by Meg Kearney
That Clorox smell again, plus something sweet—cookies? Chocolate.
Ground Floor:
Wi-Fi. Starbucks: “one of the busiest in Manhattan.” “Don’t think you can grab coffee running to class—line is usually out the door, sometimes stretches around the corner.” If desperate, “Sam and Calvin make great coffee” (3rd floor).
Definitely smell coffee; something spicy. And heat.
Basement:
Laundry room. Some machines always broken. Good luck getting washer/dryer unless come at weird time. Two guys sit on washing machines, staring at their phones.
Lounge! Empty. TV works. “Lending library”: take a book, leave a book.
Parties often start here, but by 2 a.m. wind up on 3rd floor.
Clorox again, but also a musty smell. And flowers? Detergent.
After our tour, we head to St. Mark’s Place: Thai food at Klong, big lunch for $7.50! That’s when Rhett explains why I lucked out and got a room in Goddard—the girl who was supposed to be her roommate in the fall (Sarah somebody) went AWOL. Seems Sarah called the day before classes started to say she was on her way to NY, but never made it past NJ. Something about a boyfriend at Rutger’s.
Goddard Hall rocks. Right on the PARK. Already wish I could spend all four years here.
Perfect Roommates
Rhett says I’m the reason her first roommate
didn’t show. I’m leaning on the half wall
that separates our desks, noting it’s tall
enough to give us each privacy—great
in a room so small—and if I’m up late
studying, my light won’t bother her at all.
I just feel lucky that some girl last fall
went running after a boy. Rhett says it’s fate,
because not only do we have a lot
in common, we’re also both neat (couldn’t live
with a slob), don’t snore, don’t hog the bathroom,
and even though we like to party, we put
grades and school first. She wipes down our fridge,
full of Diet Coke, while I grab the broom.
Journal Entry #2164
Three texts from Tim today (so far):
1) MISS U
2) warm here but would rather be on snowshoes w/ u
3) saw someone writing w/ one of those black pencils & thought of you
Note to self: stock up on Mirado Black Warrior #2s! Village Stationery will have them if NYU’s bookstore doesn’t.
Text from Bob: “Hope u & Mom made it to NY w/o bloodshed. Like new job but CA = surreal. Like the moon. Good luck & call/text whenever. Mom sends daily photos of Butter.”
So he gets those photos, too—Butter sleeping by the fire, Butter shaking his frog toy. Butter holding his bone between his paws like a kid holding an ice-cream cone. Butter’s bone, which he leaves standing on end in the middle of the living room floor like a little tower.
Bob feels farther than the moon. He won’t ask about the search. Kate says he worries I’m setting myself up to get burned. Last fall, when Kate told him I’d registered with ALMA and the adoption registery run by NY State’s Department of Health, he asked her, “Why would Lizzie’s birth mother ask for a closed adoption, then years later register her name so she could be found?” I wish Kate hadn’t shared that. Maybe it was her way of warning me not to get my hopes up—while blaming it on Bob.
Like Bob, Rhett never stands at the sink when she brushes her teeth. Bob watches TV. Rhett waltzes out of the bathroom, checks her phone, twirls around a couple of times, then heads back into the bathroom to spit.
Isn’t it funny—I have no idea what Tim does when he brushes his teeth. Rhett already asked me if I’m a virgin. She’s not. She asked if Tim is, too—and that stopped me. I’m sure he’s not, though I’ve never asked. He’s had other girlfriends . . . I just dated Peter. Rhett said, “Probably best not to think about it.”
Yup.
Postcard from Cathy in Mexico
Lizzie! Can I still call you that? I know
at college you switched to Liz. Was
happy to hear you’re at NYU at last—
where you were meant to be all along.
By summer I’ll leave Aguas Calientes
& join you in NYC! Columbia said yes,
so I’m on my way . . . my parents can’t
wait for me to be home, though they’re
proud of the work I’ve done here
at the orphanage & how I’ve become
determined to be a Dr. (They think
I’ll change my mind about working
with the poor.) Write if you can—esp.
if you hear from the registries!
Con amor,
Cathy
ps love WA Sq Park, too—we’ll hang
there in June!
Ode to Washington Square Park
(After doing some online research)
First owned by Indians, then freed
slaves—former burial ground, parade
ground, Potter’s Field—Washington
Square, living here, makes me feel
rich. Who else could live in Greenwich
Village where Fifth Avenue ends
under a seventy-seven-foot marble
arch, where sand artists and jugglers
meet puppeteers and break dancers,
where Mark Twain chatted with Robert
Louis Stevenson, where London
plane trees shade dog runs and play-
grounds, where a huge fountain
invites waders and toe-dippers and
spectators of every nation—students,
lovers, loners, families on vacation—
no matter what the season? Note
to self: no reason to live anywhere else!
