Chapter Eight

It seemed like only moments after I'd fallen asleep that I was awoken by a tap at my door and Kelsey stepping into my room.

"Good morning, Mia," she greeted me.

"Kelsey," I moaned, half-lifting up my pink satin eye mask. My head was throbbing, I was still nauseous, and I was very thankful at the moment that the drapes were shut tight. "What time is it?"

"Ten past eight."

"Ten past eight?" I burrowed back into my pillows. I was not getting up; our flight was for nine that night. "I am not leaving this bed before noon unless the building's on fire. And possibly not even then."

Kelsey stayed where she was, however. "Mr. Curtis is here to see you, darling. Not Darrel, Sodapop. He says it's urgent."

Although it was the very last thing I wanted to do, I forced myself to sit up and take my eye mask off. None of what had happened last night was Sodapop's fault, and I supposed the only proper thing to do would be to at least say goodbye.

"I'll see him. But can you please go in and close the sitting room drapes first?" Kelsey nodded and left the room. I climbed out of bed and slipped on my dressing gown, which had been waiting at the foot of the bed. I glanced at myself in the mirror and blanched at the sight. I looked like- well, I looked like I'd gotten drunk, cried for two hours, and gone to bed with my makeup still on. But I wasn't going to worry about that now.

I walked down the short hallway to the sitting room, where Sodapop sat on one of the velvet couches, looking rather nervous, with a heavy-looking wooden box on the sofa next to him. He stood up when he saw me.

"Hey, honey," he said softly. I flickered my fingers in a little wave and crossed the room to the phone, picking up the receiver and dialing a few numbers.

"Hello, Room Service? Yes. Could you please send a Bloody Mary and some dry wheat toast to room 504?" I glanced at Soda. "Would you like anything?" He shook his head, and I hung up the phone before settling into an armchair directly across from where Soda sat. It was then that he seemed to notice the luggage piled near the doorway.

"You're really leaving?" he blurted out.

I nodded tiredly. "It's just time. I'm glad I met you. Really, I am. But I have a life to get back to."

Soda sighed and leaned back in his chair. The he said suddenly, "You know Darry was just really worried, right? That's why he yelled like that, he's the same way with Ponyboy. He just has a lot more worries than he oughta, is all."

"Well, he'll have one less worry now." There was a knock at the door, and Room Service wheeled in with my breakfast. As I sipped my drink my headache eased and my stomach began to slowly settle.

"So you're not even going to try and work things out with him?" Soda said sadly.

I shook my head, wincing at the movement. "There's no point, really. I came here to see where I come from and who my birth family was. Now I know."

"You don't know," he said stubbornly. He gestured to the box beside him. "That's why I brought you this. We found it in Mom and Dad's room after they—died." I could hear the hesitation, one that I knew too well. Even months after it was painful to say out loud. Soda cleared his throat. "Well, some of it. The two letters they'd given to the social worker, who gave them back to Darry. Anyway, it's yours now. Please promise me you'll look through it before you go."

"I promise," I said, very curious in spite of myself.

Soda stood up and put on his jacket. "And don't forget to come to the house on the way to the airport and say goodbye. Pony'll be heartbroken if you don't." I nodded mutely. Soda squeezed my hand and left.

It wasn't until I had finished eating and had had a long, hot bath that I decided to open the box. For some reason it scared and excited me all at once that I might at last be getting some answers.

I sat down on the sitting room floor and, taking a deep breath, opened up the lid. Musty-smelling air wafted up towards me and I coughed. Once it cleared I could see several small boxes, some very thick-looking folders, a photo album and two envelopes- with my name written on them in handwriting that was- it's just like mine, I realized in amazement.

Reminding myself to breathe, I took the first folder from the box and opened it slowly. A piece of thick, official-looking paper with the words Certificate of Birth embossed on the top stared up at me. My original birth certificate! Oh, my goodness. I had always wanted to see it.

The paper had my birthday printed on it- I knew that one, of course- and my parents' names, along with my old one. Mia Victoria Curtis, born to Darrel Shaynne Curtis, Sr., and Lydia Margaret Curtis. I was very startled- I had no idea my birth parents had given me my middle name too.

It took me half an hour to get through the rest of that folder, which contained all sorts of records, doctors' forms, and the like from the first six months of my life. I pored over every word, absolutely mesmerized by minute details such as my immunization records.

Next I decided to open one of the envelopes. I lifted the older-looking, yellowed one out of the box. Looking at the date written in the lower left-hand corner, I realized with a twist to my heart that it had been written the same week I had been given up for adoption. It had to be from my parents. I took a deep breath and pressed my hands to my eyes. I had always wanted this moment, but now that it was here, I wasn't ready.

