Found (19 page)

“Did you ever talk about me while you were married to Bill? ” I ask. My question sounds so small and pathetic as it emerges. I feel so needy. I cross my arms over my stomach, as if to hold on and comfort myself.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “Bill said we would make more children—lots of babies—and I just put the past in the past.”

She waves her hand as if dusting something off the side of her neck and smiles her pretty smile. It seems so easy for her, so effortless.

A robin drops from the tree and lands on the fence. The color of his plumage is a rust and sable brown. The bird regards us with a tilt to his head, a shine in his small black eyes.

I cannot fathom how she went on to marry my father and how they had a son, who they kept, just three years after my own birth. I cannot understand how they didn’t talk about me—at all.

How do I not take it personally? How do I not make a leap and say it must have been
me
—that I was lacking or worthless in some essential way? How do I overcome these feelings of lack in order to find my true human value when my own mother placed no value on my presence in the world?

I know I cannot ask her these questions. She is just too damn wounded and to ask that she help me sort things out—when she cannot even sort herself out—is impossible. It’s a formula for failure. Or perhaps it is me who is too wounded. I have learned, early on, to hate myself for being needy and wanting to be wanted. I have cut those aspects of my personality away, in order to survive. And I do it again, as I sit here with Catherine. I tell myself to be stronger and get over it.

The bird does a small stutter step on the edge of the fence and drops into the neighbor’s yard.

“You can have those baby pictures,” I hear myself say. “I don’t need them.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Catherine says. She stacks the photos in a little pile and tucks them into her purse.

If a mother’s welcoming embrace is the core to human satisfaction, then the rejection of a mother must be the root of human dissatisfaction. I am wholly dissatisfied at this moment. I feel as if my life has no value—none at all and I want so much to take her to the airport and go find my children as fast as I can. I want to go home to a steady source of original love that won’t break my heart.

“You know, I can’t get used to calling you Jennifer,” Catherine pipes in.

“What?” I say, not really listening.

“Your name,” she says again. “When I was pregnant I called you something else.”

“You named me?”

“I did,” she says, “but I guess it’s silly.”’

I shift on the bench, putting distance between my mother and myself.

“So? What was it?”

“No, no, you’ll laugh.”

“Come on,” I say.

Catherine rolls her shoulders back and sits up taller. “Well, I was a huge fan of
Gone with the Wind
. I read that book like a hundred times and I just loved how strong Scarlet was—unstoppable.”

“You were not going to name me Scarlet?” I interrupt.

“No, no,” she says, waving me off. “I named you Tara, you know, after that plantation. I just thought it was such a wonderful name but you know, I was just a young girl ...”

She laughs and shakes her head at herself. “Isn’t that silly? My mother always said I had my head in the clouds.”

I cannot laugh with her and I start to cry.

“What?” she asks. “What did I say? ”

 

 

THE SUN DROPS below a line of hills and long ribbons of gold and gray light reflect on the high clouds.

We hold hands while I drive Catherine back to the airport.

“What will come next?” she asks.

I am taken aback by her question. It seems foolish in retrospect but all I anticipated and expected was today. What else could there possibly be?

“I don’t know,” I finally manage to say. “What do you want?”

Catherine tugs on the hem of her silk top and sits taller in her seat. “Well, I want to know you,” she says with the authority of a mother. “I want us to be in each other’s lives. You could move to Reno. That would solve a lot of our problems.”

I pull into the airport parking lot and laugh as if that’s a good one. Reno!

She’s not laughing.

I turn off the car and tuck the keys into my purse. “Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “My life is here, in Portland.”

Catherine pouts a little, as if I have burst her bubble, and did she really think I would move to Nevada?

The engine ticks as it cools down and we sit in the quiet for a long time.

The experts who specialize in reunion between first mothers and adopted children suggest a slow and careful “getting to know each other period.” Birth parents are warned to be cautious and respectful during reunion. Adoptive children must learn how to believe again. Bridges of trust must be built. Old wounds need to heal.

