Where We Belong (41 page)

“And why’s that?” he says, the lights of the city reflected in his eyes.

“Because … I’m not sure we’re really in love. The way we should be to get married,” I say, thinking of my conversation with Jess, finally admitting to myself that she is right.

“
I’m
sure,” he says as I think how certain he is about everything. It’s what makes him a great CEO. He never second-guesses himself.

I shake my head, on the verge of tears, too upset to tell him that I think he’s only in love with the
idea
of me. Just as I am with him. All the boxes are checked, especially now that we’ve rectified the complications around Kirby.

“It just doesn’t feel right … anymore,” I say. “Maybe it never was…”

I wait for him to show passion, anger,
any
strong emotion. But instead he only says, “Is there anything I can say or do to convince you otherwise?”

I shake my head, wishing he’d at least try. But when he doesn’t, I say, “It’s hard to explain. I just feel
changed.
”

“Does this have anything to do with last weekend?” he asks.

“Not exactly,” I say, but deep down, I know that it does. That it has
everything
to do with last weekend, Conrad, and coming to terms with my past. Recognizing what I once had and what I threw away. I desperately want to feel that way again. To be in a relationship that I’m not trying to script or water down. It’s about wanting something real—even if it’s messy and complicated. It’s what Kirby has taught me.

“I think I should go home,” I say, putting down my glass of champagne.

Peter looks at me, as handsome and composed as ever, and asks if he can escort me home. Or at least to the valet. His eyes are sad and confused, but he remains the perfect, poised gentleman.

I look into his eyes and say, “I think I’d better go alone.”

He nods, then walks me to the elevator, kisses me softly on the cheek, and whispers good-bye.

33

kirby

I
end up
with an eighty on my precalc exam—a friggin’ miracle. Not only is it eight points more than I need to pass the class, but it’s a
B.
I have never gotten a B on a math test in my entire life. After I tell Mr. Tully the good news, he gives me a high five and then removes a card from his desk. He tells me to go ahead and open it now, so I do. There are puffy blue clouds on the outside and the inside reads,
The sky’s the limit!
Underneath, in small, neat script, he has written,
I got this BEFORE your exam. I knew you could do it. Onward and upward!!! Your friend, Mr. T.
Then there is a PS that says,
Music majors are often good in math and vice versa. If you get my drift.

I laugh and tell him not to hold his breath, although I’m beginning to think I might actually just go for it. What the hell. What’s the worst that could happen? I think back to that first knock on Marian’s door. The downside was huge—and yet what if that had stopped me? Why should it now?

“I’m going to miss you next year,” Mr. Tully says.

“I’ll come visit.”

“You better.”

I smile, but feel surprisingly sad given that all I’ve wanted to do for four years is escape this joint.

“And don’t forget your promise,” he says as the bell rings, and I stand to head back to the auditorium for our last assembly of the year—a painful two-hour presentation of all the awards for seniors who actually accomplished something this year.

“What promise?” I say, thinking he’s going to give me one last plug for Mizzou.

But instead he says, “Back. Stage. Passes.”

“You got it,” I say, laughing. Because I can almost picture such a thing.

*   *   *

The night before graduation, my parents take me to LoRusso’s, my favorite restaurant on the Hill, for our official celebration with Charlotte, Belinda and her mother, and Philip. It is the first time my parents have met Philip, so it’s sort of awkward, but he is one of those rare kids who is great with adults without being a kiss ass. Belinda, too, is back to her old self, even though her mother grounded her indefinitely—or at least until she pays off my parents for the dress. She’s already turned over about five graduation checks, and I chipped in fifty bucks from my last paycheck, partly to be nice, but also selfishly, because I get totally bored when Belinda is grounded. We only have about seventy dollars to go before she’s free.