Bracing myself, I opened the unsealed envelope and lifted out a slightly brittle piece of paper with that same handwriting, so like mine.

Dearest Mia Victoria,

Oh, my precious baby girl. I'm sitting here watching you sleep. Your father has taken your two older brothers out for the afternoon so I could have a little time alone with you.

You are six months old today. I can barely believe it. Watching you grow has been a miracle. You are my third child, but I have learned that every baby is a miracle and every one is different.

But your father and I had to make a terrible and painful decision yesterday. One that, if you are reading this, you are no doubt well aware of already.

You see, baby, our family isn't doing too well. Your father is working three jobs, and we still can't make the ends meet. It's getting to be wintertime now, and the house is cold. Your brothers are hungry, and with all this taking a toll on my health, you're suffering too. We can't let this continue.

Please, please understand that your father and I have done everything we could. But now you children are suffering because of our selfishness, our efforts to hold this family together and put off the decision that we made yesterday to give you, our daughter, up for adoption.

This is without question the hardest thing we have ever had to do. But we want more, so much more, for you than this. More than this neighborhood, this life. I want the whole world for you.

Before all else, please know that you are very, very wanted and dearly loved. Your father and I want nothing more than to keep you and watch you grow into the beautiful woman you'll be someday.

My darling daughter, you will always be in our minds and hearts. We will miss you more than words could possibly say, and we love you more than you will ever know.

Your mother,

Lydia

Trembling, I set the letter down and picked up the photograph that had been tucked inside the envelope with it. It was a family portrait. A handsome, muscular man who looked so much like Darrel that it made me do a double take. Two adorable little boys. And- this was the hardest- a beautiful woman with warm blue eyes cradling a tiny baby girl. Me.

I cried until I didn't have tears left, the kind of hiccupping, throaty crying that leaves your eyes tender and your stomach aching. My mind was whirling with everything I had just learned. I had been wanted. I had been loved. They had wanted to keep me- and no doubt they had missed me like Lydia said they would.

After washing my face and getting some air on the balcony, I returned to the box and the second folder, which felt heavier than the first. Flipping it open, I found an enormous stack of yellowed newspaper clippings. I paged through them with growing shock.

Every one of them was clipped from the Society pages of the Times- and every one of them was about me.

The first, dated from my third birthday, was a short article entitled Future debutante Mia de Barbarac hosts third birthday garden party. It was accompanied by a picture of Risa, smiling widely, her dark brown eyes sparkling with happiness, holding me, a toddler in a very ornate lacy pink dress and shiny black shoes. There were so many of them. When you're the daughter of a very famous New York society woman, you become a minor celebrity of sorts yourself. I had never thought too much about my press clippings. It was all just part of the background of my life.

Risa and Mia de Barbarac attend the Plaza's Easter charity ball. Mia de Barbarac to begin studies at the renowned Selwyn School. Risa de Barbarac hosts private dance to celebrate the fourteenth birthday of her daughter, Mia Victoria. My whole life, summarized in short articles and photos.

I leaned back against the wall, feeling more confused than ever. Clearly they had known where I was and who I had become, although I could not imagine what it would be like, watching your daughter grow up as the daughter of someone else. But if they had been keeping track of me all these years, why did they never just call?

I picked up the second envelope, which was dated two weeks after Risa's death.

Dear Mia,

Hi, baby. I'm your birth mother, Lydia Curtis. I suppose you've read the first letter by now- I cannot believe it is fifteen years since I wrote it, with you asleep in a cradle by my bed.

The whole family was deeply saddened to hear about your mother's death. I cannot imagine what it is you must be going through. I only spoke with Risa a few times-

What? I reread the last line, shocked. Lydia and Risa had talked? When? Why? Why did no one tell me, ask me if- I shook my head, deeply upset as I returned to the letter.

-but I found her to be a wonderful woman, lovely, charming, and kind. I am more grateful than I can say that you grew up with her for a mother. It is exactly as your father and I wished for you all those years ago.

We have seen your picture in the papers more times than I can count, which has been a blessing for us. I can't tell you how proud we all are of the beautiful, accomplished, poised young lady you have become.

Honey, you have a home here with us if ever you want or need it. We completely understand if that is too difficult for you to handle. But think about it. We are always here if you need us. Just say the word, and we'll be there.

With love from your birth mother,

Lydia

I had no idea what I was going to do about the situation with Darry. But I knew now that I could not leave Tulsa without getting more answers.

A/N: Well, how was it? This was probably the hardest chapter for me to write so far. Please keep reviewing, so I know people are reading. Special thanks to all my wonderful reviewers!