by Meg Kearney
the bottle in the basket, then sneaking a peek at Rhett.
I’m sure she doesn’t want me tagging along when she
has Sam to herself. “Calvin’s coming, too,” she says,
“and maybe Henri. Just the diversion you need!”
Resolute, I place a book of poems next to the detergent.
“Marilyn Nelson’s coming with me to the laundry room,”
I say, “but call if you go to The Rock.” When I open
the door, Henri is there, a plate of cookies in her hand.
“Save one of those for me, or you’re all in trouble,”
I call over my shoulder as I head down the hall. “No
guarantees!” says Henri. “Party pooper!” calls Rhett.
Journal Entry #2189:
Killer Chocolate (ex-lax) Cookies
What’s with it with girls? Are boys ever this mean? I thought I’d seen it all between Stella and Gabby at SU—but this nearly tops them:
I’m just about to walk into the laundry room when I hear a voice talking real low, and then hysterical laughter. Louise and her roommate, Kimiko. So I stop to listen, hear: “Stupid Henri’s on her way right now! I hope Rhett’s a total pig and eats the whole plate.”
I tip-toe backwards to the elevator and shoot back to our room as quick as I can. Too late—Rhett, Sam, Henri, and Calvin (who’d shown up right after I left) have all eaten the cookies but three, which they’ve saved for me. When I tell them what I’d overheard, they look at each other as if I’d said they were all under arrest. Henri said she did think it strange when Louise asked her to bring the cookies upstairs, but figured it was some kind of peace offering. (Little does Sam know they’re basically fighting over him.) Who would have guessed they were laced with ex-lax, what grandmothers take when they need to . . . “go”?! “They did taste kind of weird,” said Calvin, his dark eyebrows drawn down with worry.
It only took half an hour. First, Henri looked like she was in a horror movie—the zombies had just broken down our door. She didn’t say a word, just fled. Next, Calvin, who normally moves like a dancer, ran out like an Olympic track star with a bad back. Sam looked surprised, like someone told him his head was on fire, and fled after Calvin. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Rhett was in our bathroom so long, I had to knock on Marion and Suzanne’s door and ask to use theirs.
The best revenge, I told Rhett, is the fact that Sam ate them, too—Louise will want to die when she hears that. But I have the feeling that revenge won’t stop there.
Well, Rhett did say I need a diversion. Beyond bowling, that is. And since I can’t head to Florida (what a dream of a diversion THAT would be), I have an idea.
Postcard from Mexico
Dear Lizzie—I’m still absorbing all you told me
in your last letter. (Shouldn’t you be studying
instead of writing 10-pg. letters in the library?!
Not that I’m complaining, or trying to sound
like your mother.) Smith is a great name. Your
people back in Scotland were probably blacksmiths,
right? Cool. Still, I know your head’s spinning.
That’s how mine was. These searches, these
birth parents, do a number on you. Maybe you
should wait to call Joe about the next step, focus
on school ’til summer? Then I’ll be there, too!
Just a thought. Here, I’m trying to break it to
the kids that I’m leaving them. It’s only by
promising to come back that I can get them
to settle down. How I wish I could take them all
home! (Well, most of them. LOL) Hang in there,
mi amiga. Este verano vamos a hablar español
juntas, si? Don’t drop that class!
Love,
Cathy
Revenge Is Powdery White
Four a.m. is the time to strike, while your enemy’s sleeping.
(It’s a trick your sister knew, a harmless pain-in-the-butt.)
After, you’ll hope the war is done, though careful watch you’ll be keeping.
Henri’s door is across from hers—from there Rhett will be creeping.
(With her hair dryer, extension cord—that Rhett, she’s got guts.)
Four a.m. is the time to strike, while your enemy’s sleeping.
Along the floor below that door, Rhett sprinkles powder till it’s heaping.
(Calvin and Sam are ready to run, grinning like two nuts.)
After, you’ll hope the war is done, though careful watch you’ll be keeping.
There’s one moment of near-panic: Sam’s fancy phone starts beeping.
(He runs into Henri’s closet, behind him the door’s quick-shut.)
Four a.m.’s the time to strike, while your enemy’s sleeping.
Rhett turns on the dryer, blows powder, so under the door it’s seeping—
then blasting white into Louise’s room—that place is turned Eskimo hut.
Now you hope the war is done, though careful watch you’ll be keeping.
Louise and Kimiko are now awake—you can hear them weeping.
You and your friends are running fast, laughing like you don’t know what.
Four a.m.’s the time to strike, while your enemy’s sleeping.
Now you hope the war is done, though careful watch you’ll be keeping!
