What They Call Me

‘"I think I’ve always known, on some level, that something about us, about our relationship, was different than others. It seemed normal enough to me. I didn’t know any better. But there were always signs, now that I look.” I was staring at the ceiling of a newly renovated office building on 3rd Avenue, enjoying the cool air from the overhead fan, and the air conditioning unit that hummed in the window. The room was dimly lit, but not dingy. In fact, it stood as a welcome contrast to the hot, bright city outside.

She looked up from her notepad, over the top of her spectacles. “Sometimes it’s hard to see until we’re removed from the situation… Go on. What makes you say that? What made you different?”

“I don’t know. Little things. Like moving around all the time… And how mom would never talk about her past... Like ever. That’s weird, right? I was 20 and didn’t know anything about her. Where she’s from, her birthday, nothing.”

There were so many things. Where should I start? For as long as I could remember my mother was anything but normal. No birthdays. No Parties. Holidays were somber events, with just the two of us opening gifts or eating the holiday meal or singing the holiday songs or watching the holiday movies. No visiting. No guests. Just us. I was never allowed guests, not just on holidays, and I was never allowed to go to other kids’ houses. I think I was allowed to have friends, but with those strict rules, I never did. Again, in hindsight, maybe that was her plan. You can have friends, but good luck keeping one.

She always loved me. I knew she did. Even as the police car drove away that day, and I could see her mouthing it through the rear window, I love you. She always claimed that’s why she was the way she was. Because she loved me. Whenever I asked why I wasn’t allowed to do the same thing as all my friends, she’d always respond, because I love you more than their parents love them. Maybe that was a lie too.

Of course, I took this all as routine, as a young child does. No different than kids of religious nuts, I thought, who had to adhere to strict, seemingly arbitrary rules. Or those of military personnel stationed across the globe, adhering to other strict, arbitrary rules. That all changed for me when I saw the poster. Some days I wish I’d never seen that damn poster.

I was in a rush, as I always was. I always had a hard time with routine. Growing up, we never adhered to one: my mom would never take the same way home twice; we would always eat at a new restaurant, no matter how much we liked the last one; and we had a schedule I could rarely figure out. Anyway, I had gotten a part-time job at the Waldbaum’s in Williamsburg working the cash. It wasn’t far, but it was in Brooklyn, so I had to walk to 14th Street and take the L train to the other side of the river. It was a routine train ride, mostly empty, just as any other day. I sat facing the platform and the subway door, just as any other day; a habit I would later realize came from my mom; when you spend a lifetime on the run, you tend to watch the exits. I exited the train, just as any other day. Took a left, and up the stairs to Bedford Avenue, just as any other day.

But this day I did something different as I approached the exit. I looked at the long, dark hallway headed in the same direction I was. It was covered in years of paper and paper-mache paste. In places, giant chunks were ripped off to reveal a glimpse into the past. No one ‘took care’ of these walls which were clearly marked No Posting, a rule no one took seriously. There was no date to be removed by, or some authority to remove them. This intrigued me; for as old as this wall is, I thought, there was surely an equally old poster stuck to it; perhaps by some famous poet, advertising a reading group, or a bold barkeep advertising a speakeasy; maybe an ancient ad for one of my favorite Broadway plays. The whole city is a museum, I thought.

As I enjoyed thinking about the possibilities of this otherwise plain object, my eyes were drawn to a photograph that had been newly re-exposed by fallen layers of debris. There looked to be a water leak directly above and the water logged layers were beginning to break free. The photo looked strikingly familiar, though at the time, I didn’t know why. It was of a young child, maybe 5 years old. A bright smile, and dark eyes that gave that look like everything is new and possible.

I passed that photo every time I went to work, for what must have been a month. Every time I saw it, a little more had been exposed. What had started as a photo had become something of an obsession to me. I wanted to expose the whole thing, but I was afraid to read what it might say, so I let time erode it away.

Over the next week, more of the poster was gradually exposed. On Monday, I could make out one word. Since. Then, on Wednesday, a year. 1980. Holy shit, I thought. I was only six years-old when this was put up. By Friday, the entire sentence was available to see: Since January 10th, 1980.

After that, I could only think of that young child. Were the missing words the words I thought they were. Surely, they were, but I thought and hoped of any other possibility, none of them rational. And why did it matter? I had seen hundreds of these ads with little to no effect throughout my life. Why now? Why did this particular poster have me so distraught. Why didn’t I just rip it off to get it over with?

The next bit of letters arrived as I had predicted, almost in a mocking fashion. Day by day, they became more exposed. The first day, M. Then, I. The S’s came in a pair on Wednesday, and by Friday, ING had followed. One strip of paper remained, hanging on like a loose tooth in the head of a toddler. I almost removed it, but decided not to, knowing it is only covering the word CHILD, and a part of the boys arm. I also knew his name was covered, but, oddly enough, I took no interest in that. I figured, if this boy, man now, were still alive, he’d surely have a different name.

Over the next few weeks, I'd forgotten about the boy on the poster. At first on purpose, then naturally. I started forgetting by walking faster down that long hall, keeping my head down, and thinking about the Yankees. They were having a championship year, and starting to pull it together around this time.

The next time I saw the poster, I told myself I was checking to see if it was there. I was sure it had been taken by now by the overhead leak. But it remained, relatively untouched by the water. Only this time, it was fully exposed, identifying the child and revealing other text I had not thought of:

MISSING CHILD. Theodore Miles. Missing Since January 10th, 1980. Brown hair, brown eyes, 4 years old. Has a brown birthmark on right forearm. Large scar on right ankle.

“I could have lived with that description. I could have chalked it all up to coincidence. The Brown hair and eyes, the proximity in age, the birthmark on my arm and the scar on my ankle from childhood surgery. I could have forgotten it all had it not been for the newly exposed forearm in the picture. Not hidden, like my mom always made me do, but out in the open for the world to see. The same birthmark I’d been forced to cover all my life, as if I should be ashamed for having such a grotesque thing growing out of me. My world came crashing down at that moment. It was unmistakable. The birthmark in the photo was the same one I’d stared at my whole life, wishing it could go away so I could wear t-shirts and go to the beach and take my shirt off like other boys..”

“But she wasn’t hiding the birthmark.” The shrink asked.

“No, she was hiding me, from my birth parents, and the whole world.”

“It was then you called the police?”

“Yes... They got her to confess everything.”

“How did that feel?”

“Horrible. I mean, I loved her. She was my whole life. At least the her I thought I knew… she loved me. Did she love me? Or did she mold me into the person she loved. She stole me, passed me off as her own… She ruined my life and the life of my actual parents. Those poor people.. who knows who else she hurt.”

When they were taking mom, I mean Nancy, away, a police officer explained everything. He told me how she had lost her own son years before, covered it up and skipped town. I didn’t ask details. She took me in a park in New York in 1980, when I was 4. Which actually makes me two years younger than I was always told. It’s no wonder I struggled in school, when I went. The officer said she gave me her dead son’s name and birth certificate, and that my real parents had both passed away last year in an accident. Again, I didn’t ask for details.

He asked if I would like to make a statement. He said it could help the detectives with their case if it goes to trial. I obliged.

It’s funny, not funny, but odd how quickly your entire life can change. One minute we are one thing; a man, a son, a brother, a Mercer, a Miles, and the next, not. What do we become when our entire life is a lie, when it’s stripped back to nothing. As I pondered that I looked up at the policeman, Officer Rourke, who appeared to be awaiting a response.

“Pardon?” I asked, squinting in the sun.

“Your name?…sir?”

It seemed such a simple question, but it was not.

“I… I don’t know.”’