by Meg Kearney
As for brothers and sisters—definitely there should be some—preferably a brother three to six years older and a sister a year ahead or behind. One more brother or sister younger would be nice also. To me that gives her the protection of a big brother, the companionship of a sister close in age, and another child to ward off anyone’s being spoiled.
My admiration for the teaching profession is great, and since I plan to be a teacher, I would hope that either one of the adopting couple be in the educational field. Oh, how I’d love to guide her myself! Knowing she is in a home similar to what I would want to give her will be of much consolation.
As for nationality/background, to me the generous nature and “get-aheadness” of the American is a proud heritage. In other words, this isn’t a concern if my other hopes are fulfilled.
Please don’t let her grow up in the city. This writer has always loved the country life where she grew up, even though she’s had a few years’ taste of the “big city.”
There is so much more that could be said, but I realize I must put my trust in you and the other people there who, I know, have Elizabeth’s best interest at heart.
I’m to sign the papers on Friday. Dear God, how will I do it! Never could I have dreamed of such mental and heartfelt torment. It cannot be described.
Be assured, Name, that you and your colleagues will remain in my prayers.
Gratefully,
First Name Last Name
II. Oh, Mother—
Oh mother of wishes, mother
of prayer. Teacher-mother.
Wise mother. Mother of music,
nature, poetry. Tormented
mother. Thoughtful mother.
Mother who hesitated. Mother
who surrendered. Mother,
it didn’t have to be like this. All
I ever wanted was to know you
loved me. That you hadn’t
forgotten me. Mother, I will find
you. Mother, you want me to
find you. I know that now. God
knows that. God? Please help me.
III. It Hits Me
Trudging down the steps and out
of the church, wandering west,
I reach the river. The Hudson, my
river that runs by New Hook
and feels like home. Here there
are benches but few people. Too
cold. Perfect for thinking. For re-
reading. Laughing to myself a bit
crazily, No doldrums of routine
in this girl’s life. Then it hits me
like Gram’s big old brick of
a Manhattan phone book: Smith.
I was Elizabeth Ann Smith.
Journal Entry #2185
By the time I left the river and got back to the dorm, it was dark. Rhett was waiting on her bed, just opening a fat book—Middlemarch. The George Eliot book she couldn’t wait to begin once she learned it was assigned in her Victorian Novel class. When she saw me walk in, her flash of smile changed to a “I’m-concerned-and-here-if-you-need-me” look.
“I’m okay,” I said, then slipped behind the wall between our desks and stared down at my bed. Gram’s patchwork quilt, baby-chick yellow and cornflower blue, looked so comforting. She’s keeping an eye on you, too, right alongside Dad, I thought. Instead of sliding underneath, I lay on top of its once-bright squares, hands at my sides feeling its worn softness. Gazing over at my desk, at my laptop, my pile of books, I thought, Tomorrow. Then I rolled over and fell asleep without even taking off my coat.
It was 1 a.m. when I woke 45 minutes ago. A mess of texts and a voicemail from Mom wait in my phone. I’ll respond tomorrow. (Mom’s probably a nut case. Damn, I should have called her—but just . . . couldn’t.) After I undressed & put on my sweats, I peeked around our wall—Rhett was out. I ran into our bathroom, brushed my teeth, realized I was hungry. Thank goodness for those brownies Mom sent. Brownies and Diet Coke: the dinner of champions. I brushed my teeth again, dived back into bed with this journal.
Rhett just came in. I told her I’ll talk with her tomorrow, that right now I just need to sleep.
No one needs to know I have that letter, I’ve decided. She wrote it for me.
Poetry. She wrote the word poetry.
Rhett Says, Go See Your Sister, So I Call Kate
Kate’s between roommates so I have a key
to her second-floor walk-up on Avenue B.
As soon as I step in the door she looks at me
and says, “I’ll make us some tea.” That means,
Let’s talk. Unlike Mom or Bob, Kate always
asks, “Hear anything from the registries?”
Then says, “Wait. Be patient,” when I tell her
No. But today we sit on her couch and she says,
“You have news.” I do! My tea is cold
by the time I’ve told her about everything
but the letter. (Would it make Kate wonder
if her birth mother loves her?) We blow
our noses, wipe our eyes. I know it would
be a lie to think this isn’t hard on Kate,
too. I touch her arm. “You are the best
sister,” I say, “I wish—” but she stops me.
“Shush. You’ll make me cry again.” Kate
makes another cup of tea for herself, warms
mine up in the microwave. “Smith is such
a crazy twist,” she says. “But I know how
to save you some anxiety. Let’s call Mom.
No—I’m not out of my mind! She’ll be fine.”
