Name: Mavi Talman

Age: Looks 20. Real 26

Weapon Affinity: Dagger

Colour Affinity: Violet

Face Claim: Merritt Patterson

I was born as “Kuttler_unnamed female” in Las Vegas, Nevada, 1993 on the early hours of November sixteenth. My mother chose not to name me as she knew there were no resources of her own that she could spare to give away. In one awful night of secrecy, Kathleen Kuttler both gave birth to a daughter and signed away her parental rights, leaving me only out of pure desperation to conserve resources for the child she already had. At only hours old, my new life was already a mystery of loss and solitude. With my only known parent in the wind, I was found abandoned on the steps of Saint Anne’s Catholic church. Well on way on my way to freezing in the 40 degree weather of November and wrapped only in the blanket that the hospital had provided, the I was lucky to survive my first night in the world. The Nuns who worked at the church discovered me not a moment too soon and I was wisely ushered into the care of a hospital. The ever-watchful nurses recognised me as having been born only a day ago in the same building. I had a distinctive crop of black hair and was currently only one of three preemies in their care; but the bracelet binding me to her mother had been cut and there was no way to contact the woman who had left me on the church steps. Having compassion, the staff at Saint Anne chose to take me into their care.

They called me Maverick. It was a free spirited name for a free-spirited girl. I was awake more than I slept and my funny spike of hair gave everyone a case of the giggles. It was refreshing for both the sisters and the abbess to have someone so young to entertain for a while, however, they also knew that eventually I would need a proper home of my own to grow into. Everyone thinks that babies get adopted. However, that’s not necessarily true, especially for premature babies. It was a miracle that after that misty night in the Las Vegas air and I suffered no physical side effects that would haunt me into childhood. Every doctor that saw me said I could and should have died.  Perhaps, I was just lucky.

As a little one, I wasn't much of a talker. It was partially due to being constantly sick, and partially due to living in a home run by Nuns. They liked the quiet, but by age three I found my voice. I had a lisp, but it was there. Quiet, but never shy, upon entering toddler-hood, I was a bright-eyed bundle of curiosity who had clearly become good at overcoming adversity. My hospital stays never fully got the better of me and the nuns who ran Saint Anne’s were quickly becoming attached to their brunette sidekick. In general, I did as they asked and kept out of the worst of trouble, although my fingers were never far from the cookie jar in Sister Hannah’s office. As I healed from the worst of my struggles, I began studying with Sister Amethyst in religion and reading  both to prepare me for school and help me have more to do than wander behind the Sisters as they attended their studies, helped the poor, and sung choir at the church on Sunday. I was quick to discover my love of a good story. Sister Ama (as I called her) read to me from a book of stories of famous women in missions every night and I could usually bargain my way into two bedtime stories instead of just one.

However, it soon became clear that Saint Anne’s was not the ideal place for a rambunctious child. It was after all, first and foremost, a place dedicated to religion and the quiet ponderings of the soul. My own childish games didn’t very well suit the head staff, despite that they too had grown fond of me. I was too loud and despite being told many times that a Brother James’s head being bald and red and his face having small eyes did not make him look like a tricky fox. The Abbess was losing patience  with my constant ability to ask far more questions than she had the patience for finding, especially during church. I overheard more in the whispered conversations around me than I was supposed to know, but listening behind doors was another non-Nunlike behavior that despite being told not to do many times, the secrets I learned were too interesting to entice me away. Sister Amethyst was continually on my side as I grew bigger, however big my disappointment was it was time for her to begin the search for a proper home.

Orphan: gently used, cannot pronounce the letters ‘G’ and ‘L’ correctly, slight tendency towards mischief, but heart of gold. I imagined the poster with my face. Would I be smiling or frowning? Frowning, I decided. I loved my life at Saint Anne’s despite that there were no other children there to play with or make into friends. It also meant that in nearly every room I walked into, I quickly became the center of attention. Even when I did something wrong, the glow of the golden child protected me. I was happy at the convent. Sister Amethyst vetted each family for financial security and interviewed them individually.

