Chapter 1: I Don’t Exist

Key West, Florida - March 1997

My ghost is calm today.

Despite being in this unfamiliar location, he seems to be enjoying himself and takes in our new surroundings with cautious curiosity. A small boy with a potbelly, he wears a white shirt with blue stripes, matching blue shorts, and an oversized rain hat, like Paddington Bear. The front flap of his hat obscures most of his face so that I cannot see what is underneath.

Three years ago, he appeared in the middle of the night, sleeping peacefully at the foot of my bed. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but he was still there in the morning. On several occasions, I’ve tried asking him what he wants, but he is unwilling or unable to speak. Once, I tried to peer under his hat, but he vanished and reappeared in a different part of the room. Eventually, I gave up trying to make sense of it, and now I do my best to pretend he isn’t there. I think I’m the only one who can see him, although I’ve never been brave enough to ask anyone else.

Today is the start of our weeklong family vacation, and I lean on the stone wall outside the historic Banyan Guest House, as I wait for the day’s instructions. My ghost stands beside me, one hand on the wall, the other clutching a teddy bear.

With mild amusement, I watch Dad scratch his mostly gray beard as he plots out our day. In one hand, he holds a map of local attractions, and in the other, a six-page itinerary that Mom put together for this trip. It seems he has to have a plan for everything, which makes sense, considering he is the president of a small women’s college located in the suburbs of Boston. While I’m not exactly sure what he does, I know he’s saved the college from bankruptcy and is currently working on a big construction project.

“Now, get close like you love each other,” Mom says, camera in hand.

Like Dad, she also works in academia. A professor of German at the prestigious Wellesley College, Mom loves to document even the most mundane moments of our lives and is the family historian of sorts. Every year, she compiles the best photos into a large album that my brother Derek and I receive as Christmas gifts. We have albums for every year that we have been alive. Well, Derek does anyway.

Mom continues to stare at my brother and me expectantly, her piercing blue eyes and warm smile encouraging us to get close. Derek, who is four years younger than I, rests his head on my shoulder. I make a half-hearted attempt to smile as Mom snaps the picture. When she is done, I poke my brother in the ribs, causing him to flinch. He scowls for a second, smiles, and then returns the favor.

“Alright, Fort Zachary is a mile and a half to the West,” Dad says, pointing in the direction we are to walk. “From there, it’s a straight shot south to the Hemingway House and the Southernmost Point.”

“Sounds like a great photo op,” Mom says.

I clear my throat and ask, “Do you think we can look for a place where I can play some pickup basketball later?”

Dad considers this, “We’ll see. Our schedule is fairly packed today, and we have a brief visit with Mr. Silver this afternoon.”

“I thought you weren’t fundraising on this trip.”

“Oh no, he’s not an alumnus of the college,” Dad responds as he folds up the map and hands the itinerary to Mom. “He has been advising me on the educationally focused retirement community we are building. This is just a social visit, not work-related. Ok, everyone ready?”

Before anyone has time to answer, he adjusts his NPR-Radio baseball cap, which covers his balding head, and takes off. Mom and Derek fall in line behind him. My ghost and I linger at the wall for a moment longer, basking in the morning sun like one of the little lizards that dart around the shrubs. Derek, who is obsessed with reptiles of all varieties, corrected me when I called it a salamander. I close my eyes as I lift my head towards the sun, letting myself be enveloped by its irresistible rays.

When I move to rejoin the family, I notice that Mom, Dad, and Derek are walking perfectly in sync, their resemblance unmistakable. That stops me in my tracks.

Derek has Dad’s lean build, Mom’s pale complexion, and a combination of both their mannerisms. With my black hair, brown skin, and dark eyes, I’m the only one who doesn’t belong in this picture.

My parents have always been open about my adoption, but they haven’t been able to tell me much. All I know is that Mom and Dad adopted me 14 years ago, at the age of two, from an orphanage in Honduras called La Guarida. The nuns who ran the place told my parents, “This is a little boy who has been through a great shock and needs a lot of love,” but would not or could not tell them more. My caretakers knew so little about who I was or where I came from that Mom and Dad had to choose a date of birth for me so an official record could be created. All they can tell me is that I was about two years old, shy, malnourished, and temperamental.

How lucky is Derek? People don’t look at him funny when we enter a restaurant, as if there is no way the four of us could be a normal family. They don’t because it’s obvious that he is their son. When I look at them now, the three of them seem like peas in a pod. But where are the people who look like me?

Sometimes, as I walk down the street, I look at the faces of the people passing me by. I imagine one of them recognizing me, and I recognize her. With tears in her eyes, she pulls me close and runs her hands through my hair. Then, my mother whispers in my ear. She tells me how much she loves me and that she never meant to let me go.

“Are you coming?” Dad’s voice pulls me back into the present.

I blink a few times as I try to refocus on the world around me. Mom, Dad, and Derek have stopped and are now staring back in my direction. Behind me, my ghost begins to whimper softly. Knowing the whole family is looking at me, I don’t risk glancing back to check on him.

“I… Umm… yeah… I’m coming.”