Fishing for Mermaids

Such is Life

January 2008

I walk into the private detective's office with only a name. I've been on the hunt for June Clark ever since I found out that my dad wasn't biologically a 'Powell.' My adopted grandparents, Artie and Vivian Powell, both died before I was born. I have seen pictures of them and it's pretty clear I didn't come from their bloodline. Vivian had tightly curled black hair and a pointed nose, and Artie had large, wide-set eyes that I'm sure would have been passed down. My dad and I are both very German looking, with thick light hair and round facial features. I hardly look anything like my mom. I bet June and I look nearly identical.

I thought that when I asked my dad about his biological mother he would have refused to release any information, he was always so proud to be a Powell. But when I finally did he very quickly, and like it meant absolutely nothing, revealed her name to me: June Clark. I was fourteen at the time, and now, ten years later, I'm still searching. But it's hard. It was a closed adoption so I can hardly get any information. From the court documents my dad looked over during a period of curiosity, all he could retrieve was a name. It's almost as if someone out there doesn't want me to find her. Or maybe it's whoever-is-up-there's way of telling me to give up.

"Why do you want to find her so badly, Felicity? She's not your family, no matter how similar her DNA is to yours." My dad always became so irritated when I began asking too many questions about her.

"I don't want to find her so that she can be my grandma. Don't worry, I know I'm a Powell, it's just... Don't you ever feel like something is missing? You were curious once too."

"But was she ever curious about us? No. So why should I waste my energy on her? She gave us up, Felicity, and my parents-my real parents-took me in and raised me. That is all I need to know."

Still, I feel like a piece of the puzzle is missing. My college roommate told me that if I concentrate hard enough, I can somehow contact her with my mind. I, of course, laughed at her then; but once in a while I try to think about June hard enough so that I could hypothetically send a message to her. I never know what to say, so usually I just think hard on the question, "Where are you?" Sometimes I laugh at myself, thinking about this old woman version of me running all over her house, opening cupboards and closets, yelling to this unknown voice through her dentures: "I'm right here, what the hell do you want?"

Most of the time I don't even like to admit I'm looking for her. It just all feels so silly sometimes, especially now that I'm in the reception area for a private detective. I hear my name called but for a second I hesitate. It almost sounds like someone else's.

May 2008

Only a few of June's neighbors, some fellow church goers, and her pastor came to the burial. Her eyes were finally shut to review all of her life's successes and failures; her body was finally at ease. Months of battling the disease had made her frail, though all those who had seen her before her casket was lowered into the earth had remarked that the dress they chose to bury her in hid her emaciation well. An arrangement of yellow and white roses rested atop the cherry finished box. No knew exactly what her favorite flowers were, but thought roses would be acceptable for her last bouquet. However, if they had found out what her favorite flowers actually were, the funeral directors would probably still choose the roses, as gerbera daisies would seem almost mockingly out of place at a funeral. Too cheery, too young. Burials were solemn occasions, no place for gerbera daisies.

Silent prayers were made as and one by one, her mourners left. Once the hill in the cemetery was cleared, two men approached her grave with shovels, ready to fill the hole. One of the men looked down at her tombstone-A small, rectangular slab wedged into the earth-and read, "June Clark, huh? I hate these types of tombstones; I'm always trippin' on 'em in the dark."