Dear JinHee,
What is it about cool, foggy mornings that bring to mind memories of our youth? We are dear friends, sister, and I hold onto our bond tightly, yet I hope after learning of this secret which I have kept for so long, I hope that you will not let loose. I tell you this in trust; that after all we have been through, you will see fit to forgive, to move on. It has to do with that last day you came to visit us in the summer.
Do you remember that day? The sun, shining bright on our family as we all took one last walk through the garden together. Mother was there too, so happy - but nervous. I couldn't quite peg what the matter was until after you left. Mom was going to hand you a note - I saw it in her hand - and at the last moment, she threw it into the garbage. Curious, I retrieved it - I now wish I never had. I read it later that night and decided that I could never tell you the contents. I watched the last wisp of smoke rise from the waste basket, hoping the truth would vanish with it.
Still, months later I am haunted.
I could have told you this at any time, I should have. I could have picked up the phone and called. The truth is, after all of the lies and years, I had hoped that mom and dad would finally tell you, but they haven't. This injustice angers me so much, that I'm going to tell the truth for all the world to see. I can no longer contain the lies!!!
Jinhee, your parents love you very much, but you are not who you think you are.
You're real name is Anna Akhmatova. Though you hail from a small town called Uptar, deep in Siberia in the Russian Federation, you never lived there. You were found in a ditch by scouts working for Famous Yury Nikulin's Circus in the spring of 1978. At the time, you had three hands - two where they currently are and the third, grew out of your head. An abnormality, you did not have firm control of your third hand - only its fingers could move, capable of grasping only small objects. And so as the scout Feydor reached for you, your tiny head fingers grasped lightly onto his hand. Feydor fell in love and adopted you as his own.
Though Feydor loved you, he did have obligations and the only way to feed you both was to bring you to the circus. It only took Yury one second to put a red rubber glove over your third hand and henceforth, you became known as курятина, the russian word for "chicken". You spent your years traveling all of Siberia, learning basic skills under the careful tutelage of Dmitry, the dancing seal, and Pasha, the word's smallest jazz saxaphonist (this explains your fondness for jazz hands and barking at social functions). Your only friend at night in that cold, rusty cage? A single egg, which you carefully tended to for months and months.
Seasons changed and you grew. You became quite adept at picking up worms with your head hand, dropping it right into your mouth. Days shortened, then lengthened again. You started crowing with the morning's light. Then one day, the circus pulled into Moscow where famous dignitaries were in attendance - among them, a young Mikhail Gorbechev. Touring the Tent of Freaks (палатка причуда), he spotted you in the corner, gently nursing on an rusted serving spoon. He knew that Soviet technology couldn't save you, but perhaps as an act of early glasnost, he could give you to the Americans. Poor Feydor had no say in the matter. He objected and was summarily shot.
You on the other hand, were taken to America, where after hitting the talk show circuit to raise money for your countless surgeries (ironically, you now found yourself in a media circus), your third hand was removed. Unfortunately, on your way to your new home, a car accident hurled you into the woods where later, you were found and raised by that pack of wild poodles I told you about when you were younger. Mother would conceal the scar using a cloth diaper until the wounds faded - to this day, you still bear a small scar on your forehead - the only reminder of your freakish, mutilated third hand.
You've grown into an amazing, strong person - I hope you continue to stay strong and once again, I hope you find it within yourself to forgive our parents for their betrayal of trust. It will take time, but perhaps the final words of Feydor Ivanovich will bring you some solace, "Цыплят по осени считают."
Love,
Jacob
