Three Little Words (26 page)

I felt as if I had gulped down five Cokes in a row. I hurried to write back.
My new “parents” are nice people
, I began. I could not resist boasting about all the traveling I had done and my visit to the White House. I told her that I thought the coincidence of our teams’ names was bizarre. As a P.S., I wrote,
I love you always and I call my “parents” by their first names. No one can take your place.

My mother’s next letter included photos of her wedding. Aunt Leanne had been her maid of honor, and Uncle Sammie had given her away. She told me that she wanted to see me and that I would always be the most important person in her life.

A series of letters, photos, and packages went back and forth through April. I started daydreaming about being with my mother again. I kept these feelings secret from the Courters, and I did not dare tell Luke that I had two mothers—while he had none.

Gay and Phil read all my mother’s letters and checked the outgoing replies to make certain I did not reveal any private information, which I would not have done anyway. On one level, I had never stopped loving my mother; on another, I still distrusted her. Her first letters had made me feel elated; some subsequent ones made me squirm. She wrote that her husband, Art, desired a child, yet she did not want anything to alter the relationship we had begun to rebuild.

I thrust that letter at Gay. “I don’t think she should have another baby! I’ll be fourteen years older than the kid!” I huffed. “What makes her think she won’t screw it up the next time?”

“My guess is that she’s asking for your forgiveness, not your permission.”

Gay and I stared at each other without speaking. We were thinking the same thing: My mother was already pregnant. Gay handed the letter back. I crumpled it and tossed it toward the wastebasket, but I missed.

“I’m not sure I did the right thing by contacting your mother,” Gay said.

“Are you going to forbid me from writing?”

“No, Ash, we would never do that. But every time you get a letter, you go on a little high, then you crash, like too much sugar at a birthday party.” She paced her office and stared out at the water. The dusk sky looked molten, as if it might explode in the west. “Let’s talk it over with your therapist.”

At my next therapy session we showed the March and April letters to Dr. Susan Reeder. I watched as the therapist reread the closing of the most recent letter:
I love you. I love you. Please find comfort in that. I miss you. Please write soon. All my love, Lorraine. P.S. How’s Luke? Tell him hello and I love him, too.

The doctor turned to me. “How do you feel about this?”

I was quiet for a few seconds. How many times had I heard those three little words from my mother? In her way, she meant them, but they still felt hollow. Even so, they were precious to me.

“It’s tough keeping the secret from Luke.”

“Do the letters upset you?” the therapist asked Gay.

“Yes. Every time a letter arrives, Ashley is off-kilter for a few days. Her mother has been writing for less than two months, and look what tension it has caused.” Gay paused, and the office filled with the constant low drone of the air conditioner. “Also, her mother wants to meet with her.”

“Do you want to do that?” Dr. Reeder asked me.

“Not now.” I could not imagine my mother and Gay in the same space.

“How would you feel about limiting the letters?”

Gay jumped on this. “Why not center them on holidays, like birthdays, Easter, Christmas, even … Mother’s Day. There’s probably something every month.”

“Is that okay with you?” the therapist asked me.

“Sure,” I agreed, and Gay left the room.

Before Gay sent my mother the letter outlining the new plan, she gave it to me to edit. “Promise you’ll tell me if something happens,” I asked.

“Like what?”

“With my mother, you never know.”

Just before Mother’s Day, Gay asked me if I wanted to send my mother a card. “Why? I never think of her that way.”

“Well, I’m thinking of her, and I’m grateful that she had you,” Gay said.

In June, I went to stay with my godparents, the Weiners, in South Carolina and attend an arts camp where they taught. One night I called home and said, “I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong?” Gay asked.

“Homesick,” I admitted. “I never felt this way before, maybe because I never had a home to be sick for.”

Gay laughed, but I was not joking. I missed my room, my bed, Phil’s scrambled eggs, and even Gay’s chicken nuggets.

A few weeks after I started eighth grade, Gay was making notes in her date book when she looked up. “Oh, today’s Lorraine’s birthday.”

“I know,” I replied. I had never forgotten the date.