Of course, I have read all these books. Catherine has read none. I’ve spent a lifetime in pursuit of healing. Catherine has spent a lifetime in pursuit of hiding. A few days ago, I had been a secret she planned to take to her grave.

With the way I am feeling at this moment—unwanted, rejected, and forgotten—what comes next should be this: Catherine should go away and I should continue with my life. The end.

“We can try to know each other,” she says. “Can’t we? I would be so sad not to know you.”

“You would?” I ask.

She nods and gives the impression of sincerity. “And you have to meet Jessie, she’s dying to know you. Daniel too. Oh my goodness, you have such a big family.”

I bite the edge of my lip, completely lost. Yes, it would be great to meet Jessie too, but I already knew Daniel isn’t in the least interested in me. His wife wrote an email, apologizing for the fact the man hadn’t reached out yet. She suggested I be patient.

It had only been a few days and already these people asked a lot of me. Move to Reno? Be patient with the elusive Daniel? Make it a priority to meet Jessie?

A part of me knew I had done all I could do. I had brought Catherine to Portland. I booked and paid for her flight. I gave her this day and my time.

But another part of me, that tiny part so hungry for family and a mother, took over and I nodded yes.

I agree to know her, to know them. I agree to try.

She lights up, as if delighted. She laughs out loud. The sound fills the inside of my car and makes me think of Jo. My mother and my daughter have the same laugh.

 

 

WE GET OUT of the car and walk in silence, holding hands once again. As we approach the airport terminal, I feel shaky and scared. What have I agreed to?

“Saying goodbye is supposed to be the hardest part,” I hear myself say, quoting one of my adoption books. “If we are going to be in each other’s lives, you need to call me, in a few days. We’re also supposed to make a plan to see each other again. We are supposed to set a definite date.”

Catherine and I separate and go down the escalator. When we reach the bottom, she doesn’t try to hold my hand again. In the passage from the top of the stairs to the bottom, she has become someone in a hurry to get home.

She walks ahead of me, eyes trained on the glowing blue screen
that displays the schedule for the departing flights. “Well, I can definitely call you although I’m not sure when,” Catherine says over her shoulder. “And I’m not sure when we can get together again either. I have a lot of things coming up, things I’ve already scheduled months in advance—”

Catherine strides over to the security checkpoint and digs into her purse for her ticket.

Dragging behind her, my hands get cold, and I open and close them to bring back circulation.

“Okay, well, I guess I don’t need to know exactly when we can meet again,” I begin but she doesn’t seem to be listening as she gathers up her license and her boarding pass.

I feel waves of fear that cannot be rationalized.
She’s leaving. She’s leaving me again.

When we get to the front of the line, Catherine puts her arm around my shoulder. She gives me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. It’s a peck, like we are strangers.

“Okay,” she says. “So I’ll call you when I get home. I’ll try to call tonight.”

“Okay,” I say. “But I feel like we might need to know, tentatively, when to meet again. Do you have
any
idea when you might be free? ”

It’s like asking a disinterested guy for a date. I’m setting myself up to be rejected and here it comes.

She does this little shift from one foot to the other. She is restless. She sighs. “Well, not really,” she says. “Why don’t I figure that out when I get home.”

I tell myself that her reassurance should be enough. I want to believe we will form a plan later but my body tells a different truth. Catherine left me before and she will leave me again and she is leaving me right now. If she truly meant to know me and be in my life, she would not behave this way. She would stand still. She would look me in the eye.

I hug myself and try, one more time.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Will you figure it out? Will you remember? ”

“Yes, yes, I will, I promise,” she says. She hugs me once again but it’s an impatient embrace. She is eager to get on her way.

I step off to the side and let my mother go on without me.

Catherine weaves though the maze of security, shoulders back and hips slung forward. When she reaches the x-ray machines, she slips out of her high-heel sandals.

