by Bob Purssell
* * *
Sidebar #1: The picture of Elizabeth Sue and me appeared in the school newspaper under the headline “Showing Their True Colors.” The moment I saw it, I knew my mother would want the picture. After Clark Kent emailed me the file, I printed the photograph and gave it to my mother. Thrilled, she put it in a frame.
Sidebar #2: Just after Thanksgiving, I menstruated for the first time.
Sidebar #3: For Christmas, my parents gave me the black pants that matched my black suit jacket.
RIVALRY WEEKEND
By the end of my sophomore season, I was centering the second line on the girls’ ice hockey team. Consequently, I figured I would get a lot of ice time when my high school and its traditional rival, nicknamed the Broncos, held their annual Rivalry Weekend at the end of February. On Friday and Saturday, the boys’ and girls’ basketball and ice hockey teams played, and then both schools held dances. At stake was a trophy that the Broncos usually won. By four o’clock on Saturday, which was the start time for the girls’ ice hockey game, we, the Wildcats, had won two of the three contests. The Broncos very much wanted to win the girls’ ice hockey game and win the trophy on the tiebreaker. Since their girls had a much better record than we did, the Broncos were the clear favorites.
We played over our heads, and the game was one of those thrilling, back-and-forth affairs. For me personally, the game was a blast. In the first period, during a power play in which I was playing the point, I saw an opportunity. Sliding deep into the Bronco’s zone, I positioned myself just outside the face-off circle to the right of the goalie. Out of the corner came a centering pass, which I stopped. My slapshot bounced off two players and onto the stick of our left wing. She stuffed the puck into the net, and I received credit for an assist. In the second period, playing center, I intercepted an errant pass in the neutral zone and took off on a one-on-one rush. Approaching the lone defenseman, I faked left, skated right, and swept in unopposed on the goalie. When I dropped my right shoulder, the Bronco’s goalie bought my fake, defended the wrong side of the net, and failed to block my stick-side shot.
* * *
With two minutes left in the game, we ice the puck. Mixing lines, trying to keep her better players in the game, the coach sends me out to center the first line, which includes Angela, our captain and best player. I control the face-off and the puck ends up in the corner. Hustling, I take the puck away from a Bronco forward and poke it toward Angela. She kicks the puck ahead and rockets out of our zone on a solo, one-on-two rush. Trailing the play, I’m digging for all I’m worth. Up ahead, Angela fakes right, goes left, and begins to circle the Bronco’s right defenseman. Probably figuring that I’m not a threat, the left defenseman comes over to help. Just before the three of them collide, Angela snaps off a wrist shot.
The Bronco’s goalie blocks the shot with her stick, and the puck caroms out in front of the net. Trying to control the rebound, she flops to the ice. The bounding puck eludes the girl’s outstretched glove and slides out in front of the goalmouth. Meanwhile, the two Bronco defensemen and Angela are scrambling to extricate themselves from a sprawl in the middle of the face-off circle.
Me?
Still digging for all I’m worth, my skates crunching into the ice, I out-skate a back-checking Bronco forward. Seemingly in slow motion, precisely remembering every detail, I take control of the puck, thinking, this is a gift. With a wrist shot, I flip the puck over the sprawled goalie into a vast expanse of unprotected goal. Going much too fast to stop, I trip over the goalie’s stick. Crashing at full speed, I knock the net off its posts. Upside down, I fly through the air and land on the ice, my skates well above my head. Crazed with elation, unaware of a large orange, blue and black bruise that will ache for days, I scramble to my feet and began wildly prancing about, my outstretched arms above my head, my stick straight up in the air.
My teammates mob me. Ecstatic, we hug one another. Finally, the refs get us calmed down and the game resumes. The Broncos go nuts trying to score but there is not enough time. The buzzer sounds. We win.
* * *
After the game, even though I had not intended to do so, my teammates demanded that I go to the school dance. In a photograph of that long ago event, you can see me standing with the captains of the teams that had competed in Rivalry Weekend. The captain of the boys’ basketball team is holding a trophy and above our heads is a “Go Wildcats” banner. Which one am I? The obviously ill at ease, tall, skinny girl, awkwardly standing pigeon-toed. Devoid of any makeup, wearing a non-descript sweatshirt and jeans, my uncomfortable image looks like it might jump right out of the picture if it could.
As soon as the goal light flashed red, my status at school changed. My rap as “homeschooled geek who doesn’t have a clue” vanished. That evening I was the hero, the instrument of our victory. Of course, that faded as soon as our triumph became history. My rap now morphed into “brainy athlete who doesn’t have a clue about what being a teenage girl is all about.”
Why this change? Because I had slapped home a stationary puck from point-blank range into a largely empty net. Any player in that game could have done the same—with ease.
Of the nine goals scored in the contest, the last one, my hero goal, was technically the least interesting. My earlier goal required far more skill; two other goals were far prettier.
What my goal did require was luck, and lots of it.
If the goalie had controlled the rebound, I would not have scored.
If the Bronco’s left defenseman had played her position and not chased after Angela, I would not have scored.
If Angela’s shot had not caromed off the goalie’s stick in just the right way, I would not have scored.
