by Meg Kearney
Me: Not legal.
Joe: I know. It’s not fair. This is your mother—your birth mother. Your life. But until they change the laws—let me give you Karen Mason’s phone number. Then talk with your parents before you call, okay? At least, I have to suggest that.
I don’t correct him—“parent.” Singular. But I do write down the number.
Pulling Back
As soon as I hear Tim’s voice—usually
so calm, so suave—I know something’s wrong.
Or weird. “How’s everyone getting along
post Operation Baby Powder?” he
wants to know. I tell him about Louise’s
poem in workshop, how we walked to the dorm
together afterward, and might have formed
not quite a friendship, but a peace treaty,
a mutual respect. I get the sense
Tim isn’t listening. “Remember how
we said we’d date other people?” A tense
silence follows his question. Then, POW—
it hits me. I want to ask, “What’s the wench’s
name?” Instead I say, “Now? Really, Tim? Now?”
Journal Entry #2194
Scene: The rest of the damned phone conversation
I’m thinking: “Zeena”? Is that a real name? I guess it’s actually Evelina. She’s from the Philippines and sounds very perky. And pretty. Plays golf. I’m doomed.
Tim: I’m still your best friend.
Silence. I have no answer for that. And no way am I telling him about my call to Joe Alley.
Tim: How else will we know if we don’t date other people?
Me: Know what?
Tim: Don’t be mean.
Me (my throat feels tight . . . can’t help crying): It’s just—bad timing.
Tim: Lizzie, I’m here for you! Always!
Me: I gotta go. But—okay.
Tim: Okay? Call you later?
Me: Tomorrow. Maybe.
Tim: I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.
Me: No need to promise.
Rhett’s in class.
Henri’s on some kind of outing to MoMA.
Heading down to Sam & Calvin’s room.
As Gram Used to Say, “A Friend in
Need Is a Friend Indeed”
Who’s standing there when the elevator opens
on the third floor but Sam. He takes one look
at me, reaches out a hand, and I’m sobbing
in his arms. His graphite pencil smell calms me
for a second, but then I think of Tim’s arms—
and I’m a mess again. Sam puts one arm around
my shoulders, leads me to his room. “Don’t you
have class?” I manage to ask. “Yeah, soon—
but it’s close by,” he says. “Besides, leaving you
like this is the last thing I’ll do.” Sam’s side
of the room looks like a hurricane hit—sketch pads,
socks, charcoal pencils, books, and tubes of paint
everywhere. I collapse in Calvin’s chair. Sam
sits on Calvin’s bed, says, “You okay, Liz?
Is it Tim?” And I start to sob all over again.
A Very Long Night
(Back in my room)
It reminds me of last summer—looking in the mirror,
barely recognizing the girl I see—only this time,
I like the me who’s standing there, black mascara
running down her cheeks. By the time I’ve made
myself look as normal as possible (my puffy eyes
make my face fish-like, despite all make-up tweaks),
Rhett is back. I thought she’d say Tim’s news just
makes me free to date Calvin, but she sees how
upset I am. Besides, she knows in my mind, no boy
stacks up close to Tim. More than that, she knows
I’m planning to call Kin Solvers—I didn’t need this
blow. “How could he? . . . Zeena?” I half shout.
“It’s getting loud in there! Let us in!” Sam’s voice
calls while someone knocks three times—three
times again in short succession—Henri. Rhett opens
our door—Calvin’s here, too, holding a mysterious,
tall skinny paper bag. Sam’s got plastic cups; Henri,
a bag of ice. Alcohol’s against the rules, but I don’t
put up a fight. It’s time these friends knew everything—
not just about Tim’s call, but all about my family,
my search. I nod to Rhett. She says, “How nice
of you to bring refreshments! All right. Take a seat.
I have the feeling it’s going to be a very long night.”
Journal Entry #2195
Tim texted three times last night when we were all sitting on Rhett’s side of the room, drinking rum and Coke. (Diet Coke for us girls.)
1)u ok? xo
2)Can I call?
3)Will call tomorrow. Promise xo
Finally, after much coaching from C&S, R&H, I texted him back:
“Ok. I’m glad.” But no x’s, no o’s.
This morning, groggy with a drum beating steadily inside my head, I texted him again:
“Hi. Talk tomorrow. Too much going on today.”
He called anyway, but I didn’t answer.
He left a message: “Liz, please don’t forget that I’m your friend forever. I’m here. I know you’re going through a—stressful time. I’m here, really. . . . Okay, I’ll try calling again. Tomorrow, like you said.”
Lost
Like a balloon that’s lost its string,
a feather that’s lost its bird;
like a kingdom that’s lost its king,
a poem that’s lost its words;
like a dog who’s lost his bark,
a library that’s lost its books;
like a theater that’s lost its dark,
a queen who’s lost her looks—
that’s how I feel, losing Tim.
Have to learn to live without him.
Journal Entry #2196: Calling Kin Solvers
First, Rhett and I have a gimlet at The Rock so I can calm my nerves. “Never mind Tim,” she says. “You have so many people supporting you!”
