I Speak...Love (A Different Road #3) (17 page)

I get in my van with tears in my eyes and drive home. Stephen was wrong. The worse of his two secrets was telling me that Kate is adopted. How am I supposed to look her in the eyes now? How am I supposed to pretend that I don’t know something that she should know, something that she should have been told long ago? How could he keep this from her? This isn’t just his secret to keep anymore. Kate’s worked so hard to cope with her depression and become the person she is today. What will this do to her? What will this do to me knowing what I know?

As hard as I try not to, like an annoying, blinking neon sign, selfishly, I think that could have been me. I could have been adopted by loving parents. Who goes around with a magic wand, sprinkles fairy dust over a newborn’s head and says,
you will be adopted by a loving family,
then points that same magic wand at another baby,
me,
sprinkles shit over her head and says,
sorry, you will not?
It didn’t just happen once. It happened over and over again, every single time I was placed in a new home.

As horrible as it was losing her parents when she was only five, she still had those five amazing years she’ll never forget. I never had five amazing days. After the accident, she still grew up with two brothers who love her more than life itself. River had a near death experience with her, and they came out of it with a very close bond that not even death itself could destroy. Stephen, even with his fucked up thinking, loved his parents so much, he was willing to keep their secret to let Kate believe she was always loved and wanted.

No, stop it! Wishing I grew up in a loving home won’t take away my ugly past and turn it into a beautiful fairy tale complete with loving parents and adoring siblings.

As I pull into the driveway, my cell phone starts to ring. I pull it out of my purse and see it says,
Kate Calling.
My heart sinks in my chest. Not only was Stephen taken away from me, but I’ve lost Kate in the fallout as well. I can’t talk to her. None of this is fair to her or to me. I throw my phone on the passenger seat, grab my purse, then get out of the van.

I walk up to the front door and freeze. Dead silence rings in my ear, as I’m yet again reminded that it’s only a matter of time before this too will be taken away from me. I ask myself my three questions. Is this really mine? The answer is no. I’m such a fool. It’s always been no. This has never been mine. This house belongs to Joss and Nina. Is this truly my life now? The answer again is, no. I’ve been living a borrowed life for months now, and I’ve been naïve to think I could keep it. And third, when will it all be taken away? The answer is soon and swifter than I can bear to think about.

I unlock the door and quickly close it behind me. Everything my eyes can see isn’t mine. The furniture, the decorations, the dishes, not even the broom in the laundry room, none of it is mine. The knock off, ugly canvas shoes with the shoelaces that never stay tied are mine. The thrift store clothes that hang in Joss’s bedroom closet are mine, and that’s basically it.

The camera sitting on the coffee table comes into view, and I immediately feel sick to my stomach. I drop my purse on the floor, then rush over to the camera and remove the memory card. I open the laptop that isn’t mine, it belongs to
California Chef,
and insert the card. I transfer the photos to the hard drive, then I delete the photos from the memory card. I put it back in the camera, then put the camera back in the backpack and set it on the floor. I can’t keep it. It was only a matter of time anyway before it would be taken away too. I just never imagined I’d be forced to hand it back in person. This is all just too cruel. I have to give it back. I wipe the stupid girly tears from my face, then I open my editing software and get to work. Unfortunately, this was my first and last photography job. I eye the bag sitting next to me and decide it’s too close to me. I get up and move it by the front door.

I sit back down, but I can still see the backpack out of my peripheral vision taunting me, laughing at me because it’s just another thing I can’t have. It’s an aching reminder of the man I love, but can never have. Everything in my life is always temporary and not mine to keep. I get back up, pick it up, open the coat closet, and set it on the floor. I close the door, then walk back over to the couch finally able to get to work.

As I scroll through the photos, each and every one of them is spectacular. I’m sure if it has more to do with the quality of the camera than the person,
me,
who took the photos, but I’m blown away.

I look at the ones with the three of them and that damn jealousy creeps its ugly head back into my thoughts again. I see the way Courtney looks at her daughters, and I hate that no one has ever looked at me that way, except one—him, the man who has captured the remainder of my broken heart, who I will never see look at me that way again.

After a few hours of working on the photos, a notification pops up that I have a new email. I decide to take a break from editing, and I click over to check it. The one that just came through is from Nina. I look at my watch and see that it’s well after midnight. What’s she still doing up? I click on the email and read what it says. She wants me to click on the link below. She says there are still details that need to be worked out and a few things that still need to be added. Curiously, I click on the link and the website that opens up in front of me fills my eyes again with stupid girly tears. Damn it! I’ve worked so hard not to feel these things. Why did I let myself do this?