Journal Entry #2165
Goddard Hall: 79 Washington Sq. East
My neighborhood map.
Inscription on arch: “Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God.—Washington”
(The “event!” My search? Maybe I should be going to church more often . . . that always seems to center me.)
Birth Mother Villanelle
She must be here in New York, my first home—
this isn’t some adoptee fantasy.
I feel it in my gut, my bones.
The only other mother I have ever known
says she, too, thinks it a possibility:
she could be here in New York, my first home—
city of concrete, of glass, of lights and stone;
island surrounded by rivers and sea.
I feel it in my gut, my bones.
This birth mother’s inspired many a poem
even though she’s a stranger, a mystery.
She must be here in New York, my first home
and maybe hers, too. Perhaps she never roamed,
so didn’t want me growing up in her city.
I feel it in my gut, in my bones
that she’ll welcome me, now that I’m grown.
I could be as close as the sand is to sea.
She must be here, in New York, our first home—
I feel it in my gut, in my bones.
Tim & I Play the Long-Distance Game
Rhett’s the best, I tell Tim. She nearly brought
as many electric candles as I did. She’s an animal
lover, too. He laughs when I tell him how Butter
charmed her with his paw-shake trick. “Charmed
you, too,” I say. His voice goes soft. “You should
have come to Miami.” “And what would I do,”
I gently tease, “go to the beach instead of
the Bowery?” “You love the Poetry Club more
than me,” he counters, breathing as he speaks
in a way I know well. “You’re swinging an imaginary
golf club right now,” I say. “True . . .” He exhales.
“Bu
t I’d rather have my arms around you.”
No More Shame
Jan sends a text: No news yet?
No news STILL, I text back,
Must not be registered.
With that, my phone rings.
Jan. She’s always had
a knack for knowing when
I need her voice. “She might
not think it’s her choice
this time,” Jan says. I ask
what she means. “Last week
at group, Joe claimed some
birth mothers are so ashamed
they gave their babies up,
they think they have no right
to search.” Cripes. I want
my other mother to feel lots
of things, but not that she
doesn’t deserve to find me.
Not shame. I played that
game long enough for both
of us. “It’s from all that guilt
crap they feed you in church,”
Jan says. I don’t think so,
but don’t say that—Jan’s
in a rush now; she has to go.
Regret
Dad went to NYU, walked
these streets, sat in this park,
too—studied, partied, sweet-
talked girls, and who knows
what else. I beat myself up
now, stew because he can’t
take the train and meet me
here; can’t say, My view was
this. There, I’d meet my
friends. Once I knew the best
places to eat . . . I don’t have
a clue because I didn’t ask,
or treat his past like something
to treasure, to write down, keep
to soothe me when I’m blue.
Journal Entry #2166
Rhett says it’s good I’ve come for January session, before everyone’s back—I can get to know a few people in Goddard and my classes before the pace picks up.
Only taking two classes—both seem fascinating already:
1)“It’s Okay to Laugh: Contemporary Poetry with a Sense of Humor” taught by professor Steven Rochester. Everyone calls him “Professor R.” He reminds me of Uncle Rob—brown hair pulled into a pony tail, a closely cropped beard, built like a runner/biker. And he does make us all laugh. Reading poems by Billy Collins, Theodore Roethke, Heather McHugh, James Tate, Ron Padgett, Tess Gallagher. He also challenges us to find poems that fit the topic. I’ve been reading some of Professor R’s poems at the library, and some are very funny, and all are very good.
2)“The Necessary Munro.” Randall James is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met and, I realize, my first African-American teacher. (Geez, how sad is that?) He’s very handsome but has a very large head, which makes sense as he needs a place to store all those brains. We’re reading Alice Munro’s short stories to “explore craft” and “themes” (death, feminism, survival . . .).
I’d better hunker down and work—lock that party girl inside me in a closet. It’s not good enough that I promised Mom that I would. I have to promise myself. If I start drinking like I did at those parties last summer, I’m done for. As it is, something tells me that this winter/spring will be crazier than a ride down a mountain in a car with no brakes.
Jan Sends Me to a Facebook Page
where a girl our age has posted a photo
of herself holding a sign that reads (Oh
no, my heart bleeds for her): “Looking
for my birth mother,” then proceeds to
list when and where she was born,
and pleads for people to share her post.
Most of the comments say, “Good luck!”
and “Glad to spread the word!” What
guts she has to ask all the world for help,
I think. I share her story, but ignore Jan’s
question, “Give this a try?” Not my style.
I wish that girl a bunch of luck—I really
do—but don’t have the pluck to post
about my search. I’d rather be a lion’s
lunch at the Central Park Zoo.
