When You Never Said Goodbye
Page 6
First Day of Spring Classes
Back from the workshop and library, psyched
we’re reading Evan Boland and Junot Díaz, I’m
surprised to see Rhett still in bed. “Headache,”
she moans, “Too much vodka, not enough limes.”
“Water. You need water,” I say, grabbing one
from the fridge. She drinks as if her mouth is
a desert. “So, you and sexy Sam Paris had fun
last night,” I say as casually as I can. “Oh, Liz,”
Rhett moans, “Fun, yeah, but that’s it. Another
night of being friends.” “But he put his arm
around you!” I say, “Rhett, really, any other
girl would take that to mean—” “He put his arm
around me as he told a joke. A freakin’ lame
joke. I was a prop.” “Well, Prop, don’t be alarmed,”
I say. “Guess whose red hair burst into flames?”
Journal Entry #2181
By the time I left the library yesterday, it was past noon and the snow had nearly stopped. Rhett was super mad at herself for a) not getting anywhere with Sam (“Maybe he’s doing it with a girl back home and just hasn’t said,” she mused) and b) missing her first two classes, but she recovered enough from her hangover to make her afternoon workshop. We ate peanut butter cookies for lunch, then walked as far as MacDougal Street together. By then there were just a few clouds left; the day had turned bright but colder. Sun glinted off windows of the buildings we passed. Much of the snow was already littered with dirt and the occasional candy wrapper, cigarette butt.
Rhett wanted to know why I left the party so early. I could feel her looking at me intently, listening hard, as I told her about my appointment at The Foundling, just a few days away now. How I’m struggling to focus on school, the search—all the new social stuff sometimes makes me feel like an electrical outlet with too many cords plugged into it—my brain starts to smoke. Rhett slipped her arm though mine before splitting off. “If you need me to go with you, I will—I can,” she said. I told her thanks, but no—still, I might need her that afternoon when I get back to our room.
Nearly late to Spanish class, I was relieved to see Calvin sitting in a middle row when I walked in the door. ¡Hola, amiga! he greeted me, his smile so genuine—a boy-who-doesn’t-know-how-handsome-he-is smile—I suddenly saw why Rhett was thinking I’d fall for him.
Spanish Class
It’s like being four again,
all the adults around me
jabbering too fast, using big
words I don’t know. Or
more like being dropped
in the middle of a foreign
country—in this case,
Puerto Rico—with only
my kindergarten Spanish
to navigate me through
the marketplace, hotel
check-in, restaurants. “Si,”
says Senora Arroyo:
“Hablamos solamente
español en esta clase.”
We only speak Spanish
in this class. “So,” I ask
Calvin, who seems as
stunned by this total
immersion idea as I do,
How do you say—come
se dice—‘We’re doomed’
en español?”
Poetry Reading at the
Lillian Vernon House: Spring Series
(Home of NYU’s Creative Writing Program)
If I could only clone myself, be
in a dozen places at once—
every night in New York I could
be a “poetry dork” (Bob’s phrase),
hearing writers read their work
downtown, uptown, East Side,
West. One of the best venues is
right here at NYU. Yusef
Komunyakaa read here last week,
and Paul Muldoon. (I swoon just
remembering.) Martha Rhodes,
Sandra Meek, and Robert Hass
are all coming soon. Tonight
it’s Jeffrey Harrison, a tall, curly-
haired man not from New York
but Boston. After making a Red
Sox joke to put us all at ease,
he reads “The Fork”—a poem
that makes me laugh so hard
I snort. Of course then I want to
crawl under my folding chair
and die. But everyone else is
roaring, too, so either didn’t
hear or don’t mind. He then
reads serious poems, many
about his brother who died.
After, at his signing (my cheeks
flush from a glass of wine), I
gush—tell him about my class
with Professor R and how
next week I’ll bring “The Fork”
to share with everyone. He gives
me a warm smile, signs my copy
of his book, “To Liz, a young poet
about to take NYC by storm.”
Journal Entry #2182
Who ever heard of Insomnia Cookies? Rhett says they got her and Henri though all of last semester. (Chocolate chip delivered warm to Goddard Hall.) I thought she must be kidding. Besides, Rhett could sleep through a rock concert if one happened to start up in our room at 4 a.m. She’s a night owl, but she’s no insomniac.
I saw Sam and Calvin in the lobby this afternoon, going out as I came in, and they swore she isn’t making it up. Sure enough, in the alcove between the outer door of the building and the inner one, there’s a stack of flyers—beside one for “20% off at Big B” there’s a flyer for Insomnia Cookies.
Sam said, “There’s a poem in there somewhere, right, Liz?” “We gotta go,” said Calvin, “Tengo mucho hambre.” Sam looked at me as if I were Calvin’s translator. “He’s hungry,” I explained. “See you both later!”