Interviews were set up and home visits were scheduled, but they never tended to go the way that Sister Amethyst intended. Every family was vetted for good intentions, but I had no desire to leave. With that in mind, I either found something to hate about every couple or made sure every family found something to hate about me. While Ama was gracious, it was clear that she was running out of contenders and that it may not have been her fault. When word came that it was a time for a talk with the Abbess deep down I knew that I could no longer avoid the hunt for a family.

“You see, Mavi.” Abbess Charlotte peered over her glasses as I swung my feet from side to side in the chair that was much too large for myself. The pink bubble gum that popped in my mouth had been acquired that morning from a child outside the convent gates and was smacked particularly in order to irritate her.  “You have had many opportunities to be adopted, yet you keep coming back. We cannot keep you forever. Convents are not meant to be lived in by such small children. Don’t you think you want to give it one more try?”

I did not want to give it one more try, yet, it appeared I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. There was a family in Chicago whom Sister Amethyst had written to and were eagerly awaiting my arrival. I was not eagerly awaiting my departure. As any child beset by change would, I did as much as she could to make it difficult for the Nuns to send me off: torn train tickets, lost socks, and broken luggage. When all else failed, a temper tantrum filled with tears. It almost worked. Nearly all of the Nuns asked if I could stay and I nearly thought that I had earned my victory, but the Abbess was determined that small children did not belong in her place of solitude and quiet. In the late night, I was woken up and my shoes were shoved onto as I was told to get dressed. Far too sleepy to ignore instructions, I was carried out to a car and then a plane, where I slept my way through two transfers until I woke up as our flight was landing at the O’Hare International Airport. Sister Hannah was staring me in the face as she handed me my carry on and it took a few minutes for me to process what was happening. I was not going back to the convent.

For being nine years old, I believed that I handled myself with dignity, but the truth is that I cried very hard and asked multiple times for Ama, some ice cream, and to go back home. The ice cream was granted, but my two other requests were denied. I’d never particularly been close with Sister Hannah, but we shared a similar sweet tooth and imagination. She’d always encouraged me to draw the stories I created and see all sorts of shapes in the clouds. It was only after the ice cream that she cleaned up my face and told me that we were going to meet the Davis family who Sister Amethyst had written to six months ago and had told about me. The thing about letters is that everything can look nice on paper, including people. The Davis family was not particularly like the one that Sister Amethyst had read about, but neither was it completely a falsehood. While their family photo included a picture of a tall handsome man in uniform, it turned out that Mr. Davis was no longer in the picture and had died in action two years ago. Mrs. Sharon Davis had gone to taking in orphans on the side of her regular teaching job for the income that it provided. She had one natural child and three adopted. I was the fourth and the youngest in the house and shared a bedroom with three other girls. The noise both of the household and the city were a great struggle to adjust to after having lived in a steady, peaceful environment for nearly the first ten years of my life.

Elementary school started that week and while it wasn’t a relief, I did find shelter in learning. It became a place that I could excel and focus my mind when the rest of the world seemed crazy. My case in Las Vegas was closed and transferred to a Chicago caseworker. It was a surprise to her how unsettled I was in my new household, but after practically being adopted by the Saint Anne’s Convent, this was a far cry from normalcy. Upon her first visit, I begged to be sent home only to be curtly informed that I was home. Uncomfortable, undesired, and unworthy in my eyes: this was home.

I lived with the Davis family for two years and during them I grew quickly to resent my new siblings and the pecking order that came along with being the youngest and the smallest among them. I often had to fight my way into bathrooms, mealtimes, and silent corners of the house. My view of the world quickly began to transition from a glazed snowglobe into a shattered plane of glass that hurt my feet while I walked. Adjusting to unfamiliar horizons as a child is a bit like playing with paint and it’s no surprise that today my favorite colors are overwhelming red and purple. Bright and vibrant, they quickly caught my eye at the age of eleven and continue to the rest of the world represent such emotions as both love and hate, mystery and magic.