One Could Do Worse
“If you like Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor,
you’ll adore Alice Munro,” says Rhett, who is
now the most well-read person I know. We’re in
the park, people-watching and comparing notes
on our professors. I quote Professor James
in my best Southern drawl: “Ms. Munro has
revolutionized the architecture of the short story. . . ”
“Lucky you!” beams Rhett, meaning it. I shift
on the towel she brought to sit on so our butts
won’t freeze on the marble bench, one reason
why I prefer the wooden ones under the trees.
“Please,” I whine, feeling behind Rhett and half
my classmates. “I’ve only read Faulkner’s
‘The Bear’ in school, and am clueless about
O’Connor.” Where will I find the time to catch
up? “Well, don’t drop out yet,” says Rhett,
reading my mind. She’s done that twice today,
first just by suggesting we come here. “Let’s
go,” I say, “My butt is ice, and that woman’s
too weird.” Rhett follows my stare—a granny
in a long purple coat is feeding squirrels
from her handbag. “They are in her purse!”
I whisper. “That’s Squirrel Lady,” says Rhett,
standing with a grin. “One could do worse
than having squirrels steal from your purse.”
Journal Entry #2167: January 10
Called Jan to wish her a happy birthday. She liked the anthology I gave her—couldn’t believe there are so many poems about cars. She asked if next time I’m home, I’ll read her some—she said hearing them out loud somehow makes them easier to understand.
That made me think back to slumber party days, making my friends listen to poems while we lounged around in pajamas. Our sleeping bags in a circle like bright flower petals, our heads pointing toward the center where we kept our phones and bowl of popcorn. I always felt over the moon when they wanted to hear more Lucille Clifton or Anne Sexton.
I did suggest that Jade could read poems to her while she works, but Jan said she’s not a very good listener when she’s in the middle of a brake job. Jade probably hangs out at Mack’s Garage like I used to do. Sits in the shop on my old stool—probably studies that same poster hanging on the wall, “How to Change a Tire,” while Jan’s head hides under the hood of someone’s Ford Focus.
What’s that ache I feel? Nostalgia? Jealousy? Both.
Before we hung up, Jan wished me a happy “Adoption Day.” I didn’t know what to say. She’s one of the few people who know that January 10 is the day my parents brought me home from The New York Foundling. Ever since I learned that last summer, when—at the start of my search—The Foundling sent my non-identifying information, I’ve felt different somehow. As if I were suddenly trying to stand on a log as it rushed down a river. That mind-blowing letter making the river churn with its facts. Like, Your birth mother was a brown-haired, brown-eyed college student with Scottish blood who had a hard time giving you up, but we can’t tell you her name or where she lives. And oh yeah, your birth father’s ancestors were French, and he has no idea you even exist.
All these spinning details—when what I really wanted (or thought I wanted) was her name and address. I guess those would be defined as “identifying.” Against the rules. But I like knowing I’m Scottish and French. French on my b.f.’s side . . . he was probably a charmer. Romantic. Aren’t French men known for that?
I told Jan that I’d love to read her some poems from the anthology next time I’m home. She realizes my family never celebrated—never mentioned Adoption Days for Kate or Bob or me. It seems weird to start now. As weird as it would be if I sud
denly started posting about all this adoption stuff on Facebook. It’s taken me this long to be open about it with my best friends—it might take decades for me to share it with the world!
Does Mom know what day this is? . . . I won’t ask. It’s enough that Jan knows; she remembered.
Ms. Guitar in Washington Square Park
The sound stopped me—a woman playing guitar
and singing a song I’d soon come to know.
She was a stranger, yet her voice was so familiar.
Lots of us were in the park, even though it was winter—
it wasn’t cold. Sun had melted most of the snow.
The sound stopped me—a woman playing guitar
and her voice—dusky, but strong and clear.
I was supposed to meet Rhett, but didn’t want to go.
She was a stranger, yet her voice was familiar—
I could have sworn I’d heard it before.
Maybe one time with Kate? I didn’t think so,
but the sound stopped me. A woman playing guitar
isn’t odd. “Had that dream again of asters . . . ”
she sang. I closed my eyes. “The wind blows . . . ”
She was a stranger! Yet her voice was familiar—
it seemed impossible I hadn’t ever met her.
I’d be late. Rhett would understand, though:
The sound stopped me, I’d say. A woman playing guitar—
she was a stranger, yet her voice was so familiar. . .
Rhett & I Wind Up at The Rock
As planned, Rhett’s waiting for me on the sidewalk
outside Goddard Hall. She’s changed out of her
sweatshirt and is wearing boots, jeans, a black
turtleneck, and a beat-up brown leather
