Whispers of Heaven

 I always wondered what it would be like to have my birth parents love me ever since I found out that I was adopted. Most days, my younger self would sit, lost in revery, in my childhood bedroom built on perfidious intentions. I had this bay window seat in my room growing up that I would always sit on to think, willing my thoughts to take me away from my reality. The window overlooked the old church cemetery that my adoptive father would make me go into every Sunday to pay my respects to deceased priests and diocese members that came before him. He was a deacon at that church, so everything to him was about ‘performing.’ I would sit at that bay window seat and look out at the sea of mossy headstones and wonder what would happen if my parents would have kept me. Would I be happier?

When I would ask my adoptive mother why I was given up, she would evasively tell me that I was, “brought to them by an angel,” deflecting my question all together. I never understood why they would say this, as if I was God’s gift delivered to their doorstep. It’s obvious that they would use my existence in their factitious playbook, parading me around like they want to get an award for adopting me. Beyond their illusionary façade I met who they truly are underneath their Sunday best; and it certainly wasn’t all psalms and smiles.

I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac at Inverness Airport; I was met with clouds covering the sky and a vast body of water reflecting the lush greenery that surrounds it. A part of me hasn’t accepted that I’m in my home country because, well, I’ve never actually lived here, only born and then whisked away. All I’ve known were the pothole riddled streets of a quaint town upstate New York. I’ve been out of New York, of course, throughout my teen years for mission trips with my church I had only agreed to those trips out of pure desperation to get away from my adoptive parents and their barbaric discipline. At age 28, I still have this overwhelming panic that lives within me. Sometimes, when I wake in the morning, for just a shred of a moment, I forget that I’m an adult with a job and an apartment of my own. In those mere seconds when I open my eyes, I feel like I am back in my childhood bed, praying to anyone and anything for a day without torture. But God never answered me. Ten years, and they still have a claw deep in my chest, controlling me in my mind. Even though I left at 18 and no longer live with them, they still live within me.

Moving through all the airport checkpoints, I walk back outside into the damp and cold November air. With my small duffle bag and a backpack, I buy a bus ticket to Buckie and find my seat. The bus is full of bright-eyed tourists, excitedly reviewing their itineraries and hotel reservations. I sit alone, near the back of the bus, headphones on. The buses engine sputters to a start and jolts forward, jostling the tourists in their leather seats. The rickety movement of the bus driving down the winding road of the Scottish countryside soothes me as I listen to Laufey’s ethereal jazz pulling me into deep thought.

Would my parents recognize me when they see me? Do they have other children? That would mean I would have siblings, which is terrifying. What if they don’t want me and I unearth old wounds from their past, ruining their plan of forgetting? Truthfully, I don’t even know exactly what to expect. I didn’t plan this trip; I didn’t contact anyone before heading here, or even send a measly “hey I think I’m your daughter” email. It was all impulsive, really. All the information that I have is my birth certificate that states I was born at Seafield Hospital in Buckie, Scotland. When I searched my birthname and the town into Google, an older woman named Grace Cunningham who owns a bookstore came up in the search. I don’t even know if she has any connections to my parents at all and I could very well be wasting my time, but she is the only Cunningham in that area.

My worries swirl around in a cacophony of anxious and intrusive thoughts. The bus finally slows down and announces its arrival at the Buckie bus station. I let all the chattering and enthusiastic tourists go first in a last-ditch effort to avoid the inevitable. As I get off the bus, I see people hugging friends and family, welcoming them to their town. I notice everyone knows where to go and what to see, what their next step looks like and that they have a plan. I have this terrible sinking feeling in my stomach as I internally start to panic.

I have nowhere to go, and no one is waiting for me here. At last, my impetuous decision shedding its sheep’s clothing and baring its teeth once I am confronted with an uncomfortable obstacle.

I walk over to a bench and sit and try to take in my surroundings to calm down. I see seagulls and another body of water, and townsfolk walking the streets, bundled in jackets and scarves. Any of these people can be my parents, I think to myself. This thought alone excited me and made my stomach do flips in an uneasy panic ridden way.

The sky is still thick with light grey clouds and a subtle wind chill dances through the streets, forcing me to zip up my coat in a feeble attempt to busy myself. After a moment, the crowd thins out, the bus moves on to the next bus station on its route, and I am still here, haunting the bench.

I quickly take my phone out and text my roommate, Jackie, a quick update. I share a two-bedroom apartment in Park Slope with her and we also work at the same company, just different departments.