A poem about cookies sounded odd at first, but Sam got my mind’s proverbial wheels turning. Especially since The Foundling appointment is the day after tomorrow, and I’m sleeping like crap.
Insomnia Cookies:
An Advertisement Disguised as a Poem
It is past midnight and you can’t sleep?
Have a big test tomorrow, appointments to keep?
Rescue is just a phone call away! A dozen or more
can be delivered right now, warm cookies at your door!
Feel the energy—don’t toss and turn like all the rookies—
stay up all night, get things done, with Insomnia Cookies!
Journal Entry #2183
Today’s photos from Mom: Butter bounding across our neighbor’s field, sporting blue snow boots; Butter asleep on the couch, using a book as a pillow. Want to bet Mom wanted to read that book, but wouldn’t wake up the dog? Anyway, he was probably reading it himself through some form of osmosis.
Labrador retrievers don’t need snow boots, I told her. But she claims he kept getting ice caught between the pads of his feet, and then he’d lie down and cry because he couldn’t bite or lick it out. “Luckily I was there to help each time,” she said, “but enough is enough—then I saw the boots at Fur, Fin, & Feather!”
Rhett’s from North Carolina and adores snow, because she rarely gets to see it. It does make it hard sometimes for her to go on her (near) daily runs—these days it’s either too slippery or too sloppy. No such thing as too cold to run, though, says Rhett. Stick around, I say.
Hanging out in the Sunshine State, Tim is missing out on all this great winter weather. He won’t be back north until June from the looks of it, since he’s at some tournament (Georgia?) during spring break. How will we make it ’til JUNE?
Odd—he usually calls me in the late afternoon, but I haven’t heard from him since breakfast.
Tomorrow: The Foundling, Therefore Tonight: Little Sleep to Be Had
After the first week of classes
I should be sleeping like Rip
&nb
sp; Van Winkle, should be keeping
my pillow company. Instead
I’m staring at the clock. School
rocks; I’m happy as a butcher’s
dog except mostly I’m thinking
about The Foundling. Why am I
flopping around like a fish
in shallow water? You’d think
I’d been caught in a net, was
about to be someone’s lunch.
Reaching for the charm around
my neck, I pray for deep water,
pray for a whole bunch of sleep.
Journal Entry #2184:
Headed to The Foundling in a Few Hours
Kate called: “Got your Dad socks on?” (Yes, and his scarf.)
Tim texted: “Im in ur back pocket.” (I wish.)
Jan texted: “Not 2 late! Jade & I could be on next train, arrives 11:42” (I need to go solo on this trip.)
I called Mom. She tried not to act surprised or hurt that I waited this long to tell her where I’m going. I tried to smooth over my guilt by wondering out loud if there’s anyone left at The Foundling who might remember her and Dad, how they used to bring pumpkins and apples down for The Foundling kids every fall. She just sighed and said, “Yes, I suppose some of those wonderful women are still there. Good luck, Lizzie.”
Then we talked about Butter. He’s figured out how to open the refrigerator door. Mom said, “It was cute until it wasn’t.” (So much for that sirloin she was marinating.)
Bob doesn’t know yet.
The New York Foundling: 590 Sixth Avenue, Between Sixteenth & Seventeenth Streets
Just a year and a half ago
Kate and I stood on this
very spot, gazing up
at these twelve brick
stories on Sixth Avenue,
windows all framed in
blue. We had a break-
through that day. Much
of our self-imposed silence
around adoption dropped
away, and she got behind
me on this search. We never
did go in, as I’m about to do.
(We also thought we were
born here—that part wasn’t
true; we were brought here
after, before foster care.) Now
no one’s carrying me in, no
one’s deciding where I’ll go
but me. I check my hair
in the glass, take one more
deep breath in the frosty air,
and open The Foundling door.
Sophie Fedorowicz’s Small but Sunny Office,
The New York Foundling
My life, I think, is lying on that desk.
My first, secret life, hides in that brown folder.
“I’m so glad you came,” Sophie says. I smile,
that folder like a sleeping animal between us.
My first, secret life hides in that brown folder.
Sophie says, “I’ll help as much as I can.”
That folder is a sleeping animal between us.
“You know, by law, I can’t tell you everything.”
Sophie says, “I’ll help as much as I can.”
Her gray eyes are kind, look straight into mine.
“You know, by law, I can’t tell you everything,
but the letter we sent was missing some details.”
Her gray eyes are kind, look straight into mine.
She opens the folder—the animal yawns.
“The letter we sent was missing some details.
Your maternal grandfather was a baker. . . ”
She opens that folder—the animal yawns.
I dig out my pen, start taking notes.
“Your maternal grandfather was a baker;
your maternal grandmother was a nurse . . . ”
I dig out my pen, start taking notes.
My hand shakes—that animal might swallow me whole.
“Your maternal grandmother was a nurse.
