One Million Steps

"We've traced your mother."

No matter what I did, those few words, that short sentence wouldn't stop echoing in my head. I tried everything. Thinking about the school work I had not completed. Memorising the order of keys on the keyboard. Trying to say 'Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious' backwards. Replaying every song from the new Fall Out Boy album, Folie a Deux, in my head over and over again. Thinking about my best friends. Thinking about what I had for dinner last night. Thinking about my lost dog, Buffy. Rewatching the episode of 'Pushing Daisies' I had watched the night before in my head. Rewatching the Twilight movie which I had watched nearly twenty times in my head. Thinking of James, one of my best friends and the guy who had no idea how I felt about him. Thinking of how to tell him how I felt about him. Going over what I had done the day before in my head. Thinking about the Christmas / New Year's Eve party I attended a few days before. But I couldn't do it.

I was in the same position as I had been for almost two hours before. Still face up and legs dangling off the side of the bed watching the glow-in-the-dark stars, moons, rockets and planets on my ceiling collecting dust. But this time, my neck was stiff, my hands were numb, my eyes were dried out and stinging and the soles of my feet itched like hell.

Still, nothing stopped those words from echoing in my head. No amount of pain inflicted on me hurt me as much as the anger and regret and sadness which had built up in my throat, slowly choking me as I lay there.

Once again, I went over the facts.

I missed my mother. That part was perfectly clear.

I wanted to see her. That part was undeniably clear.

That woman who had dropped off the letter was most probably my mother. That part was...negotiable...but still possible.

I needed that letter to find mother. That part was definite. I was sure of it. That letter. That small sheet of paper in that tiny white envelope was all I needed. It was...the key to finding my mother was that letter.

I shot up. I heard my neck crack a muffled sickening crack and my eyes stung worse than before as the fluids I had kept from flowing flooded my eyes. But I didn't care about my neck or the tears which cascaded from my eyes. My legs quickly carried me to the old wooden chair sitting in front of the mahogany desk where I had set my clothes the night before. Before I knew what I was doing, I was undressing myself right there in front of my bedroom window. The same bedroom window from which I could easily see one of my best friends, Conrad, do whatever it was he did everyday and from which he could see me do whatever it was that I did everyday. Realising just that, I glanced at my window. It was closed and the curtains were drawn. Thank God! I don't need to give him something else to gossip to James. My crush on him was enough for me to handle already.

Whatever. I focused on zipping up the worn out pair of knee-length jeans I had on rather than my own skin and flesh. At the same time, I pondered why I was up and putting on those pair of jeans when I was perfectly content on the bed watching my personal solar system on my ceiling. I knew it. But that was when I actually told myself.

I needed that letter. I had realised that a long time ago. I had realised that all I need was that wretched letter on my father's bedside table just as I had finished visualising the first line of keys on the keyboard. I just didn't think it would be that simple. Or whether it would be that hard. I had no idea how hard it was until right then at that moment. But I didn't care. I needed a mother. Now.

I raced out my room, thankful for my father's early shift and the ugly food-stained carpet under me. Reaching the wooden white door leading to my father's room, I had second thoughts. I stopped just millimeters away. I stopped breathing too. Is this right?

"Yes," I said aloud, pressing my ear to the door.

Silence.

Of course he wasn't there. My father would never miss a day of work if his life depended on it.

I turned the brass doorknob slowly and silently at first and peered in. Nothing. I decided then to do it in one quick motion. 'Like ripping off a band-aid.'

I ripped the band-aid. Or swung open the door. Fast.

The aroma of after shave, smelly socks and dinner from the night before filled my nostrils. I held my breath for the second time that day. I knew where the letter was. He wasn't careful with his things. He left everything on the bed side table. Fourteen years had taught me that.

There it was. Rectangular, white and waiting. I walked over, slowly this time, to the table. My hand paused just above it.

"I need it," I reassured myself.

I grabbed it and held it at my side, almost behind my leg. I rushed out the room without a second glance, catching one last whiff of the eye-watering aroma. My feet pounded against the carpet as I reached my room and closed the door behind me.

I stood there, back against the door, breathing heavily, for several minutes. Finally, I gathered up the courage to bring it to my face.

The smell of licorice lingered on the piece of paper. On the front and right in the middle of that rectangular square was a small heart. That was it. A small heart. Written using a bright red pen.

I searched the front of the envelope for anything else. Nothing.

I turned it over. In the bottom right-hand corner, was our address with the words Chris, Rianne and Tiffany Way right below it.