One morning that October we were eating breakfast. Dad had finally relented and was letting his hair and whiskers grow out again, much to our relief.
“Bug, do you ever wonder about your first family?”
“My birth parents? No, it’s not like I knew them or anything.”
“I meant any biological relatives you might have.”
“Um, no, not really. Why?”
“Up until now I’ve done what I thought proper, but you’re old enough to have a part in important stuff like that.”
“Uh, okay. The only things I know are their names and the article about the killing. Is there something more I should know?”
“Well, first, when we were going through the adoption process, your Mom and I put notices in the legal journal, and in the largest papers in the country.”
“That must have cost a lot.”
“Not as much as you might think. We needed to know if you had relatives who would try to claim you.”
“You’d have let strangers take me?”
“That’s not what I said. We wanted to be ready for a court fight if we needed one.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I thought you might like to see it. Here’s one from the Detroit Free Press.” His hand trembled slightly.
She squinted at the aging newsprint. “Notice: Any person related to or knowing the family of Jessica Pearl Montri, daughter of Aran and Sabrina Montri (nee Heimanu), born in Detroit, Michigan on December thirteenth, nineteen sixty-seven...” she read silently for a moment.
She set it on the table. “May I keep this?”
“Of course. I’ve kept in contact with the orphanage. They’re listed as the contact at all the search places; I didn’t want people contacting us directly. They have instructions to call if someone inquires, and I check in with them by phone about every six months. Still nothing though.
“A few months ago I hired a forensic genealogist to track down more information. He found out that your father entered the US flying from Thailand to Hawaii. Your mother was a student at U of H, but it’s not clear if she was born there. Her name is common in Tahiti. There are no records of how they ended up in Detroit, or whether there’s any family in the US. I have another person working on that, but again, no luck so far.”
“Huh. I had no idea. I always assumed my background was at least partially African. Anyway, I figured if I had family, they’d have found me. Why are you still so interested?”
“Health stuff, genetics.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a lab run some tests to see if there’s anything we should know.”
“Sure, why not? Did you hear that Cory? Some guy at a lab’s going to be checking out my genes.”
I just groaned.
“Dad, did you see the mail? You aren’t old enough to retire yet, are you?”
“Oh, the one from Social Security?” he chuckled, “No, I just ordered new cards for you and your sister. I know we had them at the Secretary of State’s office, but I’ve looked everywhere. You’ll each need to sign your new card. First step to filing our taxes – are you going to help me out again next year?”
“Of course!” Last year I’d found an extra three hundred dollars for the refund. He knew I was proud of that, and mentioned it whenever the subject was discussed. He was often very cool that way.