
"Yea?"
"What is this stuff?"
"What is what stuff?"
"This stuff...that your mom sent."
He looks over my shoulder at the pile. "Oh. It's nothing...just old school stuff. She thought I'd want it."
"Why do they all say Mark Jameson?"
"What can I say, I was a quirky kid."
"Oh." I'm confused, but I know him well enough to let it go. If I pry, he'll get mad, in turn I'll get mad, and it won't be pretty. "You still are."
He smiles and picks the box up, bringing it into his room. Through the doorway I see him sit on the bed and leaf through every paper separately, as if examining the validity of each one. He stares at the papers for another couple minutes before I walk towards his room and stand in the doorway, leaning on the frame. I can tell he hears me at the door, his head pulls up slightly, but he never looks back at me. Every paper he holds seems to stay in his hand longer than the last. His face is twisted in a struggle somewhere between honesty and façade. He drops each paper listlessly into another pile and then reaches to take a sheet from the other. The discard stack grows larger than the original, Mark looks down to notice his finger is dotted with blood from a paper cut. He acknowledges it, but continues sifting, not bothering to even wipe the small wound. After going through the entire box, he holds the family portrait in his hand and looks up at me with the most honest, unprotected eyes I've ever seen. He searches my face for any hint of understanding, compassion, reassurance. Those sharp brown eyes have displayed so many emotions in their time, and all I can see now is pain, and hurt, and fright. He's scared. There's something he's scared to tell me.
"I'm adopted."