by Meg Kearney
but stare. Her face and lips
are pale, thin, yet
I do imagine artists would
be drawn to paint that face,
those eyes, which now
stare back at me. Still singing—
“winter, spring, summer or
fall . . . ”—she smiles.
Clapping with my mittens on seems
weird, but I know and love
this oldies song.
Native New Yorker
(With thanks to Mom for sending me a Starbucks gift card)
I have time for one last cup
of coffee before class, so
I’m in line behind some guy
with sandy hair, summer blue
eyes, and a sketchbook under
one arm. He seems to know each
student who walks by. Despite
the graphite pencil sticking
from his back pocket, he’s not
my type. Too blond. Too . . . not Tim.
“Hey, Louise!” this guy calls out.
Great, I roll my eyes. Louise
is by his side in seconds
flat. “Hey, hel-lo,” she says, breathy
and flushed, pretending I’m not
there. Whatever. I don’t care
unless she thinks she’s using
him to cut in front of me.
“Hey,” he says, “you’re the native
New Yorker. How do you get
up to Hudson View Gardens? West
One Hundred Eighty-third Street
and Pinehurst Avenue? Dan’s
professor is reading up
there—we haven’t got a clue
how to find it.” Louise turns
scarlet. “It’s not really my
neighborhood, but let me think,”
she stammers. “Maybe the One?”
“The A train’s better,” I blurt
without thinking. They both turn
to me—her eyes are shooting
darts, but she’ll miss her target
this time. I just look at him.
“Try to be in the front car
if you can,” I say. “When you
reach One Hundred Eighty-first
Street, walk north on the platform
to the last staircase . . . ” I give
detailed directions, watching
Louise seethe from the corner
of my eye as he types them
into his phone. When I’m done,
I give her my brightest smile.
She looks like she just swallowed
something vile. Am I gloating
when her phone rings and she runs
away? Yes. Yes, I am. Then
the guy says, “Thanks! Are you new?
I’ve never seen you—I’m Sam.”
About to Tell Rhett About My Search
Where to start? With a goodbye
my body remembers but my mind
can’t see? With a letter, a baby,
that murmur in my heart? A foster
mother, a foundling—no, three.
A surrender. Longing. Loyalty—
our family tree. A birthday.
A registry. The Secret of Me.
Journal Entry #2171
Scene: 2nd floor hallway
I’m sitting with Rhett and a girl named Henri, helping them cut snowflakes out of sheets of white paper, daisy-like flowers out of yellow. The daisies remind me of Jan’s hair (though for all I know, today she’s dyed it orange).
When I met Henri last week, she described herself as “Half Chinese, half Czech, and half Fig Newton” (though an empty bag of Oreos lies at her feet, which don a pair of red slippers made to look like dragons—heads popping up from her toes, tails dragging behind her heels). Casually, I tell them how I finally met Sam, trying not to gloat over the scene with Louise. I expect Rhett to ask why it took me two days to tell her this (especially since we had such a personal talk last night), but she doesn’t.
Rhett: That’s my country girl—went straight for her jugular!
Henri: I didn’t even know there is an A train.
Me: Kate—my sister—and I have been to Hudson View Gardens a few times for readings—
Rhett (not looking up from her snowflake in progress): What did you think of Sam?
Me: Adorable! He says to tell you sorry he missed you yesterday, but will stop by tomorrow—
Henri: Rhett! You nearly stabbed your leg!
Rhett (shrugging, still holding the scissors): Aren’t your friends coming up tomorrow?
Me: Down. Yes—on the Metro North train from Poughkeepsie. Jan and Jade. But, Sam said—
Rhett: Don’t worry. I’ll text Sam. If he comes to visit I’ll be discreet about why you’re not there—about the library.
(Henri looks at me. I toss a daisy onto the pile, lay down my scissors, and stand.)
Me (looking at my phone): I gotta go. Tim should be out of class by now.
Rhett: Tell Tim I said hi!
(Henri waves her scissors; her dragon feet wiggle.)
Journal Entry #2172
2 a.m.: can’t sleep.
Tim wondered if Jan and Jade will look up their birth records tomorrow, too, but neither of them was born here. The NYPL only has records for Manhattan, I think. Or all five boroughs? Anyway, I wonder how many other babies—how many Elizabeths—were born in Manhattan my same year on August 18. This could take a while, as I don’t really know what to do. Jan says the librarian will help.
Anyway, I reminded Tim that Jan already knows who her birth mother is, just not where she is these days. Jan gets a card now and then, last time from Denver. And Jade—she says such records probably aren’t kept in Korean orphanages—but someday she’ll find out for sure.