My face is wet but I don’t wipe away the evidence of tears. I let myself cry and hug myself tighter still. Is this the fear, terror, grief, and rage that I felt as a baby? The pain makes me dizzy. How did I survive?

Catherine forgot to ask:
How are you here, Jennifer? How did you make it without me?

She also forgot to say she was so sorry for leaving me. That she would do anything to make it up to me—her first child—her daughter.

She rushes back to a full life of children, grandchildren—her big extended family. I watch from here—as unknown to her as I was when she arrived this morning.

Catherine exits the x-ray machine and bends over to push her feet into her strappy sandals. In a final gesture, as if it is enough, she lifts her arm and waves goodbye.

TWENTY-FIVE

REUNION

WHEN I RETURN TO THE HOUSE, I pull into the driveway and Spencer and Jo explode from the front door.

Cries of “Moooom!” pierce through the closed windows of the car.

I am shaky and unsteady, my eyes are puffy from tears spent at the airport, but now it’s going to be okay. I shove the keys into my purse and get out of the car. The kids bound down the stairs, elbows and long legs and pure hearts. They throw themselves against my body.

I want them to. I need them to.

“Mooooooom!” Jo yells, pressing her face into my stomach.

“We missed you, Mom,” Spencer yells, hugging around my shoulders.

They feel so good and I’m so lucky for their love.

“How did it go?” Spencer asks. “Was she nice? Are you going to see her again?”

“Mom, Mom, Mom,” Jo says. She doesn’t ask about Catherine.

Roger is on the porch, watching the scene and has a big grin of welcome on his face too. He waves and I lift my hand.

“Come on,” I say, wiping at my eyes. “Let’s go in. I’ll tell you everything.”

Jo tugs my arm, the signal she wants to be lifted and I scoop her up to my hip. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses her face into my shoulder. It’s like she wants to crawl into my skin and the funny thing is—I finally get this desire now. Didn’t I want to crawl into Catherine’s skin? Don’t I still?

With Jo on one side, I put my arm around Spencer’s shoulders and we all go up the steps together—this six-legged crowd of awkwardness. “Was she nice? ” Spencer asks again.

“She was super nice,” I say.

“Will you see her again? ” he asks. “Will we meet her?”

“I don’t know, Honey,” I say. “I just need to think about everything. We’ll see.”

At the top of the steps, I kiss Roger hello over the top of Jo’s head.

“We made a party for you, Mom!” Jo announces, wiggling down from my side.

“A tea party,” Roger adds.

I nod like a tea party is just great.

I don’t need to tell Roger how I feel or what’s going on with Catherine. He already knows since I called from the airport and told him about the day.

“Come on, come see,” Jo says. She races around Roger, wanting
to be the first one in the house and to show off what they’ve been cooking up, which I already know—since Jo is a tea party expert—will be a dozen tiny plates of snack foods, big pots of fresh mint tea, and candles flickering in tiny cups.

Roger goes into the house too but before I can move, Spencer stops me at the threshold. He turns me to face him, his hands on my shoulders and it’s funny the way he does this.

“Let me look at you,” he says.

Spencer peers into my face—into my eyes.

“You’re different,” he says.

I don’t really get it yet—this biological surge of sensory information that has passed from Catherine to me in our one afternoon together—but Spencer does. He looks at a person he’s been looking at his entire life and there is a confidence in his voice.

“You’re better,” he adds.

 

 

CATHERINE DOES CALL, the next morning after our meeting, and she continues to call. She tries to stay connected over the next few days. She does her best.

But she’s not coming to see me again. She makes this clear on the phone. “I don’t like to travel. I have things to do. I’m busy, you know.”

These are normal things that normal people say. I understand and a part of me, that stranger part of me who realizes we do not know each other, cuts my mother an ocean of slack. But the other part of me is a blender of complex emotional response. I need her, I
ache for her, I want her, and I am so pissed off too. I’m sad, scared, confused, worried, and a million other shades of feeling.