RISE OF AN ESTRANGED TRILLIONAIRE SON

Chapter 5

Adrian kept shifting in the Greyhound bus. His butts hurt deeply from sitting for too long.It was a twenty-three-hour journey from Seattle to New York City. He had slept and woken up severally, till his body had grown weary of dreaming after his eyes closed and his head bowed to sleep. But after hearing the driver say they had arrived in New York city and he was close to the bus stop where he needed to alight, Adrian sighed a relief of gratitude and accomplishment.

Embarking on this journey to New York was easier that he had expected. All he had to do was  cook up a story for Veronica about a mandatory driver safety seminar requiring overnight attendance. Of course it was a flimsy excuse that she barely registered. She was too absorbed in preparations for Emily’s upcoming birthday gala. Emily hadn’t inquired about him. She never did and she never cared anyways. 

Getting the f*e too would have posed another challenge. But thankfully he had his emergency savings, asides the one Veronica controlled which obviously she knew nothing about. And didn’t even need to know about it. The $325 f*e for the deposit box had drained most of his small emergency savings. But he was grateful he had just enough left for a bus ticket and a cheap hostel bed.

New York was a really loud city. The car horns and sirens, coupled with the constant noise from the bustling crowd was disturbing. Following the guide he had gotten to Madison Avenue, Adrian kept maneuvering and navigating through the bustling crowd. And Madison Avenue was nothing like his delivery routes. And the moment he got there, he equally realized it was nothing like Veronica’s mansion.

The Evergreen Trust & Safety Depository was a tall building with heavy brass doors. And as he stepped inside in his old and worn-out jeans and jacket, with his dirty boots, Adrian knew he didn’t fit in. This time, Veronica didn’t need to tell him his place. Or remind him of his status. The environment itself was a good enough reminder that he didn’t belong here.

He walked to the high counter. His heart raced faster than he thought it did. A woman in a black suit looked at him with a blank, professional face. He almost caught the look of disdain beneath the blank looking eyes but her professional look was more dominating that he couldn’t be sure of what he saw anymore. 

“May I help you?” she asked, like a professional receptionist would. Devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

“I’m here to access a safety deposit box. Number 734. Under Clara Carter.” His voice sounded rough, unused.

She didn’t blink. “Identification, please. And the key.”

He slid his Washington State driver’s license and the old, tarnished brass key across the counter. The woman behind it looked at both and then turned to her computer, still maintaining her blank face. And without making any reactions, She began typing on the laptop that sat on the desk before her, making “kpa-kpa” sounds with the keyboard. Adrian just stood there, constantly reminding himself to breathe. 

A few minutes flew by when she finally said, “Follow me, Mr. Carter.”

She took him through a thick metal door into a hallway lined with huge vault doors, each one with a number. A guard joined them without a word. They stopped at Vault 7. She took out a master key, slid it into the lock next to Adrian’s brass key, and turned them both. She pulled open a small metal door inside the vault. And then inside it, she found it. The long thin metal box.

“Take this to one of the viewing rooms down the hall,” the woman said, pointing. “When you’re done, ring the bell. A guard will take you out after the box is sealed again.” Her voice was flat, like she’d said the same thing a hundred times today.

Adrian lifted the box. It was heavier than he expected. It was very like a cold dense  metal against his palms. The guard watched him take the box down the hall into a small room. The room had no windows. Just a table, two chairs, and a trash can. 

He placed the box on the table, staring at it. Two years of looking, of putting up with insults, and piecing things together from what his mother told him before she died, had led here. His hands shook a little as he opened the lid.

Upon opening it, he saw a small blue diary, worn and faded, with his mother’s handwriting inside. There was also a folder of old hospital papers. And a plain white envelope, sealed, with her handwriting on the front: “For my son, Adrian. When you are ready.”

He reached for the hospital papers first. The top one was the same bill from St. Jude Medical Center he had already found in her suitcase. Under that were prenatal records and doctor’s notes from before he was born. Then he saw it. The original birth certificate, not the one that had Michael Carter’s name added later.

Child: Adrian Carter

Time: 3:14 AM

Mother: Clara Marie Carter

Father: Jonathan Elias Reed

Relationship: Biological Father

Place of Birth: St. Jude Medical Center, Seattle, WA

It had the stamp and signature. It clearly was an official letter. One didn’t need to guess that. Attached to it were some internal memos. One on the hospital paper. The subject said “Amendment of Birth Record for Carter, Adrian.” It explained that someone from J. Reed’s side had “requested” Michael Carter be put down as the father. The “reason” part? That was empty. Another memo was shorter: “Amendment processed per J.R. directive. Originally sealed per instruction.” Then it dawned on him. This was it. This was the proof. The proof that was kept here, miles away from Seattle. The proof Jonathan Reed had wiped himself out on purpose. The proof he needed to confront his past with. The proof that will obviously decide how his future would turn out to be. The proof that was the reason for his marriage all along.