Blackbird: A Childhood Lost and Found Read online

  I take a quick look at Rona, who seems equally interested and then I can only look at my own hands.

  “Well, um,” I hear myself say again. “I suppose.”

  “Oh, Daniel,” Catherine says, slapping at his arm, “leave her alone.”

  After that, we downshift to politics and since it happens to be an election year (McCain versus Obama), they collectively talk about the possibility of “that man” making it into office. “That man” being Obama. Catherine talks about her admiration of Sarah Palin and how she hopes this country has the good sense to put such a bright lady in office.

  I can only shrug and say I’m not really political.

  Finally, we make an even deeper downshift and find the mutual ground of children. Daniel and Rona tell me about their daughter. I talk about Spencer and Josephine.

  “I’m just dying to meet them,” Daniel says.

  “Daniel just loves kids,” Rona adds.

  “He’s wonderful with them too,” Catherine adds.

  PRETTY SOON, SALADS are eaten and the water is gone and Daniel, Rona, and Catherine are like a team of stockbrokers before the exchange opens. They check their watches, read their text messages, and tap at their phones. Time to get back to work.

  As we leave the restaurant, Rona and Catherine pull together a loose plan for all of us to meet for pizza tonight. Rona wants me to meet her daughter, Brittney, and Catherine wants Jessie to bring her kids over too.

  I sway a little, imagining another layer of family and my stomach rolls with nausea. All I want to do is sleep again but I nod like yes, pizza would great.

  Daniel is strangely quiet and when he hugs me, I can tell emotion rises in him—some old sadness that I don’t know but that I certainly recognize. I want to ask him what’s going on but he lifts a hand between us like I need to give him room. He has tears in his eyes.

  Later, Rona will tell me that this was happiness. Daniel was just so happy to meet me.

  AFTER THEY LEAVE, it’s just Catherine and me again. We stand close to each other, in the parking lot, next to her car. Our bodies—so much the same—do not touch.

  “That went great, didn’t it? ” she says. “I think that went really great.”

  Her blue-gray eyes look tired, as if this meeting took a huge effort.

  “It did,” I say. “You did a good job.”

  “Me?” she says. “You did a great job. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re my daughter.”

  She touches my cheek, the lightest glance of a touch and in that moment, I am so thankful I had the guts to come to Reno and to endure meeting all these people.

  In a Reno parking lot, I am someone’s daughter and I get to feel how it is to have my mother be happy to have me around. It’s the best gift. Better than gold, and no, I have not made a bad gamble with my heart.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  JUST THREE AGAIN

  “DOES IT FEEL REAL?” JO ASKS.

  “What, Honey?” I ask.

  “Finding your mother?”

  We are in Jo’s bed, waking up to a new day. No school. Cartoons and cinnamon rolls on the horizon. The drapes that surround Jo’s canopy bed are pulled closed—making a fortress she calls “the girls only zone.”

  “I suppose it does,” I say. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” she says. “I know it’s happened but it doesn’t feel real. It’s more like a dream.”

  I study her heart-shaped face, her dove-gray eyes, and her curling blond hair that comes to her chin.

  “Maybe because we are here, together? ” I ask. “And she is somewhere else? Is that what you mean? ”

  “I guess, but it’s more than that,” Jo says. “It’s like you’ve always been here and she has never been here.”

  I curl my knees under her bottom and have my arm under her neck. Our fingers are intertwined the way she likes. She calls it “cuddle time.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I say. “It is like a dream.”

  IT’S BEEN TWO months since I met Catherine and I’m keeping my kids separate from the reunion because it’s hard to figure out a way to mesh our two worlds—and our two ways of being. In Reno, Catherine is a delight, but when I come home, she is not.

  She is not willing to come to Portland. She is also not willing to call on a regular basis. And she will not help me pick a date to come see her.

  To make it worse, Daniel had made plans to come to Portland and then—at the last minute—cancelled. He was busy with work. He did not reschedule.