If Angela had not successfully carried the puck out of our end and up the ice, I would not have scored.
All of these “if’s” and others contributed to my scoring the goal that changed my status at school.
While my goal was changing my classmates’ view of me, I was making my own discovery, one of a very personal nature. My goal, my fortunate goal, gave me the opportunity to hear, for the first time, the roar of the crowd—and not just literally. Awkward, ill at ease as I might be, I still enjoyed being at the center of the limelight. No, that’s wrong. I didn’t just enjoy it; I loved every second. Like any addict, all I wanted was MORE.
* * *
In May of my sophomore year, I went through a period when I wanted to know more about Gisele, my birth mother. Because I had broken into my father’s file cabinet and read the file labeled “Gisele,” I knew quite a lot about my biological mother. In particular, I knew: her last name (Brower); Social Security number; last address in the United States (Las Vegas); last address in Amsterdam; birthplace (McDonough, Georgia); passport number; and the court-appointed executor of her estate (my father—Gisele had died intestate and I was her sole heir). I also had a copy of a letter from Murray Silverman of Silverman Entertainment, Booking Agent to the Stars, stating he was no longer representing Gisele and that her account had a zero balance.
Of course, the thought that Gisele had been a star thrilled me. What did she do? Was she a singer? A comedienne? Where had she performed? I searched the Internet for “Gisele Brower,” but all I found were references to women who obviously were not my biological mother.
I considered using the free public search websites, but to get the information I wanted, I would have to subscribe. Not having much money of my own, the cost discouraged me.
I found the Silverman Agency’s website. Their mailing address had not changed from the one on the letter sent to my father. Knowing he was a link to my now-deceased biological mother, I carefully studied the website. There were several publicity photos of Murray Silverman taken with celebrities, most of whom I didn’t recognize. However, one showed a fortyish Silverman standing next to Frank Sinatra.
* * *
During dessert, my mother
asked me, “Did something happen today?”
What prompted her question was my silence during dinner. I had said very little. Fearful that I would regret my revelation, I replied, “I was thinking about Gisele.”
“What were you thinking?” asked my father.
As I answered, “I was wondering what she was like,” an emotion welled up inside me and tears began to form.
My father asked, “Does not knowing much about your birth parents trouble you?”
“Sometimes it does. I don’t know why.”
My attentive mother remained silent, as my father said, “Would you like to try and talk to people who knew your biological mother?”
Jumping at the prospect, I nearly yelled, “Could we?”
My father glanced at my mother who now spoke in her no-nonsense voice. “Barbara, before I agree to anything, your father and I will have a conversation.”
For a moment, I thought of protesting that I should be part of their conversation, but the tone of my mother’s voice had a sternness that warned me off. From past experience, I knew, when she was this emphatic; it was best that I keep silent and let my mother do it her own way.
* * *
Eight days went by. Twice I heard my parents talking about my request to learn more about Gisele. I made no effort to eavesdrop. It was better to wait.
On the eighth day, my mother came into my room while I was doing my homework, sat down and said, “Barbara, your father and I have discussed your desire to learn more about Gisele. He believes you’re mature enough to handle the disturbing truths that you may learn.”
My mother stopped, and I knew she held the opposite opinion. I also knew from the expression on her face that she was giving me the opportunity to convince her otherwise.
“I know she didn’t want me … and that actually was a good thing for me, because I have you and Father. Nothing I learn about Gisele will ever change that.” I paused before saying, “However, something inside me just has to know. I don’t know why I feel this way, but someday I’ll find out. I’d like my family to be with me but, if they aren’t … well, then, I’ll just …”
When I let my voice trail off, my mother, as was her custom when she had a new insight, said, “Ah ha,” and then paused. Thirty seconds or so went by before she announced, “I’ll tell your father I’ve changed my mind.”
* * *
Now I experienced one of the most bizarre episodes of my growing up. Because I knew the contents of the Gisele file, I knew my father would likely contact the Browers, Gisele’s family in Georgia, and/or Murray Silverman in Las Vegas. Since I didn’t want to admit that I had violated his privacy, I had to be very careful lest I give away my secret.
This meant we had peculiar conversations. For example, when my father told me, “Today, I contacted Murray Silverman,” I had to make sure that I asked, “Who is Murray Silverman?” even though I already knew he was Gisele’s booking agent. Additionally, even though I dearly wanted to know why he didn’t, I couldn’t ask why he wasn’t talking to the Brower family.
Somehow, my father never caught on that I had accessed the Gisele file, or if he did, he never let on. Perhaps we were both playing a double game.
* * *
In July, we met Murray Silverman at his agency’s one-story office building in downtown Las Vegas. He was a friendly man who was twenty years older than his publicity photos. After admitting he did not remember much about her, he showed us Gisele’s brochure. For the first time, I saw flattering pictures of my biological mother. Dressed in an extravagant costume, she looked like the ultimate showgirl. A head shot confirmed her beauty.
After consulting his records, Mr. Silverman told us, “We represented Gisele Brower on two separate occasions for a total of five years. She did a fair amount of modeling and had some success as a showgirl. She did three different productions, two at the Sands and the last one at the Stardust. Then she left a forwarding address in Paris, France.”