Meanwhile, my mother’s the only one acting all strange. She has been cleaning like a fiend, getting ready for Marian, even though she’s staying at a hotel—the Chase Park Plaza, just as my mother once predicted. I assured my mom that it wasn’t because Marian doubted our accommodations, only that she didn’t want to intrude. I happen to believe this is the truth, and have told myself that I’m not allowed to be ashamed of my neighborhood, my house, my family, or anything else that is a part of me.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” my father says now as we all raise glasses of Coke. “To Kirby, for passing precalculus! And to Kirby, Belinda, and Philip … Congratulations on your upcoming graduation and best of luck with all your future endeavors—whatever they entail!”

He looks me right in the eyes and smiles, his way of throwing in the towel about college, telling me it’s okay—that
I’m
okay—no matter what I decide.

*   *   *

The next day is a whirlwind of activity. You’d think someone was getting married for all the primping and ironing and cooking—to say nothing of the jangling nerves and raw emotion. Even Charlotte looks rattled and misty-eyed when she finds me in my bedroom. I look up from my drums, acknowledging her, but still playing softly. She sits on my still unmade bed, and says, “I’m going to really miss you next year.”

“Who says I’m going anywhere?” I say.

“Mom thinks you’re going to move to New York,” she says. “Or Chicago.”

“Oh, does she, now?” I say, doing a little three-beat Paul Shaffer maneuver that punctuates all of Letterman’s jokes.

“Are you?” she asks, pulling her wet hair up in a ponytail.

I put down my sticks, shrug, and say who knows.

“
You
do,” she says. “I know you have a plan.”

“Okay,” I say, going to sit next to her on the bed. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

She leans in and whispers, “What?”

“I think I’m going to Mizzou.”

She starts grinning and asks who I’ve told.

“You’re the first,” I say. “And it’s not definite. So keep it under wraps.”

“Mum’s the word,” she says. “I promise. So long as you promise me you’ll call and talk to me all the time, wherever you are next year.”

“But I don’t talk to you all the time now,” I say, smiling at her.

She cracks up, acknowledging that I’m not much of a conversationalist, then says, “Promise?”

“Promise,” I say, thinking that shockingly enough, I might miss her a little bit, too.

*   *   *

Just before we have to leave for the ceremony, Marian calls me and wishes me good luck, then confirms our plans for afterward.

“I’ll look for you. What color are you wearing?” I ask, as my mother pretends not to listen.

“Red,” she says proudly, as I remember that I told her that was our school color.

I glance at my mother, who is also wearing red, and say, “Okay. That’ll be easy.” Then I ask her again if she has directions to the house.

“Yes,” she says. “Don’t worry about me. Just savor this. And I’ll see you afterward.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking of Conrad, who told me late last night that he’d be coming after all. I nearly tell her, but decide that he probably wouldn’t want me to, and that he’ll probably do his best to avoid her. So I just thank her and say good-bye.

Without missing a beat, my mother says, “So what color is she wearing?”

“Um, red,” I say. “What a coincidence, huh?”

My mother frowns and says, “I knew it … Maybe I should change?”

I think of how long and hard she searched for the right dress, and something compels me to go to her, put my arm around her, and say, “No, Mom. You should wear this dress. It looks awesome on you.” I look at her and hope she knows what I’m thinking. That it doesn’t matter what she wears; I only have one
real
mother. And she’s it.

*   *   *

A few hours later, after my parents and Charlotte have dropped me off and gone to park the car, I’m standing among my classmates, gathered in the entrance of the Cathedral Basilica. I look around at the nearly one-hundred-year-old narthex walls covered with a mosaic depicting our city’s namesake—King Louis IX of France. In fact, according to my mother’s nervous chatter on the way over, it comprises the largest church mosaic in the world. It is clear she not only wants our family to show well to Marian—but also the city and my school, and I can’t say I don’t feel the same way.

At some point, the chaos of hundreds of kids becomes organized, and we line up in twos, the girls in white caps and gowns, the boys in red. Most of the faculty is with us, too, also in caps and gowns, including Mr. Tully who looks unusually somber and handsome. A taped version of “Land of Hope and Glory” begins to play, our cue to begin the processional. Everyone quiets down completely, including the rowdier kids, and I feel a strange, collective swell of emotion, a communal reverence crossing clique lines—something I never thought possible. I guess endings will do that to people.

