by Meg Kearney
When You Never
Said Goodbye
An Adoptee’s Search for Her Birth Mother
A NOVEL IN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES
Meg Kearney
For Elizabeth Ann Smith,
one last time
(1938–1983)
Contents
Prologue: Song of My 18th Year
_______
Poems and Journal Entries
_______
The Story Behind the Novel
Notes
Lyrics to the Song “When You Never Said Goodbye”
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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When You Never Said Goodbye
Prologue: Song of My 18th Year
Back when my heart was a little red jewel—
before my longings or long limbs were formed—
my mother, just nineteen, was fated to choose:
should she keep me, or give me away.
Now people say I’m a fact-blind fool. She did
what she did—why search for her now? I have
a blessed life. I’m still young, still in school.
She’s a secret, and should stay that way.
But I’m a seeker of the past—sometimes
a breaker of rules. Maybe, just maybe
I am like her: brown curls and brown eyes
now two of the clues. And maybe, I say,
she’s a seeker, too.
Now Two Haunt My Holidays
It’s Christmas Eve. Already into the gin,
my brother Bob attempts to make us all
laugh while the turkey bakes. “What
comes before Christmas Eve?” Kate,
my chef-sister, makes gravy, rolls
her eyes. I don’t. At least Bob’s trying.
“Okay, what?” I ask. Mom sips tea,
focused on my father’s ghost. He lingers
in this kitchen like bright, ethereal
moonlight. It takes away our appetites.
As if Mom isn’t thin enough. “Christmas
Adam!” Bob says. I hear Kate groan but
I just want to cry. Dad was the king
of corny jokes. It is our first Christmas
without him. It used to be just my birth
mother who hovered over holidays,
silent and faceless. Like an outcast
no one would name. But not a ghost.
Not dead. Not like Dad. I might meet
her, someday. But Dad? Never again.
“Let’s be thankful,” Mom finally says,
“that we had him at all.” We nod. Amen.
Journal Entry #2162: Day After Christmas
I thought my birth mother might be my Christmas present. That turned out to be like waiting for the real Santa Claus to show.
It’s been 121 days since I registered. All three sites—International Soundex, the Adoptees’ Liberty Movement Association, and the one in NY State—said it could take days, or it could take months before a match is made with my birth mother. That is IF, if she’s registered, too. But with each passing day, I doubt more and more that she is.
How did I go from being a kid who loves Christmas to being a college student who almost dreads it? Even seeing Tim yesterday soothed but didn’t cheer me. He gave me a silver bracelet and a kiss that tasted like hot chocolate, and all I could do was weep on his new blue button-down.
We all went to morning Mass—Mom, Kate, Bob, and I—and tried to sing “Silent Night” and “Come Let Us Adore Him”—Dad’s favorite hymns. Back home again, carols just annoyed us. We stared at the blinking tree, hesitated to open gifts as if each one was a toy we knew was broken. That’s when the idea came to me. Over dinner I said, “We don’t need a tree or carols or a Yule log. What we need is a dog.”
Everyone agreed. We do need furry, four-legged joy. We need wet, sloppy kisses and excuses to take long walks along our snowy road. Today we climbed in Mom’s car, drove to our local shelter, and came home with a boy named Butter. So another adoptee with a mystery for a past has joined this fatherless family.
It’s good timing, getting Butter. Kate took the 3:42 train back to the city, and Bob flies to CA tomorrow. Mom and I leave for NYU on Sunday, then she’ll head back home to New Hook to what would have been an empty house—but won’t be, thanks to the puppy. And I’ll be in New York. THE place to be a poet. The last place I saw my birth mother. Okay, I was only five months old when she gave me up. But the poet Stanley Kunitz said “the blood remembers” such things. My blood remembers. That will help me find her. It must.
Lucky
Dog breath—that’s what I wake to—Butter
thumping his paws on the edge of my bed,
licking me to death.Where am I?
Right. I’m home.And the time?
After nine! Tim is coming at ten so we can
spend the day. (He goes away again
tomorrow—some golf thing.) Swinging
my legs out of bed, I thank Butter with a kiss
on his head, then run for the shower.
Florida sun has deepened Tim’s half-
Mexican skin to the dark copper of an old
penny. Plenty of girls must be after you,
I think as Butter and I greet him at the door.