Henri’s Post-Operation Baby Powder Report
After a bomb blast, when everything and everyone
is covered in dust—that’s what it looked like
when Louise opened her door. Odor of baby powder
crept into the hall. All was white—floor, beds, desks,
books, shoes, Kimiko and Louise—except for the brown
and pink streaks running down their cheeks. Louise
looked like a rabbit, Henri says, and seemed to admit
defeat. “Everyone hates me!” she shrieked, then
slammed her door shut, shooting a puff of powder
into the air. “All’s fair in love and war,” I remind
Henri, giving her a squeeze. But from the look on her
face it’s clear she feels sorry for Kimiko and Louise.
When My Birth Mother Said Goodbye
They might have let her
dress me one last time—
something yellow, my
favorite color; something
as soft as a heart that is
breaking. She might have
smothered me with kisses,
an aching mother’s desperate
breath unable to stop time’s
flames from engulfing us.
When I try to imagine—
remember that day, that last
moment, the final kiss—it’s
as if an invisible hand pulls
me back from a dark,
bottomless abyss
Journal Entry #2190: Like People Who’ve
Been Through Some Kind of Trial Together
. . . an ice storm that knocks out power in a little town for weeks, or a broken elevator that traps its occupants for twenty-four hours, or some crazy bomb threat that keeps people locked down in their dorm for a few days—the Fake Insomnia Cookie Incident and resulting Operation Baby Powder has brought our little group closer. Sam, Calvin, Henri, Rhett, and I hang out all the time now—in our rooms, on the third floor, and often during lunch or dinner. Louise avoids us as if we’ve got the chicken pox (or as if, says Sam, we’re Red Sox fans). So does Kimiko, who was in on the making of those cookies. We all just hope this “food fight” doesn’t go another round. It’s hardest for Henri, living across the hall from them—but she says it inspired her to diet. She’s already lost five pounds!
Speaking of sports: Rhett ran track, swam in high school. All individual sports. She doesn’t “get” basketball like Sam and Calvin do. When we start talking Syracuse vs. Georgetown, she suggests we all go out for a drink. She knows how to steal those boys’ attention. B
ut if it’s early enough, we go to The Rock—and talk basketball.
Meanwhile, Rhett’s taking secret photos of Sam with her phone. She has 19 so far. Sam wielding a charcoal pencil like a pointer as he talks; Sam watching Calvin flex his muscles; Sam drinking a Coors straight from the bottle. She does have a few “authorized” photos too, including one I took of her, Henri, Calvin, and Sam outside the Museum of Natural History. Plus a lady in Central Park took a photo of the five of us beside the John Lennon “Imagine” memorial. (All of our parents are Beatles fans.)
Writing that last paragraph, I realized something. Sam has the most unusual scent, which I just can’t seem to place. Until now. Pencils. He smells like graphite. Like my Mirado Black Warrior #2s! (Never want to be caught without one, in case the muse pays me a visit.) No wonder I like Sam so much. But not like Tim. Tim’s scent is Irish Spring soap and green sunshine . . .
Gotta stop thinking about Tim, about calling Joe (soon)—and read about Copernicus.
Torn
This is such a bad time to search for my mother.
My grades will suffer—I should focus on school.
My body’s in one place, my mind in another.
I’m writing an essay on Heaney’s “The Otter,”
then find myself staring into space like a fool.
This is such a bad time to search for my mother.
Studying Spanish verbs, my thoughts start to wander.
The professor calls on me—what’s “dunce” in español?
My body’s in one place, my mind in another.
Tim says all will be fine. I’m beginning to wonder.
Should I keep going or wait? My heart’s in a duel.
This is such a bad time to search for my mother.
Today it started to rain. I ran for cover—
a taxi just missed me! I would have been gruel.
My body’s in one place, my mind in another.
But this is my chance—I might not get another.
If I wait, she could die. Life can be that cruel.
This is such a bad time to search for my mother—
my body’s in one place, my mind in another.
Journal Entry #2191
I feel like a hunter chasing some last-of-its kind animal, or even something magical—a unicorn—and if I pause too long to rest, it will escape me forever. So I spent all night on the phone with Tim and Kate. I almost called Jan, but by then it was after midnight. She’s in bed by 10. Besides, Jan gets all riled up when we talk about the search, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with that.
Talking with Tim helps most. He doesn’t give me advice. Doesn’t try to “fix” things (as if he could). He listens. Then he says things like, “It’s as if you’ve been a ship at sea all of your life. You keep looking for land, and sometimes you see a sign—a raven with a twig in its beak, a column of smoke far off in the distance—but the moment you think you’re close to a port, a storm whips up and turns you all around and the clues disappear.” “Yes! That’s it,” I say. And he says, “Just remember—I’m here, with you on deck. And this ship will find what it’s looking for. We just gotta keep our eyes on the horizon.”
Kate’s mostly worried, as I know Mom is, about how all this is affecting me and, by extension, my school work. Being in the library—seeing everyone studying—inspires me, helps me concentrate. So does listening to classical music. Who knew? Of all people, Bob suggested that.
Rhett says she feels like a newcomer to this story and can’t really give an opinion, but wants to support me whatever I do. Thank goodness I have such a fabulous roommate. I really want to talk with Henri, Calvin, and Sam, too—they don’t know about all this. Yet. It’s just so . . . BIG. So—personal.
