The taste of cinnamon used to make me feel ill.
I would taste it in things like hot cocoa, holiday treats like pies and cookies and even cakes. Every time without fault I used to feel sick afterwards from it.
I was the child that couldn't eat cinnamon rolls.
But I knew if Phoebe would taste like something, she would taste of cinnamon rolls or a warm ginger snap.
Phoebe never liked to admit it, but she liked to fatten me up with cookies and baked goodies when i would investigate and search for answers with her about her birth family.
We sat in my family truck as I yawned, knowing those damn sugar cinnamon twists she made were warming me up, making me sleepy.
"Eat quickly, Max. We have to get into the church. I made an appointment to meet with the priest."
I ate my cinnamon sugar twists as we walked in the dark. "How did a priest let you make an appointment this late?"
Phoebe shrugged. "I told him I was in dire need. I also don't think priests have much else going on. It isn't like they're heading off to war, or anything."
The little old priest had tables full of documents and baptism papers. He even had some photographs of baptisms. He was more than happy to help us, but he quickly realized why we were looking.
"When are you both getting your little one baptized? I assume after you find your documents." The priest thought we were looking for much different reasons.
Phoebe and I blushed quite pink. "No no no, We're just friends. Not even married or going steady."
The priest apologized profusely, so sorry that he overstepped and assumed. "It's alright, don't worry." I told him.
We shuffled through all the piles and pictures and documents as the priest obviously began to wonder.
"Do you mind me asking what it is you need your baptism documents for?"
Phoebe frowned. She looked like she did when the other priest kicked us out about two weeks before.
"I'm adopted. I'm trying to find what happened to my birth parents. I was only an infant when I was taken in, but I still want to know where I came from, even if it means I'll only get to see grave stones."
The priest nodded and patted her shoulder gently. "It's very good of you. I know many look down on adoption, but the lord has his ways of keeping each child safe."
The sun was coming over the edge of the hills. Dawn was just breaking when phoebe held her baptism record.
Her small hands shook, making the paper rattle ever so slightly. She just stared at the page, not knowing what to do or how to process actually seeing the names of her birth parents.
She was not the child of Frank and Mable Hoffman.
Phoebe was the child of Broderick and Fiona Buchanan.
She was baptized three days after her birth which was stated on her record. She had though for her entire life her birthday was June 24th. Her real birthday was October 31st.
Phoebe looked at the paper as if her entire life had been a lie. Birthdays, her parents, her brothers and even her family name. Yet Mable and Frank never told her the truth.
Phoebe looked to the priest quickly. She was frantic now. Frantic for answers if her birth parents truly wanted her or if they had abandoned her.
I could tell by how fiercely green her eyes were just under her dark knitted brows.