Tim’s hug feels better than I’d hoped for;
his kiss, more welcome than a woodstove
in winter. He offers a hand to Butter, who
sits down to shake it. “Let me know if you
want me to take this dog to Miami,” Tim
teases Mom, who’s come from the kitchen
to say hello. She’s wearing the new scarf
I gave her for Christmas, all greens and blues
to accent her auburn hair. “Apparently
he’s already earned his degree,” Mom says,
then asks about Tim’s father and brother
George. Tim tells her about George’s new
wheelchair, a special kind that rolls on sand
so they can bring him to the beach. I sneak
a stare at Tim while he speaks—his jeans,
his cream fisherman’s net sweater that shows
off his tan. Is this man really with me?
We head out to snowshoe at the State Park,
and I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror
by the door. My new black sweater doesn’t
help—I’m white as paper. Church-white
with monk-brown curls. You, I silently tell
my reflection, are one lucky girl.
Haiku for Tim: Snowshoeing,
Catskill Mountain State Park
Pine scent, cardinal
on a birch branch. Remember?
Your lips, blue as snow.
Off to College, Take 2
Once again my Subaru’s jammed with stuff
I’m bringing to college, only this time we had
to leave enough room for Butter on the back-
seat. Once again my friend Jan is here to see
me off, laughing as Mom bugs me about
the back window being blocked by pillows
and bags, only this time our friend Jade is
here, too, wishing me luck at NYU. Once
again I climb into the driver’s seat, Mom
beside me with her tea. Once again friends
wave as I beep and drive away, then lightly
touch my charm necklace to make sure it’s
still there—only this time neither Mom nor
I say we wish Dad were here, too. He is.
And so am I, pants Butter, plant
ing kisses
in my ear.
The Other Me (Or, Why I’m Going to New York Instead of Back to Syracuse University)
The Other Me was at SU three weeks when she realized
my mistake. Instead of following my head as she always
does, she should’ve followed my heart’s ache, as the other
Other Me would make me do. At SU I thought I’d become
a reporter—make a living by being a writer for a newspaper
or TV. It took Journalism 101 to discover (make that, whack
me over the head with) Rule Number One: “stick to the facts.”
In poems, you can make things up as long as what you say
is true. I’m an aspiring poet—what could I do? Transfer
to NYU. What better place to grow in my art than
Manhattan? And what better place to learn where I came
from than the city where I was born? So here I am, following
my heart. (And yes, birth mother, following you.)
Doesn’t It Figure
Doesn’t it figure—
we’re already on
the West Side
Highway—Mom’s
driving now—we’re
in Manhattan, nearly
there when somehow
she decides to say,
“I suppose you haven’t
heard from any
registries? It’s been
a while since I’ve
asked.” Three weeks,
I think, but just say
“No,” gaze at the bleak
morning haze. “Didn’t
think so,” Mom says,
but she doesn’t let it
go. “I wonder—after
the fall you’ve had—”
(All I need is a lecture,
I think, watching
the streets plus her
from the corner of one
eye.) “Maybe you
should just focus
on your studies? Forget
about registries for
a while?” She tries
to smile. “Forty-second
Street,” I say, as in
someone’s watching
where we’re going.
I try to keep calm.
“Right—we’ll go left
on Fourteenth,” she
responds with a mock
kind of brightness, like
a nightlight in a dungeon.
“So, what do you think?”
That you need to see
a shrink? I want to say. . .
Don’t go there. I swear
I try to stop myself, even
wave one hand as if to
clear the air, but still I
blurt, “You don’t get it.
You say you do, but you
don’t. Kate didn’t at first.
Only Dad. He would have
totally supported me, this
search!” Mom’s face
looks wooden and red
as if I’d slapped it.
Which I kind of did,
mentioning Dad like that.
But what did she expect?
Now we’re both wrecks.
A kind of sadness fills
my veins like poison sap.
Butter whimper-groans
from the back seat. “Good
Butter,” Mom soothes, but
won’t look at me. We turn
left on Fourteenth Street,
right on Hudson, Bleecker—
I should be psyched, about
to meet my roommate Rhett,
about to start my dream.
Instead my cheeks are wet;
my heart feels like a sun about
to set. “Left,” I instruct, my
voice tinged with regret. “I’m
sorry, Lizzie—this isn’t how
I want to leave you, and I only
meant—” “I know,” I say,
determined not to pout, spirits
slightly rising as we turn
right on Washington Square
South, then left and here we
are with a zillion other cars
at Goddard Hall. Mom stops
the car; Butter’s panting—he
sees trees. Mom turns to look
at me. “I do understand,
Lizzie, and I love you. Only—
I worry.” Her voice is shaky.
As we hug I whisper that
I love her, too, and now Butter
tries to join us, head popping
between our seats. Mom
slips him a treat as we laugh,
relieved we haven’t totally
destroyed this day. Now
I can’t believe we’re here.
“End of the road for me,”
I tell Butter, scratching his ears.