Me: Here safe, I hope work is going well for you. I’m just going to figure out the hotel situation and I’ll keep you updated.

Only about two minutes pass when she responds excitedly:

Jackie: Thank God you’re safe. I was so worried about you. It’s late here, but I’m keeping my ringer on just in case you need me. Xoxo.

I quickly search hotels nearby and see there is one about a kilometer down the road. I have this great need to shower and rest, so I collect my things and walk, thinking in sonder, which passerby is connected to my life, if at all. Are you, older man in a tweed jacket and scarf, my grandfather? Or are you just a person living in a different combustion of complexities? What about you, younger lady with blue eyes that look like mine and freckles splattered across your nose like constellations - are you my cousin or someone completely unrelated?

I think this way for the entire walk, and slowly, this jittery feeling of excitement sparks within my core. If this all goes well, I could move to Scotland. Right? I have nothing holding me behind in New York.

I slow my walking down as my phone calls out that I have arrived at my destination. The hotel was stunning. I walk through the main entrance that bears resemblance to a castle. The structure completely made of stone, beautifully detailed stained-glass windows that reflect what little sunlight into prisms of color around the ornate lobby. I notice a few people from the bus waiting in line and all being whisked away to get set up in their rooms fit for kings.

The woman at the receptionist’s desk called me forward, in her thick native accent, “Good evenin’, ma’am, what can I do for ya?”

I cleared my throat, realizing I haven’t spoken a word since the flight attendant asked me if I needed anything on the plane.

“Uh, hello,” I started, feeling a little awkward that I’m American, for some reason. “I was wondering if there was a room available for a few nights. It’s just me.”

After a few moments, she gives me my room key and directs me to the nearest staircase.

Shortly after, I get set up in my room, I’m showered, pulling a thick grey mock neck sweater over my jetlagged limbs. It was beyond gorgeous and not at all as expensive as I thought it was going to be here. My room overlooked the Moray Firth and the stunning stone structures that stood the test of time. The lighthouses’ eclipsing light rhythmically flashes into my vision. The wintery grey sky reflecting on the rough waters, churning and crashing into the gargantuan rocks beneath. I look at my phone, on the internet page that shows the bookstore, saying that they are closed today, but will re-open tomorrow morning at 9am. Tomorrow is the day that I have been looking forward to my entire life.

I’m unable to sleep soundly, tossing and turning. Halfway across the world and now more than ever I feel my adoptive parents grip on my soul, cursing my existence waking and sleeping. I padder around my room, waiting for daylight to make my next move.

By 8am and I’ve forced myself to eat a full breakfast despite my anxiety about what is to come next. I ordered poached eggs over beans, a tattie scone (which was delightful), and a hot coffee from the restaurants kitchen and had it sent to my room. After eating, I check the weather, making sure it isn’t going to rain today, and get dressed. Should I wear my green sweater or my black sweater? What if my black sweater gives off the wrong impression? I should go with the green. Should I put on eyeliner? What if they judge me for wearing makeup? Should I bring my birth certificate to prove who I am just in case?

All these useless but apparently very important questions rattle my brain like an earthquake. As if the sweater I choose will make or break whether this possible distant family member likes me or not. I finish getting ready, deciding that it may be a good idea to bring my birth certificate just in case. I file it away in my backpack and walk out of my hotel door.

Stomach full, courage in my heart, I begin my walk to the bookstore. Every step held thousands of questions and what ifs. Every street I walk down makes me wonder if my parents have walked down these same streets, but at a different time. I turn the corner to get onto Church Street where I spot the bookstore.

Here we go.

My heart hitches at the sight of the store. Crossing the street, I walk up to Cunningham Books N’ Things. The store looks like this tiny storefront from the outside, but when walking in, you’re met with thousands of books cataloged by genre from floor to ceiling, window to wall. In the center of the store is the “Things” part of the name, exhibits trinkets, bookmarks, toys, tea mugs, hand knitted scarves and mittens, and a few Christmas decorations too. The wood floor creaks beneath my feet as I step into the large space that smells of coffee and the woodburning stove in the corner by the register.

“Hello!” Says a young woman, I jump, startled since I didn’t even see her there standing by the front door. “How are ya? Is there anything I can help ya with today?”

The young woman was about my age, but with dirty blonde hair and green eyes. She was holding a copy of Pride and Prejudice, restocking the “classics” section.

