When You Never Said Goodbye

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?