I Call Mom from Kate’s Apartment
As if I’m the mother and she, the adopted child;
as if she’s made of delicate china and might
chip, I’m gentle, take my time telling Mom
about my visit to The Foundling. First I focus
on the building (“It hasn’t changed!” she said
and sighed); then Sophie’s kindness—how
she came down to the lobby with me to say good-
bye, how she said I could call her anytime,
how she said how blessed I am to have such
a great family. Mom ate that up. When she didn’t
press for more details, I knew Mom’s emotional
cup was full—we’ll get to those later. I could tell
she was crying after I said I loved her—that’s
when I heard the whine: so was Butter. “Hey,
you were right,” I tell Kate. “Everything is
fine. Butter just needs his own supply of tissues.”
Journal Entry #2186
Scene: I call Jan and tell her what happened at The Foundling
Jan: That ROCKS! You totally did it, Liz! You beat the freakin’ system!
(Muffled joyful cries in background.)
Me: Is that Jade?
Jan: Yeah, let me put you on speaker phone.
Jade: Lizzie! You know your birth name!
Me: You two—it’s great, but don’t you get it? My last name is Smith. Like, you ever heard of the proverbial needle in a haystack?
Jan (hesitates): Well, there’s that—
Jade: It’s like having Kim as a last name in Korea.
Me: Rhett says it’s like finding a certain grain of sand in the Sahara desert.
(Silence.)
Jade: Okay, you still have one thing you can do.
Me: What?
Jan: Call Joe?
Jade: Exactly.
_______
I call Tim when he gets out of class. His first question when I finish my story is, “How are you feeling? Are you okay with all this?” It almost makes me tell him about the letter—but I don’t. (I might have read it more times now than I’ve read my non-identifying letter that The Foundling sent me last year. . . a zillion times plus one.)
Tim says he read a story about two sisters—one adopted—who found each other on Facebook. He’ll send me the link. But about “Smith” he said
, “That’s messed up. I’m so sorry, Liz. I mean, could it be any worse?”
I did spend a few hours online again, searching. Forget that. Jade’s right—the support group met last night, so I know Joe’s back from his trip. I’ll call him. In a day or two.
Journal Entry #2187
Text from Bob: “Ms. Smith: Kate called. Worried for ur heart & dont want it broken. But do what u have to do. Maybe this summer u’ll come to CA. Lots of Smiths here. Meanwhile, study hard. Love u.”
Not sure if this was supposed to make me laugh, but it did—before it made me cry.
I think my birth mother would be (will be?) happy to know—The Foundling couldn’t have found me a better family. I mean, she almost describes the McLanes “to the letter” in her letter.
_______
Text from Jan: “Call Joe yet?”
I text back: “Too busy. Soon.”
What I don’t say: My heart’s a runaway horse that my mind keeps whipping from behind. I just need to STOP for a few days before I make another move in this search. Catch my breath. Absorb Smith . . .
Birth Name Villanelle
Anyone asks how I know, I’ll plead the fifth—
I think I did what anyone would do.
What’s worse than learning your birth name is Smith?
I’m not going to feel all guilty over this.
I just took what was mine—that much is true.
Anyone asks how I know, I’ll plead the fifth.
It does no good to ask “What if—”
but couldn’t my name have been Crane or Drew?
What’s worse than learning your birth name is Smith?
Sophie didn’t smell trouble—not even a whiff.
She left the folder—maybe she wanted me to—?
Anyone asks how I know, I’ll plead the fifth.
My name could have been Frost, or Hall, or Jiff
like the peanut butter. Even Jones would do.
What’s worse than learning your birth name is Smith?
Hardly any words even rhyme with Smith!
I’m bummed it doesn’t sound more Scottish, too.
Anyone asks how I know, I’ll plead the fifth.
What’s worse than learning your birth name is Smith?
Old Habits Die Hard
Still, I stare. I don’t mean to.
But I ponder women’s faces
on the subway, on the street,
standing on line at the coffee
shop, post office, bus stop,
deli. It doesn’t die easily, this
lifelong obsession with finding
someone who looks like me.
When I moved to the city,
I thought, Here I’ll really have
a chance. But now that hope
has collapsed like a balloon
slashed by a knife disguised
as a sentence: “This writer
has always loved the country life.”
Ruth
After my morning class,
after talking with Tim
while gulping down eggs
in the cafeteria, after
spending four hours
studying in the library,
I treat myself to coffee
in the park. Ms. R hasn’t
been around all week—
I’ve been dying to speak
with her, learn her name.
So I’m psyched she’s here,
though she’s claimed “my”
bench—a smoochy couple
sits on hers. I’d like to ask
them to move . . . then they
do. A sign, I think. Maybe
my luck’s improving. Ms. R
plucks a string on her guitar,
winces, adjusts a little peg
at the top of the wood neck,
plucks again. Her black
wool hat makes her face look
paler—that face, those huge
brown eyes, now look at me.