Rhett did put her stellar roommate status to a small test, asking if we could move all of my poetry books to her side of the room. “Since Sam spends so much time looking at them while he’s here . . . ” she tried, then quickly added, “Kidding!” I must have had my mama bear face on. Those books are my cubs.
“I didn’t have my heart set on your approbation,” Rhett said with a sly smile. That girl spends too much time living in the 19th century.
Journal Entry #2192:
Tim’s Valentine’s Day Card
Zombies are dead,
my avatar’s blue,
martinis are neat,
and so are you.
Thought this card would make you laugh. I don’t have an avatar, though, so for the poet in you, I wrote two alternative second lines:
only drummers sniff glue
or
my cat has the flu.
Maybe I should start writing greeting cards, huh?
Miss you.
Love,
Tim
The card did make me laugh, but the dozen yellow roses that came with it—well, I must have looked like a proud princess carrying those up from the lobby. Our room smells like summer. Like Gram’s house—she always had fresh roses in her kitchen.
_______
Reached into my backpack a few minutes ago, thinking I’d call Joe—but left my phone where it was.
This week. I’ll call him by Wednesday at the latest.
Finding Our Places
We’re all on our way to Klong for lunch—
Henri and I walk side by side while ahead
of us Rhett strolls between Sam and Calvin.
Henri’s telling me about Chinese New Year—
she’s a dragon and there won’t be another
dragon year until 2024. She says something
about luck and the color red, but I’m studying
her flushed face from the corner of my eye,
thinking, She thinks Rhett’s the lucky one
right now. Calvin keeps extending his left
arm behind Rhett’s back without quite
touching her, as if he’s afraid she’ll fall.
Back on Eighth Street, Sam did slip on
some ice, but caught himself. Now we’re
all at Astor Place—the three of them dash
across Fourth Avenue, leaving Henri and me
on the island near the subway station, its
glass and cast-iron kiosk always so alluring—
makes me want to climb down and ride
the 6 train just for the thrill. “Calvin’s
such a gentleman,” sighs Henri, all googly-
eyed. Our friends wait for traffic to pass,
so we can join them. “He’s a total sweet-
heart,” I agree, wondering why I hadn’t
realized until now that Henri’s fallen for
Calvin. “He probably thinks I’m as cute
as a Chinese dumpling, only not as
appetizing,” she says. How to respond?
As we cross the street, I say, “He’s not
shallow like that—” but then we’re within
earshot, and Rhett’s saying she’s starving,
as in hurry up. At Klong I try to maneuver
so Henri’s next to Calvin, but somehow he
winds up next to Rhett and across from Sam;
Henri’s next to Sam and across from Rhett,
and I’m on the table’s end, with Calvin to my
left, Sam to my right. Lucky me, I guess.
(See diagram:)CR
L
SH
In Workshop Today
“A theater with no actors, no musicians”—
that’s how Louise’s poem titled “Home” begins.
As she reads it to our class, she twirls one long red
strand of hair around her finger—its nail, all nails
on both hands chewed down and nearly bleeding. Silence
hovers in the air like mist when she’s finished. “This
is a wonderful example,” says Professor
Aguero at last, “of poem as metaphor . . . ”
After her comments, everyone in class seems to
have something to sa
y—some offer suggestions, but
most simply praise the lines they like. Stunned, I realize
it’s my turn. I stare at the poem in my hand.
“I agree the last line is totally earned,” I
begin—“that image of the curtain made of glass . . . ”
I look up. Louise, watching me, seems ready to
bolt out the door. But I continue, “I might take
out the line that begins ‘Trees glisten’—it’s the one
place she mixes metaphors—but mainly I want
to say, this is a poem I wish I’d written.”
Journal Entry #2193
Scene: I call Joe Alley, director of adoption support group, Stone Falls, NY
Joe remembers me: “Yes, of course, Lizzie—you’re friends with Jade and Jan. Went off to Syracuse University last fall, right?”
I quickly explain where I am now and get to the real subject. After I describe how Jan & Jade & I bombed at the NYPL, I tell him about my visit with Sophie at The Foundling.
Then:
Me: So, my birth name is Smith.
Joe (hesitates): Smith?
Me: Smith.
(He doesn’t ask me how I found this out. I’m glad. But he hesitates again.)
Joe: Lizzie, I know you’ve been thinking about this search for a long time—and I think you’re as ready now as you’ll ever be to discover—well, whatever you’ll discover. But with a last name like Smith—you need a private investigator.
Me: You mean a private eye? Like on TV?
Joe: This woman—she has one guy, Jim, I think, who works with her—she’s the best at this. And you can trust her. She’s a birth mother who found her own child. Her firm is called Kin Solvers. You won’t find her listed anywhere—if you do this, you have to be aware it’s not legal in New York State.