Slowly, but surely, I began to find my footing no matter how often my feet slipped. Once tender and bare, my feet grew strong and gained and calluses from my journey. While living with the Davis family things were often bare and clothes were worn a season beyond their expiration date, I did eventually adjust.  Unfortunately, adjusting to the Davis household meant that my once familiar mischievous personality began to sparkle, but rather than listen behind doors as I once had as a child, I became quite the daredevil. Our house was now more than filled to the brim as three more children had come to stay with us by the time I turned twelve and it squeezed our already cramped quarters even tighter. The room that I had once shared between three other girls was now split between five. Privacy in bathrooms was almost unheard, even when it came to sharing a home a with two boys who were older than I was. For a developing girl, this did nothing for my self confidence. Instead of hiding under the bed, which admittedly was the only place I could find quiet to study sometimes, I acted out. I had always gotten along with the boys in the house better than the girls and although they rarely let me in on their games, I still sometimes succeed at beating them. Whether it was sacrificing sleep to learn how to throw a basketball or ride a skateboard, my studies had never been more threatened.

My seventh grade teacher was the first person to take notice of me in years and often shared her lunch when I said I forgot mine. Truthfully, the Davis kids got three lunches between seven kids and rotated which days we each got one. It was clever, but often left many of us with growling stomachs. The missing lunch was only the first sign that our disorganized abode was cracking at its foundation. Money was tight and it wasn’t until I confronted my oldest sister, Melody about the bruises on her arm that I found out why. Sharon Davis had been fired from her job at the school six weeks ago and was living on savings and checks that she got from the state. If a caseworker, any caseworker, came by we were screwed. Not just the foster kids, but all the kids. For the first time, I felt a shred of sympathy for my oldest sister who often got first pick of everything: from TV to the hand-me-downs from other families. Unlike me, this was actually her home and it had once been peaceful and quiet where she shared a room with only one other sibling. If word got out that her mother no longer had a job, she too was likely to join the foster system.

Melody’s prediction came true within weeks and it was my caseworker who stopped by on the night of Halloween. None of us had expensive costumes, but we had all banded together to make ghosts out of leftover sheets, tape, and black paper and planned to sneak out as soon as Sharon fell asleep. However, the doorbell rang too soon and it was exactly what we’d all been dreading.

I didn’t stay in homes very long after I left the Davis’s. Perhaps it was my one true rebellion that I could get them to get rid of me. It was odd, but I missed the chaos and calamity of my old siblings and our crazy adventures. They always told me I was their lucky charm. I tested all of the best ideas: poison ivy bouquet for a caseworker (everyone else got it), backflip out an open window (the doctor said I was lucky to barely have a bruise, as I could have shattered my arm), and skateboarding down the neighbor’s veranda (Thomas broke three of his fingers); but me? I seemed immune to harm.

There was a word for kids like me: high risk. We usually end up in group homes as most family’s don’t want to bother with a kid who has little concern for status quo. As orphans go, kids get a lot of potential parents, but a more than you'd expect are just lookers. The rest find children who have been through a tough time too hard to assimilate into their easy lifestyles. Adoption isn't for everyone. It's a difficult process to take a child that you barely know into your life. Eventually, I grew to accept my situation and chose the burden of being clanless. It was a quiet type of loneliness, but it was easier to accept than going to countless meetings and being rejected for something as simple as having too big a forehead. I was older now and the older you get the more people expect you to simply age out of a system that leaves you with no prospects. My caseworker was nearly retired by the time I turned fifteen and upon entering her office, I expected little more than the yearly spiel.

