Hawk. Jennifer Dance
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remember?”
I nod. “It’s way better than Adam. How come they called me that?”
“Frank and Angela didn’t have much time to think about a name! You were early — a whole month early — and so little! Nobody thought you’d be around for long. The priest came right away, baptizing you, so that you’d have a place in Heaven.”
He shakes his head and gives that little lip- sucking thing of his, telling me, without words, that he has no time for the Catholic faith of my mother.
“They needed to come up with a name straight away, so they called you Adam.”
One more reason for me never to forgive my parents. They couldn’t even be bothered to choose a name for me during the eight months that I lived inside Angela. I can just imagine the priest arriving the day of my birth, baby-name book in hand, opening it to the first page … and there you go … Adam.
“You never looked like an Adam to me,” my grandfather continues. “You looked like a bird! A newly hatched one. Scrawny! Arms and legs like twigs! And a mouth that opened wide, looking for food.” He opens his mouth and chirps in a fair impression of a baby bird. I can’t keep myself from laughing.
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