The words
Photography by Maddy
are elegantly scrolled on the top of the website. The beautiful pastel colors and patterns look professional and elegant. There’s a tab that says,
About Maddy,
so I click on it. It’s blank except for a short,
Needs to be filled in
typed in the center of the page. Ah, OK. Let’s see. What’s there to know about Maddy? Yes, let’s put that I was abandoned by my mother and that my name was Baby Jane until I was given a legal name when I was eleven months old by the family that returned me like expired ground beef. I don’t think there’s enough room on this page to list all the towns where Maddy grew up in. How about my criminal record? Should I list all of that? Especially if I’m going to be working with little kids. I mean, come on now! Let’s put down that I was once arrested for assault. It wasn’t even my damn fault! That bitch hit me first. I was only defending myself. That will make parents want to trust me with their kids. Let’s put,
Maddy is alone and she always has been. No one has ever loved her or ever will.

I should just write
boohoo Maddy’s full of feeling sorry for herself.
I roll my eyes at myself, then look at the rest of the website.

There are several other tabs on the top of the screen labeled,
Family, Bellies, Babies, Births, Food,
and
Everything Else.
You can tell the designer of the website is pregnant. I would love nothing more than to fill these tabs with photographs of Nina, her baby bump, her newborn, and my food porn pics. Now, there never will be. The camera needs to go back to Stephen. It will take me, at least, ten years to save up enough money to buy another camera. I’m sorry Nina wasted her time putting together this beautiful site for me.

I finish editing Courtney’s photos, then feel guilty about charging her more for the prints. With the money she paid me, I’ll get them printed in a variety of sizes, then I’ll be a coward and mail them to her. I’m not a photographer and therefore, shouldn’t be paid.

How am I going to get them printed? It will take forever to upload all of these.

Shit.

I get back up and remove the backpack from the closet, then remove the memory card from the camera. I’ll just get them printed, then I’ll put the card back in the camera and return it.

I load the photographs on the card that I want to be printed, then I go to bed.

Tossing and turning all night thinking about the things I know, I can’t fall asleep. At six, unable to go to yoga and face Kate, I get dressed and go to the print shop. I have all the photos printed, and I spend every penny of the money Courtney paid me. I open the large envelope to look at the photos to make sure they’re perfect, but the first photo on the stack isn’t of Courtney or her beautiful daughters, it’s of me in Stephen’s office when I was happy. How’d that get in there? I raise my hand and place it on the photo, then crumple it in my fist until its sharp edges painfully dig into my palm. I exhale a breath and let it go, but decide to keep it to remind myself that there are always consequences when I let myself look like this. I shove it in my purse, then I purchase a small box, address it to Courtney, and drop it in the mail.

And that is that.

I get to
California Chef
and sit through the morning meeting unable to look at Nina.

“So?” she questions. “What do you think?” she asks when the meeting is over.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. I can’t lie, it truly is. “Thank you, but you shouldn’t have wasted your time,” I say, then grab my catering bags and quickly run for the door.

“But . . . Maddy?” she questions as the door closes behind me.

The next couple of days, I do my best to avoid everyone. Kate’s been super busy with the yoga studio, but her texts and voicemail messages have become increasingly worried because I haven’t returned any of them. I’m just not sure what to do with myself.

Thursday after my last client, I walk in the back door to drop off my supplies so I can head home and be left alone. Nina walks out of her office and immediately walks over to me.

“Courtney is out front waiting for you,” she says in a displeased tone.

I can’t even bring myself to look at Nina.

“Can you tell her I’m not here?” I ask.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Nina asks. “She said you haven’t returned any of her phone calls, and that today she got the photos from the shoot in the mail. Why did you mail the photos to her? She said she never saw the proofs or picked any of the ones that you sent her. Trust me, she was in tears in love with them, but I don’t get it. She’s been sitting out front for over an hour with her checkbook in her lap,” she finishes.

“Tell her they’re on me,” I say, then walk out the back door.

“Maddy?” she calls irritated, but I keep walking.

Friday when I pull into my driveway after work, my cell phone rings. I look at the display and see that it’s Kate again. I can’t keep ignoring her. She didn’t do anything wrong. The more days that go by, the guiltier I feel. I’m being a terrible friend.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Are you avoiding me?” she bluntly asks.

“I’ve been busy.”

“You haven’t been coming to yoga,” she says.

“I told you I’ve been busy,” I reply again.

“There’s something going on. What’s wrong?” she asks. I come to the realization that I clearly have no other choice. I’ve made up my mind. It’s just time for me to move on. What’s one more town to add to my bio? I’m used to starting over anyway. I realize it’s purely a selfish choice, but it’s easier than having to see what I can’t have every single day. “Maddy?” Kate says, when I haven’t responded.