Rhett’s keeping all this a secret. She gets how I need to be the one to tell people, if I tell people. (I wish she’d just come out and say she likes Sam and “hands off.” You’d think I wouldn’t be a threat, since I have Tim.)
Henri told me that her grandmother made her those dragon slippers, to bring her luck and protection at college. Wish I had a pair. It was also Henri’s grandmother who named her—not after a male relative, as I figured, but after some fancy women’s jewelry and fashion store (where none of us can afford to shop). When I told her that my parents named me Elizabeth Ann not knowing my birth mother had given me the same name, she said, “That’s the best story ever! I wish my story was half as good as that. Who wants to be named after a store on Fifth Avenue?”
Cathy’s going to like Henri and Rhett. I wish she were coming tomorrow. Cathy’s negotiated this emotional landmine already, and might have advice about where to step, where not to.
Oh geez. 2:25 a.m. Make that today. I’d just get up and start working on my Alice Munro paper if I weren’t so freakin’ crazed in the head. I’ll say a prayer instead.
Jan & Jade Arrive at GCT
to Stand by Me at the NYPL
At Grand Central I meet Jan and Jade’s train.
I spot them right away stepping onto
the platform into the river of heads—I strain
to keep my eye on them until they’re so
close we can hug. I feel like a giant,
as I always do, standing there next to
them. I also feel like something else I can’t
really name. Neither of them has spent much
time in New York—both their heads are bent
backward; their jaws, open, while they stare at
Grand Central’s ceiling made of stars.
My heart feels full, watching them. What
connects us is loss. None of us knows
why our birth mothers gave us up—just that
they did—and now Jan and Jade are here so
I won’t have to face alone what today
reveals, or doesn’t. As we step out onto
Forty-second Street we zip our jackets, say
all at once
how cold it is. Jade and Jan
seem to huddle together as I lead
the way past a coffee and doughnut stand,
newspaper kiosk, and a man who pleads
for spare change on the corner where we wait
to cross Fifth Avenue. Jade mouths, “He needs
help,” then turns, gives him forty-eight
cents. As we cross the street, Jan takes Jade’s
arm. “No need to protect her—this is a safe
neighborhood,” I say. Then my head’s a storm
of thoughts; my heart’s racing like a subway
train. My face must show a look of alarm—
“Lizzie, everything’s going to be okay,”
says Jan, taking my arm now, too. Before
us, the library and its lions loom way
larger than Jade and Jan imagined or
I ever realized. Like the lions, we stare.
“Come on,” I say, “What are we waiting for?”
Journal Entry #2173
Scene: The Milstein Division of United States History, Local History, & Genealogy (NYPL, Room 121)
Librarian (about mom’s age, kind of pretty, caramel-brown hair in a single braid down her back; name tag reads “Sachi”): May I help you find something?
Me: Birth records?
Jan: Manhattan birth records.
Librarian (with a glance at Jan’s pink hair): What year are you interested in?
Me (blank stare)
Jan: She’s a little nervous. (Gives her my birth year, same as hers.)
Librarian: Oh, I’m sorry. Our records only go to 1982.
Jan: What?
Librarian: Our records stop—unfortunately—at 1982. The Department of Mental Health kept them for a short while after that, but—
Me: You don’t have birth records for anyone born after—
Librarian: 1982.
Jade: Where do you find your record if you were born after that?
Librarian: Well, you can write to Albany for a copy of your birth certificate.
Me: What if your birth certificate doesn’t have your birth name? What if it’s dated two years after you were born with—a different name?
Librarian (lowering her voice): You’re adopted?
Me (my face suddenly hot, I look around before I answer): Yes . . . .
Jan: The guy who runs our Adoption Support Group said anyone born in New York City could find her birth record here.
Librarian: I’m afraid his information is only correct for people born between 1866 and 1982. The State of New York, or your adoption agency, might be able to send you what’s called “non-identifying information,” but—
Jan: She has that.
Me: From The New York Foundling.
Librarian: I really wish I could help you, girls. But I’m afraid that’s all I know.
Jade: Do a lot of adoptees ask you questions like this?
Librarian: Yes, sweetie, they do.
Jan (to me): Let’s go.
Me (to librarian): Thanks.
Librarian: Good luck. All three of you.
In a Coffee Shop After Leaving the NYPL
“Well, that was a total waste of time,” I
say while Jan and Jade study the menu.
When the waitress comes by, Jan says, “Pie—
apple—and coffee, please. And Jade, you
want the same?” Jade nods. I say, “Make it three,
please,” not because I want pie or coffee
but so I’m not odd girl out. The waitress leaves
and Jan says it wasn’t a waste, because she
and Jade got to see me, but Joe’s got to—
“It wasn’t Joe,” interrupts Jade. “It was
Sue who found her record there. We assumed—”
“Sue’s old,” I say. “It’s okay,” says Jade, “because
you still have one thing you can do.” She’s smiling.