I take a deep breath and enter the cool, dark sanctuary. Flashbulbs go off everywhere—which feels sort of weird in church—and there is a buzz of quiet activity from all the people, packed in the pews. I look up at the breathtaking ceiling, hearing my mother’s words: “forty-one million glass pieces in more than seven thousand colors.” As we begin to walk again, I search the crowd and pick out Marian, then my family. They are on opposite sides of the aisle, but in pretty much the same row, so there is no way to make eye contact with everyone when I pass. I decide to play it safe and simply stare straight ahead, my hands folded as we’ve been instructed to do. I do not see Conrad, and tell myself not to be disappointed if he decided not to come.

As the music stops, I take my seat at the end of a long pew, all of us in assigned alphabetical order, and flip through the program, highlighted with names of all my star classmates—
best
this and
brightest
that. I close the program and my eyes and begin my own private meditation, tuning everything out, although I’m sure Father O’Malley’s homily and Gena Rych’s valedictorian speech are inspiring to many.

I think about my birth and my adoption and my first eighteen years. I think about the last few months and my trip to New York and finding Marian. I think about this day, what it means to my family, sitting behind me. I think of everything that had to happen to bring me to this moment. I think about where I am going and who I want to be.

And then our names are called, one at a time. There are cheers for everyone, some louder and more boisterous than others—pretty much directly correlating to popularity—and as we approach the
R
s, my heart starts to race almost as much as it did when I got on the stage with Conrad, though for very different reasons this time. Aside from my brief precalc scare, graduating from high school has always been something of a given, so it’s not that I’m surprised to find myself here. But I am still proud, and surprisingly grateful, too. I’m grateful to Marian for having me—and then giving me to a family who wanted a baby. I’m grateful to Conrad, whether he’s here or not, for accepting me right away, no questions asked. I am grateful to my little sister for never trying to make me feel like an outsider, even though she easily could have, even when I was doing it myself. And most of all, I am grateful to my parents for loving me and making me their own.

I hear my name—
Kirby Katherine Rose
—and stand and walk up the stairs to the altar where I shake hands with the president of our school and receive my diploma. As I turn to descend the stairs and just before I take my seat again, I catch my first glimpse of Conrad, who gives me a little salute with an invisible hat. I give him a big smile, then tip my cap in return.

*   *   *

We’ve been home for thirty minutes—just enough time for me to change into a T-shirt and jeans and my mom to get really nervous—and for that matter, really get on my nerves.

“Are you sure you don’t want to put on a dress?” she asks me.

“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure,” I say, trying to be patient with her. “Can we all just try to chill and be normal?”

“I agree with Kirby!” my dad calls up the stairs and I cringe, knowing that will mean he will talk Marian’s ear off.

The doorbell rings just moments after my parents and I are awkwardly assembled in the living room—where we never sit. I stand and bite my lip, wondering how many more dramatic knocks at the door can possibly exist in my life. When I open the door, there Marian is with a big bouquet of pink flowers, already in a vase. It is my least favorite color, but I have to admit they are pretty.

“Congratulations,” she says, handing them to me, along with a card. “That was a beautiful ceremony…”

“Thanks,” I say.

“I love your house.”

“Thanks,” I say again, my anxiety building. I turn and lead her into the living room, putting the flowers on an end table, out of the way. Then I stand in the middle of the room and, with as much composure as I can muster, introduce my parents to my birth mother.

“Mom, Dad, this is Marian Caldwell,” I say, having practiced the precise wording earlier this morning. “Marian—this is my mom and dad. Lynn and Art Rose.”

They shake hands, first my dad and Marian and then my mom and Marian, all of them smiling and nodding, murmuring hellos, as if they speak different languages and are waiting for an interpreter to bridge the gap.

Charlotte pokes her head in the room and gives me a little wave. “Oh, yeah. And that’s Charlotte. My sister,” I say, pointing at her.

“Hi!” Charlotte says, waving again.

“It’s so nice to meet you all,” Marian says.