An Adolescence of Amalgamation

Chapter 1

Twenty-eight, an inconsequential age to anyone else. No special privileges, no senior discounts, no big company birthday. Twenty-eight is simply another year older. Yet, to me, to those closest to me, twenty-eight is an age of catalyst. For a few, twenty-eight was their final birthday. My twenty-eighth birthday was twelve days ago. I have a history, a legacy to follow, of those before me. Yet when they all turned twenty-eight, I turned seven.

Studies show that the average adult only remembers experiences from their childhood, pre-puberty, in glimpses and bits. I've never had that problem. I remember the tree that swayed outside my bedroom window, vividly. I remember seeing my mom for the first time in a year outside my school, arms stretched to greet me. I remember days in front of the piano with my Uncle Felix and how terrible he was. I remember these all clearly, and yet still I have the human desire to write it down, to make a note of my experiences, because my story isn't normal, I'm not normal. And that's ok.

She walked in the door with a knit-cap on and a masculine gait. She smiled at me and I tilted my head. Was my memory playing tricks on me? Could my mom be back, and feel so very differently to me? Yet there she was, with Uncle Felix, whispering under her breath to Mrs. S.

Her eyes flashed to me again and a sympathetic smile crossed her face. Her eyelashes fluttered and her posture straightened for a second before she corrected herself. My chest pained. I was confused. I felt like hugging her tightly, but not like a daughter to her mother. This woman, with the same step, and same voice as my mother, felt inexplicably different.

"What, you shy now or somethin'?" She said.

I remembered a gun range, I remembered sitting on a rock and sharing a glass of wine. I remembered laughing until my side hurt. Yet, I had never done those things. I remembered a train.

"I'm sorry we haven't seen each other in a long time, but... we can change all that... see each other all the time" my false mother continued.

"You're not my mother" I told her.

Confusion shot across her face.

"Silly... Of course I'm your mum. Who else would I be?"

A friend. A companion. Part of me.

"Where's my mom" I demanded.

"She couldn't be here right now," she said with a sigh, "my name is Alison..."

Alison. That name held weight to me, that name felt like it should be important, like I should know it; I rolled it over my tongue silently in my mouth.

"Your mother is doing something very brave..." She said. I didn't catch all of it, but something deep in me trusted her, knowing she was right, knowing she would never lie to me. "...It's important that you keep this a secret..."

Secrets. I felt I had kept secrets with her before. I had trusted her, and she me. A deep feeling of nostalgia overcame me. I remembered secrets that caused stress. I remembered secrets overwrought in pain. Yet I also remembered secrets filled with laughter and joy. I remembered confiding in her.

I kept up the game, referring to her as "mommy" in front of Mrs. S. I wasn't sure why I felt the desire to trust Alison. I couldn't put my finger on the sensation of complete and utter trust in this woman.

She gave me a smile and I returned it with a look of knowing. I had not met Auntie Alison before and yet I missed that smile, and I was glad to have it back.