A Mother's Last Wish

Chapter 1

16 years later-Lea’s point of view

         
Dear Diary,

If I wanted to break down the school, I could do it in many ways. But I guess the most general way would be to break it down by the number of parents the student has. There are many who have both parents. Some only have one. A few are orphans and live with relatives. There’s only one person in the whole school who doesn’t fit in. I’m the only one who doesn’t even live with a relative. Most of the teasing has died down with the years, but it still haunts me day and night. What happened to my mom and dad? Why am I stuck with someone who didn’t even know them?

Hmph. I guess everyone wants to know something about his parents. Brittany wants to know if her parents even dated; they are so boring. Timothy wonders if his parents adopted him because they are nothing alike. When I think about this, I wish the knowledge I yearned for was as simple as theirs. Of course Brittany’s parents dated, and Timothy wasn’t adopted. My dilemma is not as easily solved. I don’t know how my parents died, and if my neighbor died as well. Was it tragic; was it fatal illness that killed first my father and then my mother? Why was my neighbor so intent on giving me up to a total stranger? Questions like this haunt my mind sometimes. I would ask Katie about it, but I have done that so many times that I think she is tired of it. Well, I can always change the question a little.
I run downstairs in our little two-bedroom apartment. With the rooms so tiny, it seems to me that the sellers ripped us off with the high price. The old, tattered recliner creaks as Katie rocks back and forth, the noise of the television echoing throughout the house. “Hey, Katie, whatcha doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing, hun?” That question was dumb, I admit.
“Well, is it an important show?”
Katie sighs and turns the TV off. “All right. What is it now?”
         “Well, I have been thinking.” She nods for me to continue. “About my parents.”
         She throws her hands in the air. “Your parents? How many times have I told you that I don’t know anything about them? Do I need to repeat the story once again? One day a woman came – ”
         “Okay, okay!” I interrupt. “What I was wondering about is whether you think there would be anyway I could trace them, find death certificates…”
         She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, hun. We moved, remember?”
         I am not about to give up though. “Well, wouldn’t the records still be there even if we moved? Maybe we could take a trip and look at old  records.”
         The corners of Katie’s mouth turn down. “Sorry, hun, but I don’t know they’re names. All I know is that your neighbor said your name is Lea. If I hadn’t asked, I would have had to name you myself”
         Isn’t this a hopeless situation? “Did she give a last name? Anything?”
         Sadly, Katie shakes her head. “Only a first name. Wait.” She pauses. “I do recall that when I asked, she hesitated for a bit. Maybe she wasn’t your neighbor after all and didn’t even know your name.”
         The wallpaper-covered room starts to spin. “So the one thing that I thought was from my parents might have been made up by a complete stranger?”
         I see horror cross her face. She must have realized what that would mean to me. “It appears that way. I am so sorry, Lea. I didn’t think. Of course, she might not have known you for very long and couldn’t remember your name off the top of her head.” She spreads her arms out for a hug. I hurry to fill the embrace. What’s in a name anyway? “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” will it not?

         It is amazing that our tiny little kitchen can produce such great meals. The overwhelming aroma drifting from the kitchen fills my nostrils as I hurry downstairs for dinner. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Katie is one of the best cooks around. She always tries to teach me, but for some reason, my school keeps pounding me with homework.
         “Something sure smells good in here, Katie! What’s cooking?”
         “Lasagna and a Callodan salad.” The only difference between a Greek salad and a Callodan salad is that there are much more tomatoes.
         “Sound yummy.” The wooden table wobbles as I warily sit down. No one knows when the chair will finally break. A shrilling whistle sounds from the oven, and I pop up out of my seat. “I’ll get it, Katie,” I say when I notice that she is busy with the salad. Hurrying over to the oven, I grab the pair of oven mitts lying on the counter. As I opened the appliance, the variety of aromas assures that this will be a meal to remember.