I’ve been staring. Again.
“Hey,” she says, “No book
today?” My cheeks feel
warmer than my coffee cup.
Pointing to my backpack,
I say, “Plenty.” She almost
smiles, gazes up at the bare
trees. “A Thomas Hardy
kind of day, all this late
winter gloom,” she says.
I confess I haven’t read
him yet, though my room-
mate Rhett raves about his
book—Tess, something.
“Tell you the truth,” she says,
I’ve only read his poems.
And by the way, I’m Ruth.”
My cup nearly slips from
my hand. “Liz,” I manage
to say. She smiles for real,
says, “Don’t be so impressed,
Liz—I read Hardy in college
because I had to. But I do like
poetry. It’s like music—all
about rhythm and emotion.”
“Me, too,” I stammer—“I’m
studying it at NYU—” then
my head’s a muddle; my
coffee’s a puddle at my feet.
Ruth pretends not to notice,
goes back to tuning her
guitar. You’re over-reacting,
Lizzie McLane, I scold myself.
Yes, yes, you are.
Journal Entry #2188
Am I drawn to Ruth’s playing—even drawn to Tim’s—because, as my birth mother says, I’m basically born to appreciate music? It’s in my blood, right? After all, in fourth grade I showed up for my first guitar lesson. The rented guitar’s neck was in my right hand; its body was held with my left arm. “That’s how a lefty plays,” said Mr. Viani. “Yes, I’m a lefty,” I said. “Well, you can’t play that way. You have to play this way,” he said, holding his guitar as a mirror image to how I held mine. When I said no way, so did he. Dad and Mom wouldn’t make him teach me left-handed, suggested I take flute instead. But I wanted to play guitar. I guess I still do. Maybe I’m playing out my guitar fantasy through Tim and now Ruth.
I don’t know anyone who plays piano, but I love that sound, too. Not just guitar. All music, all instruments. Hey, I even like the accordion. Sometimes.
And sing? Can I sing? I sing in the car, in the shower, down at the river and on the hiking trail around Rothenberg’s Pond. Back in high school, Cathy and I used to harmonize “Don’t Step on My Shadow,” and I loved to croon along with Dad when he sang “Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder.” But that doesn’t mean I have a good voice like him and Gram. Maybe it’s not bad. Maybe voice lessons . . . like she had.
So what, Ruth likes poetry. Lots of people like poetry. Lots.
Birth Mother
You were stories
I told myself:
“Once upon a time
there was an artist,
a beautiful woman,
a lost woman, a woman
of intelligence, of
integrity, of guilt
who carried me
inside herself until
I was ready to be
in the world. Then
she gave me away
like another painting,
another song—
a sacrifice to her muse—
a symbol of sorrow,
of mastery, of love
because she was poor,
because she was famous,
because she loved
the life she had before
she created me. But
these stories were
only my daydreams,
my art, my mirrors.
Now the true story is
stepping off the stage,
off the page—each
letter formed by her
hand a little ladder
for me to climb toward
truth. I’m rising rung
by rung, first mother.
I’m reaching for your
hand. Let there be
no more anguish, no
more shame, mother.
Throw me down
a light. Throw me
down your name.
Bad Dream as Haiku
Ruth’s behind Sophie’s
desk, saying, “She loved you so
much, she gave you up.”
Rhett’s Anti-Bad Dream Prescription
I wake shaking—call
Rhett’s name. She’s already
peeking around our
little wall. “Another
bad dream?” she whispers,
then sits on the end of
my bed. “The same dream,
different version,” I say,
nodding my head. “This
time it was Ruth, not Mom.
It felt like a sign, trying
to tell me that—that we’ll
never—that she won’t—”
“A diversion! That’s
what you need! Let’s go
bowling at that place
on the river,” she says,
“just us girls, you and me
and Henri.” Calling Joe
can wait another day
or three. Rhett gleans
from my smile that I’m
powerless—can’t say
no. Next I know she’s
running for the bathroom:
“Dibs on the shower!”
No Fun (Even Though I Let
Rhett Win at Bowling Yesterday)
“You are no fun, Liz McLane,” Rhett says as I stuff
dirty clothes into a basket. She’s sitting cross-
legged on her bed; Sam’s in her chair, feet propped
on her desk. “Liz spent all morning at the library
and now she’s doing laundry!” she complains to Sam.
“Come have lunch with us first,” he says. “Your favorite
place on St. Mark’s—” I hold up a bottle of detergent
as if it’s a stop sign. “Don’t tempt me,” I say, tossing