She came here to meet with your birth mother.”
My hand shakes—that animal might swallow me whole.
“You know you weren’t placed for adoption right away.
She came here to meet with your birth mother.
She tried to help your mother make up her mind . . . ”
“You know you weren’t placed for adoption right away.
Your grandmother wanted what your birth mother wanted.
She tried to help your mother make up her mind.
Your birth mother wrote a letter. I have it here.”
“Your grandmother wanted what your birth mother wanted.”
The animal is mine. It means me no harm.
“Your birth mother wrote a letter. I have it here.
I’ll black out some names, then give you a copy.”
The animal’s mine. It means me no harm.
Sophie stands, the letter in her hand.
“I’ll black out some names, then give you a copy.
It will only take me a few minutes.”
Sophie stands, the letter in her hand.
The animal turns its head and winks.
“It will only take me a few minutes—”
She leaves me and that folder alone.
The animal turns its head and winks.
It’s now or never, the animal whispers.
She’s left me and that folder alone.
Just a sneak peek, it says. Quick! Do it now!
It’s now or never! the animal whispers.
I hesitate—Sophie, she trusts me—
Just a sneak peek, it says. Quick! Do it now!
I leap to my feet, flip open the folder.
I hesitate—Sophie, she trusts me—
but this is my chance; I have to take it.
I leap to my feet, flip open the folder.
There it is! My name. Elizabeth Ann Smith.
This is my chance; I have to take it.
I think I hear Sophie coming back.
There it is! My name. Elizabeth Ann Smith.
I sit back down, try to take that in.
I think I hear Sophie coming back.
Holy shit. I think I know my real name.
I sit back down, try to take that in.
Now here’s Sophie. “Sorry that took so long.”
Holy shit. I think I know my real name.
Smith. Smith? Oh geez—could that be for real?
Now here’s Sophie. “Sorry that took so long.”
She hands me the letter. “Read this at home.”
Smith. Smith? Oh geez—could that be for real?
How many Smiths live in Manhattan alone?
She hands me the letter. “Read this at home.
Your birth mother loved you very much, Lizzie.”
How many Smiths live in Manhattan alone?
“I’m so glad you came,” Sophie says. I smile.
Your birth mother loved you very much, Lizzie.”
My life, I think, is lying on that desk.
Post-Foundling Fall-Out
I. Live Letter in My Backpack
Instinctively I walk toward home, toward
Goddard, when I leave The Foundling—over
to Fifth Avenue, then down to where it ends,
emptying out at Washington Square Park
like a river empties itself into the sea.
The letter seems to breathe, that animal now
inside my backpack. Not here, don’t read it
here, I think, staring at the stone arch.
My legs feel heavy, as if I’ve been wading
through water. Any minute, I fear, something’s
going to break—something’s going to come
spilling down Fifth Avenue like a tidal wave
and take me with it, tumbling and gasping.
It’s then that the idea comes, like a voice
outside myself. (That animal?) I turn right,
follow Waverly Place a couple of blocks
; to Sixth Avenue, turn left, and here it is:
Saint Joseph’s Church. St. Joseph, Patron
Saint of Families. (How did I know that?
Dad. Dad!) Inside, noise from the street
shuts off like a radio. Smell of candles,
wood, the cold that clings to my coat calms
me. Streams of light filter through stained
glass windows. It all feels familiar, right.
Here is sanctuary, my safe place to read
a letter from my first mother. A woman
I knew once. Her voice, her heartbeat,
her every movement made up my world.
How is it possible she’s a stranger now?
How could she do it—say goodbye, pull
away. . . forever? Kneeling in the back pew,
I try to pray. I’m frozen. Oh, Dad, I say,
Pray for me. I can’t right now. I sit back.
Breathe. Stare at the altar, dimly lit. Then
open my backpack. Pull out the letter. Read.
THE LETTER
(In elegant handwriting. All references to my name, my birth mother’s name, and the social worker she addressed it to are blacked out.)
Dear Name,
When you asked me to write a letter expressing my hopes and wishes for Elizabeth’s future and adoptive home, my mind filled immediately with so many thoughts. I’ll try to list them here, selecting the most crucial else I’ll go on forever. Or else words will begin to fail me.
Naturally, a loving home where there are deep religious convictions is very desirable. One also where education—formal and self-education through reading, etc.—plays a central role every day. So many doors are open to the mind that is filled with the beauty to be found everywhere—in nature, poetry, music. The person who is out to learn all that is good sees so much more in everyday life, and lives a much richer existence than the one who remains passive in the doldrums of routine.
Eliza beth, no doubt, has been blessed with a love of music, since it is a strong family characteristic. I have been fortunate in having had voice lessons (and even had a role in a college play) and piano lessons, and my appreciation for accomplished musicians is great. I do hope that music will somehow be part of her life.