“Hi, no thank you, I am just looking for right now,” I said with a slight smile.

“Alrighty, no problem. Just give me a buzz if ya need me.”

I turn and walk deeper into the aisles of the bookstore, touching the thick wool of the knitted scarves as I pass, taking in the warmth and smell from the burning wood. I walk over to the fiction section, which was next to a door that says, “Employees Only,” when a woman with a box of books comes out of the door the same time as I walk up to the fiction section. I quicky skirt around her to avoid a collision when my eyes meet the woman holding the carboard box. This woman looks at me, looks away, and does a double take so fast that her glasses moved down her face a bit.

She gasped, box of books falling in a heap at her feet and put her hands to her mouth, whispering in disbelief, “Nina?”

My heart quickens for a moment. I looked behind me to make sure that she wasn’t talking to someone else, but when I realized I was the only customer in the bookstore, I turned back to the grey-haired woman and replied, “no, my name is Abbigail. Is Nina my mother?”

I don’t know why I said this. It just blurted it out, to be honest, but I’m just throwing something to the wall and hoping it sticks at this point.

“Oh, my lord!” The woman shrieks. Her shaking hands, walked up to me, and cupped her hands around my cheeks gently and tenderly, tears welling up in her eyes. The woman, assuming she is Grace, the owner of the shop, looked deep into my eyes. A shockwave of disbelief tumbled through me like a riptide. My eyes. I was looking into my eyes. But they were her eyes. I have never met someone with the same deep blue eyes so unique they look grey, like a black and white film stripping my, our, pigmentation away.

I put my hands up and touched the top of her hands still on my cheeks with my own. The shock and disbelief of my reality sinks deeply into me. No amount of overthinking could have prepared me for this.

“You look just like her, deary,” Grace said, tears in her eyes. A small sob escapes me in that moment, and I begin to cry. It was a reaction that I haven’t let myself lean into since I was a child. The release of everything I have prayed for, the emotional, physical and psychological pain I have experienced, crashing into the forefront of my brain in catharsis. I feel dizzy with my brain trying to catch up to my whirlwind of emotions I am feeling all at once.

                 We both drop our hands and chuckle through our remaining tears. “So,” I said, “I have so much I want to ask, but first, who are you to my mom and where is she? I have waited my whole life to meet her I have so many questions…” I trailed off, giving Grace her space.

                 “Well, I’m your auntie Grace, your mother’s older sissy. How about we go for a walk, you and me. I can answer any questions ya have once we get to where we need to be,” Grace says, with sad downcast eyes. She walks away a moment and comes back with a winter jacket and a scarf that looks like the ones that are being sold in the store. A myriad of pinks, fuchsias and purples, come together in her scarf, making her eyes pop beautifully. We walk towards the front of the store where the worker is still putting classics up on the shelf. 

                 “Maggie, deary, I am going to be out for a wee bit, it’s something important, but I’ll surely be back in about a half hour,” Grace says kindly. Maggie responds with a chipper ‘okay’ and we were off.

                 We step out in the cold a gust of wind bites into the comforting warm I was used to in the shop. “Where are we off to, Grace?” I said, wiping my windblown hair out of my face.

                 “It’s a three-minute walk from the shop, dearest. I’ll explain when we get there,” Grace said, not looking at me, and leads the way.

In three minutes exactly, we enter a church cemetery. My heart drops and I stop in my tracks, a rush of panic whirls around me. No, no, no. I mixture of heartache, grieving someone I don’t even know, and pure panic of reliving my adoptive father’s favorite second favorite punishment. I swore I would never enter another cemetery once I left that putrid household and I didn’t, until now.

“Honey,” Grace says gently, “I know,” and grabs my hand. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know anything, but the feeling of her hand in the wake of something groundbreakingly traumatizing to me is… oddly comforting.

                 Walking onward, we reach a beautiful marble headstone that reads the following:

In Loving Memory

Nina Cunningham

 January 17, 1973 – June 4th, 1996

Beloved mother, sister, daughter, wife, and friend

My world cracks in two and I fall to my knees onto the hard as rock ground that is already frozen over for winter. I touch the stone gently touching her day of death… the day that I was born.

“How?” I said, shakily, to Grace, unable to look at her.

“She passed away giving birth to ya, bundle. She never told anyone who yer da was either. How about we warm up at the bookshop and I’ll pour you some tea and tell you everything I know.” She put her hand on my shoulder and guided me upright with another. I took a deep breath and followed her back to the store.