Chapter Two

Emma

Earlier

Such a vague time frame—earlier.

An hour?

A week?

A month?

How far back would I need to go to see clues or traps that had been laid, leading to this undeniable precipice in my life?

How could I determine what was wrong or right?

Was correctness something one learned in infancy or perhaps early childhood?

Who were the teachers?

What if the teachers who imparted wisdom to a young mind were deceitful in their mission?

As a young girl, my family would vacation along the sandy white beaches of Florida’s west coast. My not-much-older brother and I would build sandcastles, complete with towers and moats, both of us running to and from the shore to collect buckets of water before our hard work seeped into the sand, leaving our moat less of a water deterrent and more of a wet sand trap.

For years we ran into the warm, salty water without hesitation, and then one day while turning channels on our television in the North Carolina mountains, we heard the daunting music and watched as a giant shark maliciously hunted three men who were on a boat that was too small.

The next vacation, the two of us stood, hand in hand, peering out over the once-fun crystal-blue water, certain that within its depths a predator lurked. It was then that our mother pointed to the buoys spaced what seemed like yards apart, creating a straight line. We’d seen them before but never thought much about them.

“What you can’t see,” she said as she pointed from one to the other, connecting the dots, “are the nets beneath the water. Big nets. They keep the sharks away.”

“But,” my brother—the older and wiser one—said, “there have been dolphins on this side.”

“Yes,” she replied, “they can jump over. Sharks can’t.”

Suddenly, the water was again welcoming.

It wasn’t until years later when we were much better swimmers that we learned of her deception. The water was warm as we raced to the sandbar and beyond. Our finish line was the mysterious buoys in the distance.

Seconds ahead of me, Kyle’s hand reached the white metal of the buoy.

I too reached out, my breathing labored as we both laughed until we didn’t…the same thought occurring in each of our minds simultaneously.

Our feet kicked, keeping us afloat as we circled. The floating object was attached to a chain with large links. In the clear gulf water, we saw the large anchor below. What we didn’t see was the net.

It didn’t exist.

When confronted, our mother claimed to not recall telling us such a far-fetched tale.

That was the way it was with false truths—they were difficult to remember and maintain unless you lived them day in and day out.

So where to begin this story…the day I was adopted into a family that I was raised to believe was my own, the day when my family was tragically lost, or maybe the day I learned that they weren’t my family at all? Or perhaps that was history, and I should start with more recent events…