  Spencer had been so excited to meet his new uncle—excitement that had been built within him by my own overblown enthusiasm.

  It was one thing to be sketchy with me—to yank me around—but my kids did not deserve that kind of treatment. For my own, I could be protective.

  Unlike Spencer and me, who keep our hearts out for all to see, Jo wasn’t upset about Daniel—not in the least. She keeps herself far away from all the drama—maybe that’s just her way. She likes to stay quiet and think about things. I appreciate that quality.

  “Do you think you might want to meet her, Honey?” I ask. “Someday? ”

  Jo purses her lips together, as if kissing the air. “I don’t know.”

  Before I can ask another question, Spencer pushes the drapes open and says, “Hey!”

  Jo jumps up and takes a defensive posture—hands on her hips with her long fingers splayed wide.

  “Girls ONLY!” she yells. “Go away.”

  “Ha!” Spencer says. “I can be here if I want. Right, Mom?”

  “Yes, yes, come on. Scoot over, Jo, make room.”

  Jo throws herself back on the bed and we all readjust to fit three.

  “You were talking about your mom, weren’t you? ”

  “A little,” I say.

  Spencer nods but says nothing. He smells like morning breath and boy. He’s going into puberty. Soon there will be underarm deodorant in the medicine chest for him.

  “Are you glad you looked for her?” he asks.

  They both look at me, waiting for the answer.

  “Yes,” I say. “I am so glad.”

  “Would you do it again,” he asks, “if you had to it over? ”

  “Yes,” I say.

  It’s quiet again and I wonder what’s coming next. Will he ask when he will meet her or if I’m still mad and hurt about the Daniel thing?

  “Do you think it’s over with her?” Spencer asks.

  “Over?”

  “Do you think you’ll ever see her again? ”

  “Oh, sure,” I say. “Maybe, well. I don’t know ... ”

  I stop because I don’t know what else to say. I take a deep breath and back the story up, in order to give the widest view. I try to explain to them how it was for my mother to be a young girl in 1963, giving up a baby and having her heart broken. I talk about living a lifetime with such a big secret and how it is hard for her—and for me—to figure out a way to be together.

  I try to speak slowly and with care.

  “Maybe Catherine and I can’t be together now—or for a while,” I say. “I don’t know. But I’m glad I found her and I know she’s glad too.”

  It’s like story time and I have to stop the book midway.

  “I just don’t now what’s going to happen in the end, you guys,” I say. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Jo pops up and grins. “Well I know how it ends,” she says.

  “You do?” I say.

  “Sure!” she says and she nods over at Spencer who must understand because he sits up too.

  “You have us,” Spencer says.

  “Right,” says Jo. “You live happily ever after with Princess Josephine and Lord Spencer. The End!”

  Spencer nods in total agreement.

  They both seem very pleased with themselves and even though I am supposed to be the writer, I couldn’t have created a better end myself.

  TWENTY-NINE

  FORGIVING

  THE LEAVES OF THE RED OAK TR
EE finally fall from the tree. They float on the breeze and cover the green lawn to make a mosaic of decay.

  It is nearly Halloween.

  A knock comes at the back door, knuckles against glass. Spencer and Jo race up the basement steps, a clatter of bodies. “Daaaaaad!” the kids yell.

  Spencer pulls the back door open and together they tackle Steve where he waits on the back porch. Their love is like the love of Labrador pups—unbounded.

  “Hey, you guys ready?” he asks, laughing and patting their backs.

  “We want to finish,” Spencer starts.

  “Yeah, we’re watching Cyberchase,” Jo finishes.

  “It’s a double header,” Spencer adds.

  “Well, Cyberchase!” Steve winks over at me. “You can’t miss that.”

  “Just five more minutes,” Spencer says.

  “Well, okay,” Steve says.

  “Come in,” I say. “You want coffee?”

  “Um sure, if it’s no trouble.”