“Well, Mavi...you’ve been in the system a long time. Abandoned on a church step and sent to your first foster home at the age of nine.” Wendy Williams pushed through my paper file, which was as thick as any I had ever seen, as I stared at any other surface in the room rather than meet her gaze. I wasn’t the best with adults, but particularly those who tried to care for me. Wendy Williams, despite her limited power, had always been nice. “After that you’ve pretty much bounced around until the group home a year ago. What do you think that says about you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, confused as how other people kicking me out of their homes had a whole lot to do with me. “How should I know?”

“Think about it.” She encouraged.

“I...enjoy new places.” I struggled to answer the question. I did like new places, but not new homes. People should always have a place to call home.

“Creative.” Wendy nodded. “What would you say to giving it one last go? It’s probably your last chance before you age out. They’re well off. They said you remind them of someone they lost.”

Last chance. Those words set a sour feeling in my stomach. I was just a kid who was supposed to have a lot of chances. Why was this one my last? I bit my lip and after a minute there was the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. After a few minutes more, I agreed to meet Jackson and Anna Talman who were living just outside New York City. As it turns out, the Talmans weren't your usual. They were old money. He was a judge, and she was a debutante turned New York charmer. They had one son and never spoke of the daughter they'd lost. I was fascinated by them, as they were with me. The fact that I’d spent the last three years dedicating myself to improving my grades meant that I spoke very well for someone who came from my situation and despite being raised in a world apart from theirs — my manners lacked only minor correcting. Our relations came most often through Skype, although we met for several dinners, in restaurants where the prices on the menu reflected the wealth of my hosts.

They were eager to make it official. Perhaps, I was a bit enchanted by them. I thought if people from such a beautiful life wanted me, fairy tales did exist. It didn't take me long after the adoption was made official  that their lives weren't perfect. The longer I spent with their crystalline cups and silver services, the more I realised that I didn't belong. I was ordinary and their world was filled with perfection. The first place I learned to hide was in the giant library that was a part of their home.  I'd spend hours there. Although my high school was now a prep school and one of New York’s finest, I often spent hours getting lost in hopeless internet searches trying to match news articles to what I knew about myself. Doing so, I became fascinated with journalism and the school newspaper quickly became my newest hobby. My new parents were satisfied with my being a nerd as long as I attended college once I graduated. For me, going to college was a dream and seemed like the perfect one until one of those hopeless internet searches lead me down the wrong rabbit hole.

Unfortunately, I didn’t find Wonderland. On a school assignment designed to talk about my family and their history, it was only twelve articles down on the most recent page. The article was now four years old as judges and socialites have a decent amount of buzz around them. It was from the New York Times and focused around the daughter of Jackson and Anna. Her name was Beth and she had died five years ago from a drug overdose. As I stared at the family picture which was not framed anywhere in the entirety of the mansion, I could see the resemblance. We both had honey colored hair, light colored eyes, and strong facial structure. In another life, she could have been me.

I never confronted my parents about what I’d found out and never asked why there were no pictures of Beth in the house. Still, I had more questions than I had answers to get. Did the Talmans ever really want me or did they just see me as someone to fill their daughter’s shoes? Perhaps, I was a golden dress hanger who would go to her school, and get her degree, and someday give them the grandchildren that they desired. While I enjoyed the slice of life I’d been so generously offered, it made me wonder what my life would have been like otherwise. I was now eighteen years old and would have been discharged from the foster system on my upcoming birthday. Never speaking of this, my nights began to be sneaking from the house. I found some of my old siblings living at homeless shelters, but could never bear to approach them. They would look at me and scoff now. Feeling a sense of depression creep over me, I began to spend less time in the library and more at student parties. My grades may have slipped, but thanks to the Talman’s money, I no longer needed a scholarship to get into college.

I always came home early enough that I could sleep off the hangover and attend whatever event they had lined up for the day. One could say that I had the best of both worlds, but my heart was breaking with loneliness.

