A monstrous red grape got lodged in my windpipe.
Since I was at a table alone—my one semi-friend was home sick that day—no one noticed. Apparently, the sounds of a choking girl are no match for a rowdy elementary school cafeteria. I was on the floor by the time a fifth grader happened to pass by.
Sydney arrived in her paramedic outfit to load me into the borrowed ambulance, where Mason was waiting to Revive me. I don’t remember most of it, of course.
I woke up freezing and wheezing, throat sore from whatever Mason used to dislodge the grape. My lungs burned from the sudden return of oxygen, and for the first few minutes, I was completely confused as to what had happened. Mason hugged me for the first time when he told me that I’d died again.
For that, I remember death number three, strangely, with a tinge of fondness.
“This probably goes without saying, but you have to be incredibly careful with new friends,” Mason says, interrupting my thoughts.
“I know,” I mumble around the grapes in my mouth.
“She’ll want to know about your background… your parents… where you lived before.”
I swallow my food. “I know what to say.”
“I know you do,” Mason says.
“Don’t worry, okay? I won’t blow the program.”
Mason looks at me for a moment and smiles genuinely, then refocuses on driving. I turn and look out the window at the suburb inching by. Though not brand-new, the houses are massive, with sprawling front yards and the kind of grown-up trees you can barely stand not to climb. In one driveway I see a family loading into a minivan: Both parents are dressed in weekend casual, their older child is dressed like a princess, and the baby is still in jammies. A block later, we hit a stop sign and three girls with pigtails ride their bikes in the crosswalk, all in a row, like ducklings.
When the GPS lady tells us, “You have arrived,” an unfamiliar jolt of what I realize is nervousness pokes me in the gut. Too quickly for me to will it away, Mason turns into the driveway of a brown brick plantation-style house. It’s impressive, with columns flanking the front porch and everything. I want to stare, but Mason quickly opens his door to get out, so I do the same. Audrey must have been watching for us; she flings open the front door.
“Hey!” she says.
“Hi, Audrey!”
Mason walks toward the front porch and gets there before I do.
“This is my dad, Mason,” I say as he opens his mouth to introduce himself.
“Hi, Daisy’s dad,” Audrey says. Her mom appears behind her in the doorway, and you’d think Audrey and I were getting married for all the hand-shaking that goes on.
“Joanne McKean,” Audrey’s mom says as she takes my hand in hers. “It’s so nice to meet you, Daisy.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
Mrs. McKean has manicured nails and soft skin and smells a little like maple syrup. She’s wearing a gold cross and a light blue cardigan with worn jeans and flats. Her blond hair is blown dry into a sleek bob, and she looks like she should accompany the dictionary definition of mom. Even though they are nothing alike, Mrs. McKean makes me miss Sydney.
We all chat until finally Mason takes my (overt) cue to leave—“Dad, don’t you have to be somewhere?”—and Audrey and I go inside. She gives me a quick tour of the main floor of the house, which is a cross between an art gallery and a Pottery Barn catalog, before we retreat to her bedroom.
I like Audrey even more when I step into her space.
The wall behind her bright yellow lacquer headboard is painted with black chalkboard paint, and it’s covered with doodles and drawings, sayings and notes, scribbled floor to ceiling. The bed’s made with simple white linens, but there’s a funky throw pillow on top that has a cartoony map of Nebraska embroidered on it.
The rest of the walls are white. On the one directly across from the bed is a modern low black dresser; the wall with the door holds a small white desk, with no-frills shelves hanging over it. There are photos as well, but most are of Audrey and her family; the few shots of friends show faces I don’t recognize. I wonder again why Audrey doesn’t have more friends. Then, happy to be here regardless, I move on.
In the corner near the largest window is a little seating area with a small futon and a striped yellow, red, and black chair. Between the two seats is a see-through coffee table, where a stack of magazines seems to be floating in midair.
“Is that Lucite?” I ask, pointing to the table before settling in across from Audrey.
“I guess,” she says.
“It’s so awesome,” I murmur. “Did you design your room?”
Audrey nods proudly, smiling.
“I’m into that, too,” I say.
“Cool.”
There’s a pause while I wonder what on earth to talk about next. Have I entirely used up my conversation starters after only a few days?
Thankfully, Audrey keeps things moving.
“So, your dad seems interesting,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”
“Sure,” she says. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”
“Yeah.”
“And don’t hurl, but he’s hot,” Audrey says.
“Where’s your bathroom?” I joke, standing halfway up. Audrey laughs and I sit back down.
“I’m sure everyone tells you that,” she continues. “He looks like George Clooney… only not as old.”
“I’ve never thought about that, but you’re right. He sort of does.”
“Totally. But your coloring is so much lighter. You must look like your mom,” Audrey says.
“Maybe,” I say before I realize what I’m saying. When Audrey gives me a funny look, I proceed with caution. There are things I can share; there are things I can’t.
“I’m adopted,” I admit, which is mostly true. What I don’t admit is that I was an orphan when I died in a bus crash; that after the government brought me back to life, it wasn’t quite sure what to do with me; that ultimately it gave Mason a lifelong assignment to raise a child… or at least until I turn eighteen. That if we’re getting technical, the adoption isn’t legal because the real me died in Bern, Iowa, eleven years ago.
“Really?” Audrey asks, clearly intrigued by the whole adoption thing. Her brown eyes are wide and sparkling.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“I don’t know anyone who was adopted,” she says. “Did you always know, or did they pull a Lifetime movie on you and surprise you when your birth mother needed a kidney or something?”
Laughing, I say, “I always knew. Like you said, my dad treats me like an adult. Same goes for my mom. We don’t really have secrets.” At least not from one another. I scratch my nose before remembering that some agents would call the gesture a “tell.” I return my hand to my lap.
“Gotcha,” Audrey says, not seeming to notice. “But don’t you wonder about your birth parents?”
“Not really,” I say honestly.
“Seriously? I think I’d wonder.”
“The way I see it is that I don’t want to know people who didn’t want to know me. I don’t mean that to sound bitter, because I know they had their reasons. I mean it like I don’t want to spend energy worrying or thinking about people who aren’t in my life.”
“I guess that’s a good way to look at it,” Audrey says. “You seem incredibly well-adjusted about the whole thing.”
“Thanks, I think,” I say, laughing. I tip my head to the side. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘well-adjusted’ before.”
Audrey chuckles, too, and despite my concern about whether or not I’m sticking to the script, it feels good to have someone ask about my past. I’m so into the conversation that when Audrey asks how old I was when my parents adopted me, I blurt out the truth.
“Four.”
“Where did you live before that?” she asks.