Hello, New York; Hello, Rhett Gilbert Driskell
I.
Parking lot. Tail-gate party. Traffic-
jam. Flea market. Washington Square
East could be any of these. Cars line up
on both sides of the street, purple
and white balloons flounce in the breeze
above matching fabric signs that read
“GODDARD HALL:
NYU WELCOMES YOU.”
Dressed in jeans, heels, and NYU
sweatshirts (even though it’s freezing),
three girls go by rolling huge plastic
buckets filled with duffel bags and boxes;
two more carry big shopping bags
decorated with reindeer and elves.
Beyond them, a boy in a Stoned Crows
T-shirt pulls a suitcase while nearby
a man hugs a girl goodbye. I stare
amazed as a guy with purple spiked
hair glides by playing something
classical on a violin. While Mom takes
Butter to the park for a “break” (Butter
sniffing every bit of ground, every
mound of dirty snow), I try to shake
off our little tiff—how weird things
get when we talk about my search—
and again take in the fact that I’m here.
II.
“You should have seen it last fall,”
a voice with a tiny drawl says. “You
never would’ve scored a spot this fast.”
Twirling around, I see a girl with stylish
red glasses, dark hair as straight and short
as mine is curly and long. “Rhett?”
I’m sure she is but—I try to decide
whether she’s five feet one or two.
(My Tall Girl Syndrome means I always
try to take a mental measure.) “You
didn’t guess I’m so vertically challenged,”
she says, smiling. An Indian man walks by,
a suitcase in each hand. “You look just like
your picture, Liz.” She offers her hand to
shake, but we hug instead. She smells
expensive, like Chanel. “I know your
voice from all our calls,” I say, “and saw
your picture on Facebook—” I hesitate,
unsure. “It’s the glasses,” Rhett explains,
touching one finger to the scarlet frame.
“I was too tired to put in my eyes.” That’s
what Kate calls her contacts, so I’m not
confused. Walking full around my car
she asks no one in particular, “Where
to begin?” “It doesn’t matter,” I answer,
glancing toward the park, “but first you
need to meet Mom. And Butter.”
Journal Entry #2163:
From Handwritten Notes Taken During
Rhett’s Unofficial Tour of Goddard Hall
It’s like being one of a few bees left in a hive, knowing more than half my fellow bees are some
where warm, doing their flower thing. But they’ll be back for spring . . . the rest of us are here for January Term.
About 200 Freshmen (and women!) live here, mostly English/Liberal Studies majors.
Rhett claims: “Nice people, tight community!” “City excursions!” “Theater, museums, poetry readings!” Most people hang out in the hallways of each floor @ night . . . which floor depends on your mood/interests.
7th Floor (where we live):
Quiet, most private. Window in hall: can see Washington Square Park, kind of. Walls are a happy-face yellow. Smell of burned popcorn.
6th Floor:
Intellectuals congregate here, talk politics (political science minors), world history, food/cooking, comic books & graphic novels. Avoid talk of sports, especially if you’re from New England (Red Sox, Patriots + Yankees, Giants = fights worse than ones about religion). Odor of antiseptic? Poster of Michelle Obama on somebody’s door.
5th Floor:
Only quiet because it’s noon on Saturday & January Term. Come here for arts & crafts (origami—at least 1,000 paper swans taped to a bulletin board). Pictionary, concerts (violins, guitars, African drums, mandolins).
Smell of oranges, antiseptic. Floors just cleaned? Someone burning (unauthorized) candles?
4th Floor: “Still discovering its raison d’être.*”—Rhett
* Looked this up: means “reason for existence.”
Fashion shows (something Japanese?), séances, hip-hop/rap, chess, cheese doodles, face painting, thumb wrestling. Rumor: ballroom dancing this spring.
That antiseptic smell covering up sweat. Note on someone’s door: “BEWARE OF ZOMBIES ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.”
3rd Floor:
“Party Central,” by vote last October, post-11 p.m. nightly except Mondays. Alcohol not allowed but “we make do.” Lots of music here, too. “And cute guys.”
Two doors show off Mind of Snow posters, one signed by the band. A mop leans against the wall. I think I smell pot, but the smell of coffee overpowers everything else.
2nd Floor:
“Study hall.” “Study buddies.” Serious students—usually lots here. If you need quiet/solo focus, go to library or 7th floor. Guy named Calvin hangs here a lot but lives on 3 and I should meet him (!?). Lots of doors have posters: Einstein; bottom half of a head with daisies growing out of the top; Charlie Chaplin; some guy with a cello; B.G. Parker, lead singer of Boston Cure.