As Silverman handed me a copy of Gisele’s records, I asked, “Do you know why she left Las Vegas?”
“The fifties through the eighties were the golden age for showgirls. Then they started closing the old-style casinos, phasing out the big productions. A lot of girls got thrown out of work.” Probably seeing my disappointment, Silverman gave me a ray of hope. “One of the dancers from the old days, Daphne Richards, is still around. Gisele had her listed as a contact. Maybe she’ll remember your biological mother.”
My father asked, “Would it be possible for us to contact Ms. Richards?”
Silverman answered, “You’re in luck on that one. She’s working for Bally’s on their Jubilee! production. Tomorrow, they’re doing auditions. I have to talk to her about some people we’re sending over, so I’ll know this afternoon if she can fit you in.”
* * *
Daphne Richards met us at 9:30 in the morning. Although the auditions wouldn’t start until 10:30, the first crisis of the day had already emerged. The piano player, injured in an automobile accident, was receiving treatment at the local emergency room.
In the midst of her crisis, between phone calls, Ms. Richards took time out to tell us, “Gisele and I, when we were starting out, shared a place. Your mother, your biological mother, had the looks and she could dance, so she was getting work all the time.”
My father said, “But Silverman said she only worked in three shows?”
Ms. Richards asked my parents, “Can I be frank about Gisele with your daughter?”
My father said, “I’m going to say yes, but I may have to stop you.”
“Barbara, Gisele wanted the good life and she wanted it now.” Ms. Richards paused and I nodded that I understood. “With her looks and charm, men found her irresistible. She had plenty of dates. That’s why I insisted she move out.”
I did not understand the significance of what Ms. Richards was telling me, but I knew from my parents’ expression it was bad.
Ms. Richards asked, “Should I continue?”
My father replied, “Be sensitive. You’re talking about things outside our daughter’s realm of experience.”
She nodded and then continued. “After we split, she met this Arab guy. He wanted Gisele full time, so he had her move into his place. We kept in touch for a while, but then she left town, to Europe, I think. Two years later, when our paths crossed again, she was already six months pregnant.”
“That was me?”
“Probably. Can I be frank with you, Barbara?”
“Yes.”
“From what I can see, you have wonderful parents. Putting you up for adoption was Gisele’s way of giving you a ticket to a better life.”
“I know I’m lucky, Ms. Richards … but anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate.”
She glanced at my parents. My father asked, “Would you like Ms. Richards to tell us first?”
Fearing my parents would hold back something important, I replied, “No, I can handle it.”
Ms. Richards nodded and then said, “Well, the last time Gisele and I talked—I distinctly remember the conversation because it was so weird—she told me she would be putting her baby up for adoption. When I asked, ‘Why?’ she said the father—it was the Arab—was paying her a lot of money to keep his involvement secret.”
“Why?”
“That I can’t tell you. All I know is that Gisele told me that he paid her expenses plus a lot extra to keep his name off the birth certificate.”
I knew my parents were watching closely for my reaction. If I freaked out, my parents would intervene and that would be the end of my learning more about Gisele. So, containing my emotions, in a flat voice, I said, “Like you said earlier, I’m lucky the way things turned out.”
At that moment, a woman interrupted and told Ms. Richards, “The agency says it will be 11:30 at the earliest before they can get us another pia
no player.”
“Damn,” muttered an obviously displeased Daphne Richards, who then instructed her assistant to, “Keep trying.”
Breaking the tension, my father joked to my mother, “Looks like you’re going to play Vegas after all.”
Instantly, Ms. Richards asked my mother, “You play the piano?”
“I don’t perform; I teach.”
Ignoring my mother’s statement, Ms. Richards pressed, “Would you please help us out? The audition means a lot to a girl looking for an opportunity.”
My mother needed only a little more coaxing before she was sitting at a piano in a good-sized room lined with mirrors. Ms. Richards allowed my father and me to stand next to the piano and watch.
Dancer after dancer, usually dressed in leotards, came into the room. After giving my mother their music, Ms. Richards had them dance their routine. Some of the time, after the dancer had finished, Ms. Richards, an excellent dancer, would dance a routine of her own and then instruct the auditioning dancer to do likewise.
Around 12:15, the piano player, his head in a neck brace, arrived. He exclaimed, “Oh, I see you got a replacement.”
“No, George,” explained Ms. Richards, “Mrs. O’Leary, in your absence, volunteered to help us out.”
After satisfying herself George could play in spite of his injury, Ms. Richards halted the auditions and walked us to the door. Taking my mother’s hands in hers, she thanked my mother profusely and then offered my family complimentary tickets to a Bally’s Jubilee! show. When my father accepted—I think he did it out of courtesy—Ms. Richards made a brief call and then told us, “The tickets will be waiting at the box office.”
As I thanked her, Ms. Richards said, “I’ll ask around and see if anyone else remembers Gisele.”
In the rental car, my parents and I discussed what we had learned. Quickly, I realized that unless there was some new input from Daphne Richards, my hopes of learning more in Las Vegas about my birth mother had hit a wall.