  The kids tumble down the steps again and the TV blares. I pour Steve a cup of coffee and he lingers at the back door, as if ready to make a quick getaway. He says something about fall and how he can’t believe it’s here so soon. “So many leaves to rake,” he says.

  I nod.

  After four years apart, we have come to an uneasy peace. Divorce is awkward. You make plans, you have dreams, you fail, you fall, you get up, and you start again. I know we’re okay. He’s dating. Roger is in my life. It’s going to be fine.

  “You know, you’re really different,” Steve says—breaking into my thoughts.

  “Ha ha,” I say. I think he’s about to crack a joke.

  “No, I mean it. You’re more, I don’t know, grounded or something.”

  I lean against the edge of the counter and cross my arms over my stomach, a habit I’ve gotten into these days. I squint at Steve, trying to see if he is saying what I think he is saying. Is he really that perceptive?

  “Well, you know I found my first mother?” I venture.

  “Yeah, Spencer told me,” he says. “I was going to ask but I didn’t want to pry.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say.

  Steve looks into the mug, as if searching for wisdom in my morning brew.

  “Do you want to see a photo? ”

  He perks up as if this is exactly what he wants and I wave him into the dining room. On the table is the mess of breakfast dishes, Jo Jo’s morning creations of butterflies and rainbows drawn with colored pen, Spencer’s pile of comic books, and my computer. I bend over the keyboard and bring Catherine’s image to the screen. Catherine is there with her gray-blue eyes, auburn hair, and great big fashion-model smile.

  I step back and hug myself again.

  “Wo-ow.”

  Steve puts his hand on the table and leans in for a better look.

  “She’s a knockout. God, she looks just like Jo.”

  I swell with pride as if I had something to do with Catherine’s looks. “And her name is Catherine,” I add.

  “Like Jo’s middle name!”

  “And she was going to name me—get this—Tara.”

  Steve stands back and blinks on this information.

  “You are kidding me,” he finally says.

  “I know,” I say, with another swell of pride.

  “Did you tell that woman—that teacher? ”

  “Tylanni?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Yes. She was blown away. Speechless.”

  Steve can only nod, equally silenced.

  “And there’s more. When she was in high school and pregnant with me, her tutor’s name was—get this—Carmel!”

  Steve is now unable to even nod. His mouth hangs open.

  “It’s like you knew,” he finally says.

  “I know,” I say again. I beam with pride. I did know. I did.

  I go on to tell Steve the good parts about how I met Catherine—how she came to Portland and we spent a day together. I describe the way she moves, the sound of her voice, her gestures, her mannerisms, her inflections. I tell him how much alike we are.

  As I go on and on, I click through more photos and in the midst of my slideshow, Steve steps back and pushes at the bridge of his nose.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s wrong? ”

  He shakes his head, unable to speak.

  I am so surprised by the tears that fill his eyes, I rush off to get a paper towel from the kitchen—just to have something to do. I’ve seen him cry only once, when Spencer was born. Actually twice. He cried when I left. But overall, Steve is a rock.

  Back in the dining room, I push the paper towel into his hand.

  “She’s what you’ve been looking for all this time,” he manages to say.

  I touch his arm and then drop my hand. I just stand there, mystified and helpless.

  While he grips the paper towel, his face gets red and he clenches his jaw.

  What passes through his mind? Is he replaying all the years of our marriage—all the ridiculous fights? Is he seeing our bitter end and the harm we’ve done to each other?

  I am.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you, Steve,” I say. “If I knew what I had been missing, if there was any way I could have known sooner—”

  He shakes off my apology and tosses his hands high as if talking to the ceiling and not to me. “Why didn’t I think of it?” he yells.

  Throwing the paper towel on the table, he pushes the tears away with the back of his fist. “It’s so damn obvious, now that I see her and now I see you with her. God. What an idiot I have been.”

