Sam

“Where were you born?”

It’s a question they always ask, and I was expecting it.

“Off the coast of Madagascar.” I said, and smiled as she looked up from the notepad with obvious surprise written on her face. The surprise settled into skepticism as she saw my grin. I’m about as white as it gets, with blue eyes and hair of that lovely mud color that isn’t brown enough to be called brown, but also not blonde enough to be called blonde. It sometimes looks rather green in the right light.

“I was born on a pirate ship. My dad was a swashbuckler and we were pillaging this little village when my mum went into labor.”

She frowned deeply, irritated. I couldn’t help it. Everywhere in the world there are dozens of people who are eager to take themselves and everything else too seriously. I’m not one of them. Seeing that I was about to get a huffy sigh and a lecture, I shrugged.

“Truth be told, I don’t know exactly where I was born. But hopefully it was somewhere exciting.”

“I take it that Mr. and Mrs. Field are your adopted parents then?”

“That’s right.”

“And how long have you lived with them?”

“About six months.” I replied, noticing the painting on the office wall for the first time. It was an abstract of a violin, swirled with reds and golds and something about it made me feel melancholy.

“Where did you live before that?” Dr. Lawrence had recovered from my mischief and now had that monotone, gentle, psychiatric coating over her voice once more.

“I lived in London.” I said. When she raised a suspicious brow, I added, “I’ve got the accent to prove it.” I was smiling again and she seemed to disapprove. Maybe she was wondering whether my accent was real or not. After all, plenty of people can fake a British accent.

“It’s a long way from London to Portland.” She said. “Why did you move?”

“My parents died.” I said.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Were they your biological parents?”

“No.”

“How long had you lived with them?”

“About five years I think.”

“Would you mind telling me about how they died?”

“I’d love to. But I don’t know that either.”

The carefully constructed wall of indifference dropped away for a brief moment, just as it had with all the others. The face of true curiosity peeked out of her eyes.

“Would you mind elaborating on that?” She asked as she turned back to her notepad again, with a hint of reluctance this time. She was interested now.

I studied her for a moment. She had an extra spotless aroma that the others hadn’t. I cleared my throat softly and replied, “They were found in Newport, inside an empty store at a shopping center. They’d been taking drugs.”

“They overdosed?” She asked.

I nodded.

“Did they do drugs regularly at home?”

“No, never. The cops said they were murdered.”

“Murdered?” She was enraptured now, I could see it, and I figured I’d read her right. She was a mystery fanatic, a sucker for anything that reeked of drama and ambiguity. "Well did they ever find out how? I mean, were the drugs self-administered or forced on them? Did they have any enemies?"

 I smiled.

“No actually, my mum died in a car crash on Camden Street. Todd wasn't her husband, and as far as I know, he's still alive today." 

That’s when it came.

I knew without asking that when I got home that night that Mr. and Mrs. Field would have received a phone call saying that perhaps another therapist would be a better fit for Sam.