Emergency Medical Dad

V: January 9th, past

JORGEN - EIGHT YEARS PRIOR

I was adopted at age three by the Hadley family. To be entirely honest, I'm still not sure why.

I mean, I know why. But I don't know why me. They could've adopted anyone else, a newborn, perhaps, like most people do. Not a three year old without a proper birth certificate and no real birthday. Not a three year old that had been initially brought home into another family before getting tossed into general foster care. Reject toddler.

They knew a few things about me when they got me. I was from the middle east, mixed race, probably the result of several generations of pairings from different ethic backgrounds, I was and still am a general mutt of a hundred things at once. I, unlike other adopted kids, can't point to a map and say that it's where my origin culture is from. I don't know. Someone asked once in high school and I had to get up and stab my finger on the map somewhere in the south-eastern Mediterranean, praying they wouldn't ask further questions. I just don't know.

They also knew that I was prone to outbursts, I would spook easily at things other toddlers didn't care about. They knew my initial family had given me a name, Jorgen Locke. It just changed over, Jorgen Hadley. No middle name, just Jorgen. Jorgen, a Scandinavian name for someone so far from Scandinavian its laughable. 

Jorgen, who's birthday is probably somewhere in April, Jorgen who's big for a three year old, Jorgen, who came into foster care with some interesting scars, Jorgen, who's first parents didn't really even seem to adopt him, just came into possession of him. Just... Jorgen.

My brother is biological. I don't know why he is and I'm not, considering I don't think my Mom ever had trouble with having kids and I know no record of anything else. All I know is that he's held it over my head for my entire life.

The night of January 9th was no different.

***

"What are you doing?" Peter's voice cut through my thoughts.

I kept my eyes on the sink, water rushing between my fingers.

"Cmon, you're not afraid of me, right?"

Eyes. Down.

"Whatever, my parents are hosting a family dinner, they told me you can come too," he chuckles. "Course they don't seem to understand that because you're not family you need an invitation."

"Get out, Peter."

"Jeez, I was just being nice. I don't think my parents will appreciate your attitude at dinner."

"Peter."

"You've been washing your hands forever," he comments, then leans forward and smacks off the sink.

I cautiously reach up and push it back on again, getting the last of the soap off the back of my wrist before he shuts it off again.

"I thought you'd've run off to your little reject house by now, normally it doesn't take much. Shouldn't you be out there with them not with us? I mean it's only a matter of time before you realize that Mom and Dad treat me differently because I'm their actual son."

I settled my hands on the counter, squeezing it for a moment, then releasing, then squeezing. I was so excited for him to go to college. University of Illinois at Chicago. I had daydreamed about dropping him off at the dorm and flipping him off through the window before the twenty minute drive home. And then he decided that he would be a commuter student.

He stayed at home.

"They treat me the same as you," I kept my head down.

"Oh, they do? So why are you being told you should look into options that aren't college? Last time I checked it's because they didn't save much for you. Oh, and why did I get a car for my sixteenth and you didn't? And why did they attend all my football games and none of your anything? Why do they tell other parents all about me and nothing about you? Honestly, Jorgen, it's not worth it to argue. You can be as helpless as you want but you're never going to be biological. I'm their son, you're the pity kid. The second you're eighteen I'm pretty sure they're going to tell you to get lost. They know getting you was a mistake."