  He hits his forehead and I grab his arm to stop the blow. “No. It’s not your fault. It was me. I expected too much from you, from the marriage. You couldn’t be my whole family. You couldn’t fill in for all that loss.”

  I don’t even know what I am saying. I just can’t bear Steve feeling so bad because at the end of the day, he’s a good guy. He loves his kids and he loved me too. Our problems—seemingly so vast and complex—boiled down to basic ignorance and a lot of misunderstanding.

  Out of habit or just awkwardness, we trip over each other. Our words of apology and explanation collide. We say “if only” and “what if” and then we stop because it is clear we both think the same thing: Could we have made it as a couple? Could we still? We stop ourselves because those days are so far gone. We’ve made new lives. We’ve healed from the old wounds of our past.

  We are parents together now and I think we’re pretty good parents. We’re finally friends again. Is that enough?

  The mailman tramps up the porch steps, slaps letters into the box, and someone honks a car horn on the street. Jo and Spence laugh at something on TV.

  “I hope you can forgive me, Jen,” he says.

  “Of course,” I say. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  We hug each other and it’s an odd embrace. We’ve spent so much time building barriers we don’t know how to hold each other any more. Or perhaps we never did.

  Steve says he needs to take a minute to himself. He says he will go around the block for a quick walk. He doesn’t want the kids to see him upset.

  “No problem,” I say.

  Steve goes through the living room and out the front door. The screen slaps back on the frame as he goes down the front steps.

  THIRTY

  THE KITE RIDER

  CHILDREN USED TO make me nervous, my own included. Their loud noises and screams—even in happiness—once sent me into a fit of nonsensical shaking and nail biting. I’d get rashes and feel as if my head were exploding with anxiety. Bedtime was a savior. Movie time was another blessing. The hot tub was a necessity.

  I can now trace this nervous reaction to how I cried as a baby, so often and so deeply, that Janet would isolate me until I stopped or simply passed out. As a very young child, if I cried or threw a fit, I was put into cold showers or sent to sit in the corner as punishment. By the time I was four or five, I had learned to hold all feelings down and to tigh
ten myself into a model of obedience. This was not Janet and Bud’s fault. They did the best they knew how. But the result was nervousness and agitation around children and childlike behavior.

  Since meeting my mother, there has been a shift in my core and children don’t freak me out like they used to. Perhaps to test if it is true, I agree to go on a camp-out with my daughter’s second-grade class. I am emboldened. I accept the invitation; no, I volunteer.

  “But you hate school functions,” Spencer says.

  “Yeah, you never come to school,” Jo agrees.

  The three of us are in the car and they sit in the back seat. They clutch bagels with cream cheese and juice boxes, breakfast on the go.

  “I do come to school,” I say. I adjust the rearview to see them better. “I come to your plays. And I drive. And I’ve helped in the library.”

  “Once,” Spencer says. “You did the library once.”

  “But I did it,” I say.

  Spencer chews on his bagel and with food still in his mouth, he speaks up.

  “Well, I don’t get it,” Spencer says. “I’m the oldest. I should get you on a camp-out first.”

  “I’ll teach a writing class for your class this year. How’s that?” I suggest.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he says. It’s as if he has missed out on something and he wears a frown under a smear of cream cheese.

  Jo sticks her tongue out at her brother, as if she has won some victory.

  Spencer is, of course, mortally offended. “Knock it off,” he says.

  Jo cannot contain herself though. She flaps her arms under her fleece rainbow poncho with the fuzzy fringe. She looks like a human butterfly.

  THE REUNION CAME to a stop, four months after it began. If I went to Reno, and I did three times, the visits went well. Being in my mother’s presence infused me with a peace and calm and love. The trouble came when we were apart. My mind, with stories of abandonment, fear, despair, loneliness, anger, and sorrow, would overcome me. And Catherine couldn’t keep up. She couldn’t call, check in, or come to Portland. The logistics were too much. She said she felt backed into a corner and trapped. She felt I was too needy.