One could call the path I was on my yellow brick road, and while there was no emerald castle at the end of mine, it did lead me home. It is said that you meet friends along the road, and one good thing my adoptive family did was lead me to him. Noah was one of the those and I like to think he understood being lonely. Although people think arranged marriages only happen in second and third world countries that isn’t entirely true, among the very wealthy there are those who are subtly encouraged to deny their heart and marry for the good of the family. His family had made wealth in the real estate business going back generations and his parents wanted that protected. So, at the age of twenty he found himself engaged to be married to Arabella Miller. She was an international model whose family came from old money. Unfortunately, they did not get along other than in the public eye.

I was eighteen. He was twenty-five. Somehow, I couldn't seem to keep myself away from him, despite knowing that he had a fiancée. He was funny and would often find me at the bar during parties and tease me about how in three years I could finally drink. I would shoot back that it was my parent’s home and the bartender had to obey me. Truthfully, Noah’s goodness and kind heart were most of why I enjoyed spending time with him. I knew he was older and that we could likely never be more than friends, but that only meant that I found myself falling for him more and more. It wasn’t easy to watch him parade around at my mother’s parties with another woman on his arm, especially as my feelings for him grew.

I wasn’t alone. Noah had had stretched out his engagement for five years and only under abounding pressure had he cracked to throwing an engagement party. However, his other waking ours were spent by my side. We watched movies and played video games like normal people do. It surprised me that he’d never owned an xbox and his parents had him taking dancing lessons and horseback riding instead. My new best friend had never done half of the things that I enjoyed as a child, but it was okay because I got to show him what it was like now. However, despite our days of fun, I knew that the time was drawing to a close before he’d soon be a married man and it would be over. It was underneath the stars far away from the house and my mother’s watchful eyes that I asked him if he loved her.

He didn’t. I could tell and so could most everyone, but it wasn’t until that night that I could tell he loved me. His lips were wrapped around my own and the crickets covered any other noise that was made that night. Listening to him whisper sweet words, and feeling his mouth against my own, there was nothing as painful as watching him marry another woman the very next day.  On a wednesday in September, I swore that if love existed, I was not destined to find it.

Noah was not my manna from heaven, but he did give me something to hold onto. They honeymooned in Fiji. I spent that month running to and from a bathroom. Innocent as ever, it took me two more to figure that I wasn't just sick. I was pregnant.

Those nine months were filled with more turmoil than I had ever experienced, but in the end, I couldn’t imagine giving up. Everyone told me I had nine months to prepare for that day, but it wasn't entirely true. I spent two months in the dark. I spent five weeks doubting. Those 128 days were spent with my head over a toilet, every meal I ate coming back up to bite me. Even after I heard the heartbeat of what they called a miracle, I felt nothing but unprepared. How was a motherless child to be a mother? It wasn't the nine months.  It wasn't the 37.5 hours of labor. It was the moment they handed me a daughter. My baby, so innocent, yet with blood still on her tiny, kissable nose. For the first time in my life, my heart was still.

Her name is Jonah which means dove, a sigil of hope to those who feel despair.

It's been four years. Everyday, I wake up to that smiling face. She reminds me that there is good in this world. She continues to keep me questioning life. Our life isn't perfect. I never in a thousand years would have planned to be a single mother, but never in a million, would I give this up.  My daughter teaches me everyday that a girl that came from nowhere can have a somewhere. Noah learned about his daughter being his own when she was two and after that we started making up for lost time. I’m still finding my way in the world after all of those years of being lost. I graduated from Massachusetts Institute of Technology when I was twenty-two and Jo was three. Strangely, people seem to think that I haven’t really aged a day since I turned eighteen.

I still write, on occasion, but my work as a journalist now supplements the knowledge of something greater. My hunger for knowing who I am hasn’t subsided and the more that I dig into my biological family the stranger things I find. So far my journey in this story has made a pitstop in Evermore, Colorado. I cannot wait to see what I find out.  

~Personality Traits~

Positive: Diligent, Kind hearted, Independent.

Negative: Unattached. Jealous. Overachiever.