“Time,” she says, “to visit The New York Foundling.”
Journal Entry #2174
Scene: Back at Grand Central Terminal
Me: You sure you guys have to leave this early?
Jan: That’s okay. The shop’s really busy. (Looks at Jade.) We should get back.
Jade: You know I’m helping at the shop now? Not fixing cars—
Me: Yeah, I heard you’ve been taking business classes. Bookkeeping?
Jan: She answers the phone, makes appointments.
Jade: Part-time until I get my AA.
Me: But the shop is closed tomorrow, isn’t it?
Jan: Sorry, Lizzie—Liz—we’re gonna miss our train.
Jade: Let us know when you’re going to The Foundling!
I walk them down the platform to the Poughkeepsie-bound train. Watch them get on, find a seat. They wave, all smiles, from a window. Part of me wants to go with them. Part of me can’t wait to get back to Goddard Hall.
Tim calls, and it’s so gorgeous out, I decide to walk back—we talk the whole way.
Dream
No other cars in the school parking lot
except Dad’s Subaru. From the front seats
we’re counting stars, which begin to fall
from the sky like snow. We should go,
I say as snow-stars blanket the windshield,
start to obliterate the warm glow of the street
lamp we’re parked under. “Wait,” says Dad.
I pull a parka over my green and white
basketball uniform—knees bare, cold; sneakers
that daring orange. As the car grows dark,
Dad hands me a box I know contains my
silver basketball charm with its inscription
on the back: “Lizzie / My Star.” I move to hug
him, but my arms embrace air. He’s no longer
there. Now I’m in the driver’s seat; Butter’s
in the back. Where’s Dad? I ask the dog, who
only stares ahead, watching snow-stars melt
and slide down glass. Then I know: Dad is dead.
Journal Entry #2175
Walking back from class this morning, the wind nearly blew me over as I rounded the corner of Goddard Hall. So I spent two hours in my room reading Alice Munro’s short story “Vandals,” glad Rhett was down on the sixth floor. (Debating, she told me later, who was more brilliant: Jane Austen or Charles Dickens. “I’m beginning to believe one cannot be a fan of both,” she says, “unless you look to Austen for a glimpse at the concerns of the rich, and Dickens for an understanding of the plight of everyone else.”)
By this time I was famished. And in luck. From our hallway window I could tell the trees in the park were barely fluttering, and the sun was out along with a bunch of people on benches not looking like snowmen. I stuffed Ms. Munro into my backpack and headed out, first for a sandwich and then a bench of my own.
Did I hope I’d see R Woman with her guitar? For a second, but I brushed the thought away as my phone chimed like a door bell. Text from Tim.
Him: “Miss u. 70, sunny here”
Me: “Sunnier here. Miss you, too. xo”
Tim says Jade is right: The New York Foundling is next. I almost called there earlier, but the park called to me louder.
Open Secrets
It’s still a little cold to be
reading Alice Munro
in the park—too
cold to be reading anything.
But I’m distracted by
her story where
a guy literally loses his
head, and his poor boss has
to pick it up—
while part of me secretly hopes
Guitar/R Woman will
show—so I’ve claimed
the bench next to her usual
one. It’s mid-afternoon
but there are more
squirrels here than people, scampering
about like little kids
on an Easter
egg hunt. I wonder if Munro
/>
actually knew a man
whose head was chopped
off in an accident, and where
squirrels sleep at night. Then there
goes Pigeon Man
with three birds on his shoulders, one
on his head, a dozen
trailing behind
picking at the crumbs he’s dropping.
Focus on the story, I think,
but then she’s there,
settling on her bench. I try
to pretend I’m into
“Carried Away.”
“Let me guess,” I hear, “Cold Mountain?”
She’s glancing from me to
the open book
propped between my mittened hands. “No?
How about The Ice Queen?
Or Robert Frost?”
“Frost—I wish,” I say. “No, Dante—
‘The Inferno.’” We laugh.
“Ah, so that’s how
you stay warm out here.” She lifts her
guitar from its leather
black case. It’s made
of dark wood, like Tim’s. “Actually—”
I blurt, “It’s an Alice
Munro story.”
She looks interested, so I
say, “From her collection,
Open Secrets.”
Her large eyes widen. “Now that’s some
title. Do you think there
is such a thing
as an open secret?” A jolt
of surprise stabs through my
body. I think,
Where would I begin? “Yes, I do,”
I say at last, and she
nods as if she
agrees. She smiles, then looks away.
For a moment she’s still,
then starts to play,
singing, “Secret-keeper, aren’t you
tired of locking your heart?