His face fell. “Oh.”
“What’s the name? Maybe I know the person and can save you the trouble.”
“Um, she’s an old friend of my parents. I was just hoping I’d…recognize something when I saw the list.”
Poor kid, he really was desperate for a friend if he was hunting down such tenuous connections. “Where are you from?” Rachel asked kindly. She was supposed to be leaving on her morning break but this was more important.
“A farm outside Cambridge.”
“Really? I grew up in Hamilton.” They were only twenty minutes apart. “Small world. First time living away from home?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.”
“It’s hard initially, but you’ll find your feet soon. A lot of the first years are in the same boat, all scared-”
The teen glowered. “I’m not scared.”
Damn, wrong word. If Devin hadn’t rattled her, she wouldn’t have chosen it.
“I see you’ve got a book there…would you like me to check it out for you? It will save you joining the queue at the front desk.”
It was a peace offering for hurting his pride, and he took it. “Yeah, thanks.” He handed over the book along with his library card.
Which didn’t work. “They do this sometimes at the beginning of term,” she said. “Let me just check that all your details are filled in…” The screen came up. “Mark…nice name. Okay, one of the library’s ID codes is missing.”
Glancing at his address, she noticed he wasn’t living in residence, which was a shame; he’d make more friends that way. She nodded at the guitar case by his feet. “You know, the university has a lot of music clubs you might be interested in.”
“I’m not really a club-joining kind of guy.”
About to reply, Rachel caught sight of his birth date and her breath hitched. June 29, 1992.
“Something wrong?”
“No.” Her fingers were suddenly clumsy on the keyboard as she reminded herself of the facts. On average, there were sixty-four thousand births a year in New Zealand. Which meant around one hundred and seventy-seven people-eighty-eight boys-shared her son’s birthday. But she had to ask. “So what do your parents do?”
Mark frowned. “You need that for the form?”
“No, it’s processing.”
“Mom’s a teacher.” Rachel’s pulse kicked up a notch. “And Dad’s a farmer.”
Not a policeman. As always, the disappointment was crushing enough to make Rachel feel sick. Her fingers were damp on the keyboard; she wiped them on her skirt, chiding herself for an overactive imagination. She gave the teenager his card.
“Here you go. All sorted now.”
Mark shoved it back in his jeans. “He used to be a cop,” he added, and the smile froze on her face.
Someone who knew how to keep her baby safe, she’d thought when short-listing the applicants with her social worker.
“Are you okay?” Mark asked.
“Fine.” Her heart was beating so hard he must be able to hear it. Rachel loosened the top button of her shirt, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. There was only one way to know.
“You have something in your hair,” she said abruptly, reaching out a trembling hand.
“Yeah?” He started flicking his fingers through the blond strands, “What is it?”
“A…an insect…let me.”
Obediently, he leaned forward, and she brushed the hair away from his right ear. “Turn your head a little.”
Just at the hairline behind his ear, she saw it. A birthmark the size of her thumbnail. Rachel gasped and he broke away, raking both hands through his hair. “What! Did you get it?”
She stared at him, unable to speak. Tall like his father, with his fairer hair. His eyes-shock jolted through her-were the same color as hers, but the shape was Steve’s. “It’s okay,” she croaked, pretending to flick something away. “It was a moth.”
“A moth.” Shaking his head, Mark picked up his guitar case. “Jeez, the way you were going on I thought it had to be a paper wasp at least.”
No, don’t leave. “You’ve heard of bookworms, haven’t you? Lethal to libraries.” Rachel memorized his features. “The term also applies to certain moth larvae. From the family oecophoridae.” Outwardly she smiled and talked; inwardly she splintered into tiny little pieces. “Of the order…now what was it?” My son, my baby. You grew up. “Starts with L.”
Mark shifted from one foot to the other.
“Lepidoptera,” she said brightly. “Of the order Lepidoptera.” The tiny bundle treasured in her memory, gone forever. But her son-her grown son-was here, and the reality of him shredded her with love and pain and need.
“Wow,” he said politely, stepping back from the counter. “That’s really interesting.”
“Wait!”
“Yeah?” He was impatient to get away from the crazy woman, and how could she blame him? With all her heart she wanted to say, I’m your mother.
But she couldn’t.
Two years earlier, she’d written a letter to the adoptive parents through the agency. If he ever wants to meet his birth mother, please give him my details.
Their reply was devastating. In keeping with your wishes at the time, we’ve never told our son he was adopted. We’re very sorry at the pain this must cause you, but you must understand to do so now would be detrimental to our own relationship with him.
“Have a good day,” she rasped.
THE WOMAN WAS A WEIRDO. No doubt about it. Mark stopped outside and shifted his guitar to his other shoulder so he could tuck the book into his backpack.
He didn’t have a class for another hour and he stood uncertain, glancing across the narrow, tree-lined street bisecting the university. Buildings in this part of campus were angular and geometric, to Mark’s eyes, hard and unfriendly shapes for the university’s social heart, holding the student union, the theater and the student commons. It was lunchtime and he was hungry, but the overflowing cafeteria was too raucous. Too…intimidating. He’d wait until later, when it cleared out somewhat before grabbing something to eat.
Coming from a small community where everyone knew everybody, he’d thought finding his birth mother would be relatively easy.
But the university employed hundreds, and trying to access lists only led to awkward questions. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.
And he missed home. He missed his parents, which he kinda despised himself for because he hadn’t been all that nice to them before he’d left.
He still couldn’t believe they weren’t really his. That all the things he’d built his identity on-inheriting Dad’s musical ability and Mom’s aptitude for math-were a lie.
He wasn’t from the clan of Whites whose roots in the area went back four generations. His multitude of cousins weren’t his cousins and his grandparents weren’t his grandparents.
A group of students swept down the footpath, laughing and horsing around, nudging him aside like he was invisible. His classes were made up of eighty to a hundred strangers in huge auditoriums… In a week he’d never sat next to the same person twice.
And so many of them seemed to know each other. How had they made friends so quickly? What was wrong with him that he couldn’t?
He’d thought staying with his air hostess cousin in her city apartment would be cool, but Suz was away two weeks out of four. And when she was home, her boyfriend was nearly always over, so Mark tended to hang out in his room. The guy was a stockbroker and a real phony.