“Even though she hasn’t written you very much, I’ve called her a few times. She always sounds grateful for the news,” Gay said, “but she keeps asking when she can talk to you.” She studied my reaction. “Are you ready to call her?”

“I guess.” I nibbled at the corner of a hangnail while Gay dialed and asked Lorraine if this was a good time. She handed me the phone and went to the far side of the room.

My mother’s voice was smoky, like a jazz singer’s. “Hey,” she said. I imagined her in tight jeans and high-heeled sandals. “How are you?”

“Great! I made All-Stars in softball this summer.” I paced around Gay’s office as I chattered on. “I’m in the program for gifted students.” I continued to describe some of our recent trips. “Oh, and I got a lot of clothes in L.A.”

“My, you’ve changed,” she replied. “You sound like a stuck-up Valley girl.”

I leaned against the back of the couch to steady myself. Gay sensed something was wrong and walked over to me. I held the phone so she could hear, but it was my turn to speak and I had nothing more to say. Without another word to my mother, I handed the phone back to Gay and stomped out of the room. Gay hung up and followed me.

“What did she expect?” I shrieked. “I wasn’t going to stay seven forever!”

Gay just listened as I vented. “What’s wrong with trying to do well in school and sports? What’s wrong with having a nice lifestyle? I can’t believe that she sounded”—I hunted for the right word—“jealous of her own daughter!”

A few weeks later my mother asked Gay what I wanted for my fourteenth birthday. Gay mentioned that I had treasured all the gifts she had ever given me and that I still had the music box. When Gay told her that Mrs. Moss had kept my dolls and Easy-Bake oven, my mother said, “I never liked that woman!” Then my mother dropped the bombshell: She was expecting another baby—a girl—the day before my birthday.

Gay broke the news as gently as she could.

“She knew she was pregnant when she wrote that bull about how her husband wanted a baby, didn’t she?” I exploded. Gay nodded. “They should take this one away from her in the hospital.”

Autumn was born a few days earlier than expected, and I was relieved that we would not have the same birth date. My mother sent me another Easy-Bake oven for my birthday along with some other gifts. I was way too old for the toy but baked one cake to show Gay how it worked. Using my allowance, I bought my mother and the baby some Christmas gifts. Late in January my mother sent me a gift certificate and some pictures of the baby. “My mother is going to ruin her life.” I told Gay I did not want to keep the pictures.

I looked over at Gay, who was grooming one of the cats. Her hair covered half her face, and the lamplight made her hair glow. She looked like she had been painted by Rembrandt. I blurted, “Do you realize I’ve lived with
you
almost as long as I ever lived with
her?”
I groaned. “Or anyone,” I added. “I haven’t seen my mother in six years.”

“Let me know when you want to,” she replied.

My reddening face revealed both my exhilaration and my embarrassment. “Won’t you feel weird?”

Gay sighed. “When a man’s beloved wife dies, he mourns her forever—even if he marries again for companionship. Your mother is a hard act to follow. She will always be the love of your life.”

I could not believe Gay was admitting that she knew she would always come second.

There was a long silence between us. “Look, Ashley, you need to make peace with what happened with your mother before you can feel secure with anyone else. I have read the records. Like most people, she has good and bad points.”

“So why didn’t you offer this before?” My voice wavered.

“We’ve talked about it in a general way, but I hoped you wouldn’t push it too soon because …” Gay measured her words. “She holds the power to hurt you, and I haven’t figured out how to protect my daughter—well,
our
daughter—from any more pain.”

In June, I prepared to attend the arts camp in South Carolina for the second time. As I was packing to leave my adoptive parents and return once more to the state where I was born and where my relatives still lived, the curiosity about my mother that I had kept at bay for the past several months was renewed. I still didn’t feel ready to see her, but I knew that I wanted something to happen. When Gay was helping me with a suitcase, I suggested as nonchalantly as possible, “Hey, why don’t you visit my mother while I’m at camp? Use your Guardian ad Litem vibes and tell me what you think.” I studied her expression to see if she approved. “And give her some parenting tips while you’re at it.”

I did not say anything else about it, although I was fairly certain Gay would do it. When the Courters arrived for my showcase performances, I showed them around the theater. During a lull Gay said, “I visited your mother.”