Flash Fiction Story by Nitika Balaram
A quick pit stop at the beach won’t hurt; only fifty kilometers left on the road to fill in the blanks of my life. I could use some fresh air to clear my head before the café.
The next wave approached hesitantly, asking me if it was okay to erase this message in the sand to my birth mother yet: Will I find you tomorrow? I inched backward on the damp sand, giving the green light to the foamy edges to swallow my crooked words, slowly at first and then all at once. Gone. My unanswered question was washed away by the ocean and silenced by the next crashing wave. I dug my toes and wiggled them around in the squishy sand, disturbing the smooth surface left by the departing wave. Five wispy clouds like faint brushstrokes in the azure sky had me looking for her face in the patterns.
The ocean brought me back to reality; my ankles were bitten by the sharp chill of the next wave enveloping my feet. I dropped my writing stick and turned my back on the disappearing message board. As I walked back up the sand dune, a dog’s bark caught my attention. Someone’s tiny dachshund had gleefully adopted my writing stick as its own timber toy.
For as long as I can remember, I have always slyly written a message or two in the sand every time I go to the beach. Sometimes, a simple Hello or a nagging question like Does your hair ever stay straightened for more than thirty minutes? It may seem like a strange habit to some, but despite all the love I have for my family, I don’t share their hazel eyes or straight caramel-colored hair. And despite my best efforts to bury these thoughts, there was an undeniable part of me that was always searching for my history, like a game of genetic Guess Who.
The emerald-green awnings outside the café she owns matched the newspaper article I found. All my research culminated in this one moment. I swung open the door. Paused. Inhaled a quick breath of courage. And found her almost instantly. A magnet drew her eyes to mine, reflecting a mirror image of myself. I couldn’t believe the resemblance from all my dreams, but perhaps a few more grey hairs sprouting out of her frizzy black mane, just like mine.
With a heart full of hope, I approached her and searched her beautiful brown eyes with my over-practiced opener: “Hi, are you Kamala?”
I apprehensively eyed the emergency exit sign and spoke my truth in a rush of word vomit. “My name is Kelsey Avery. I was born on 21 October 1989 at Lady Wellington Hospital. I think you’re my mother.”
The look of fear mixed with recognition on her face shouldn’t have hurt me, but it did. Fifty different questions were bubbling to the surface from my nervous stomach when she suddenly pulled me into a tight hug. Her hair smelled like the ocean.
Nitika Balaram is an aspiring writer, a lawyer with a creative soul, and a passionate baker.