Back at the dorm, she sits on my bed, watches me line up my artillery: Montblanc pen from Mom, pad of paper, cell phone. “Why not type notes into your laptop?” she wants to know. “I’m old-fashioned,” I explain. “Born in the wrong century.” “Me, too,” she says.
Next to my laptop, Tim—the Hudson River just behind him—smiles at me from his photo, the one in the wood frame I bought at the Hello Shop. I make a move to turn him face-down, then change my mind.
My hand shakes as I dial the number. Rhett says, “Breathe.”
Karen Mason picks up on the second ring. From Joe, I know that she’s Kin Solver’s founder, a birth mother. My words tumble out like toys from an overstuffed closet—a big, bright mess, from the look on Rhett’s face. Karen, I think, is used to this. She doesn’t interrupt.
When I finally give her a chance to start asking questions, I feel my heart start to beat more normally. Her voice is soothing, soft and silvery. She explains that she won’t know if she can help until she has a chance to look over what I’ll need to send her, but says she found her own birth daughter years ago, and then started applying all she’d learned in her own search to help others. “I’ve got a pretty good track record,” she assures me.
Maybe I’m fooling myself; maybe I’m an incurable optimist—but when Karen and I hang up, I think, She’ll do it. She’ll find her.
Journal Entry #2197: The Deal
(From my notes talking with Karen Mason)
1)Send Karen everything I have so far—my non-identifying information that The Foundling sent last spring; what I’d just learned from Sophie. (Karen didn’t seem phased by “Smith.”) A copy of my birth mother’s letter. (It seems too private.
But I have to trust . . .) A list of any other details I can think of, like things Mom & Dad told me, even if they seem insignificant—how my b.m. named me Elizabeth Ann before my parents did, that my birth certificate is dated two years after I was born (send a copy).
2)Karen will review what I send & let me know within two weeks:
a)if she can’t help (no charge!)
b)if she thinks she can help and how long it might take. If she can: cost ~$3,000 (!)
3)If (b), then I don’t pay until Karen finds her, at which point Karen will contact me. I’ll overnight the $$ (bank check/money order); when she gets it, she’ll email me all of my b.m.’s info.
Rhett: That seems fair.
Kate: You know Mom wants you to be happy. Me, too! And it’s not really that much money. Call her now.
Jan: I’ve got your back. Let me know if you need money.
Jade: I wish they had investigators like that in Korea . . . I’ll light a candle for you, Liz.
How I long to call Tim! But Galileo has me thinking. We’re talking about the Scientific Revolution in my Social Foundations class—that guy would rather spend the rest of his life under home arrest than give up his belief in Copernicus’ theories. And that’s got me thinking about LOYALTY. Where the hell is Tim’s?
But I wish he weren’t so far, not just physically but emotionally. I wish Cathy were here—she can’t get home from Mexico soon enough.
But Rhett is here. And Kate. And Henri, Sam & Calvin . . . because OH MY GOD, this is going to happen. I’m going to find her—I just know it.
I Feel as if I’m Living a Fairy Tale
“Selkies are mythological creatures found in Scottish, Irish, and Faroese folklore . . . Selkies are said to live as seals in the sea but shed their skin to become human on land.”—WIKIPEDIA
I’m a Celtic selkie
who’s lost her skin,
hasn’t been home
to her ocean since
then. And sometimes
I’m a mermaid
who gave up her fins
for the love of humans
who took her in. Now
there’s a chance
I might crack open
all spells, spill back
into the sea that once
laid claim on me.
Journal Entry #2198
Email to Mom (easier than calling)
b.c.c.: Kate, Bob, Jan (included Tim, then erased him)
Hi Mom,
I hope you’re well, and by now have forgiven Butter for chewing your favorite hat. You have to admit it’s amazing that this is the first bad thing he’s done! Well, except for opening the fridge and eating that steak . . .
So . . . Joe Alley gave me the name of a private investigator to help me with my search. I can explain how it works, but I don’t pay anything unless they find something. Then it’ll be $2,900. If you can lend me the money, I’ll pay you back in installments—starting later this summer when I’m home and working at the Hello Shop again. Or I’ll sell my car.
This is hard, I know. . . thanks for understanding, Mom.
Love,
Lizzie
Mom’s response:
Lizzie, call me? This is all fine. Your father and I wanted this for you and now—I will give you the money.
See attached.
Love,
Mom
Attachment: Photo of Mom wearing a new purple knit hat. Butter also wearing a purple knit hat, complete with holes where his ears stick out.
Kate: She’ll give you the money! Wow—this could really happen now, Lizzie! Call me!
Jan: I’ll give you the money if your mom somehow can’t. WOW, I had no idea you’d call them this fast! Talk soon?!
Bob: Ms. Smith, can lend you some $ but don’t have whole $2.9K. LMK. Have to say I worry about you.
. . . I call Bob when I get that email. After he tortures me with the obligatory California weather report (always “sunny, 75”. . . too much like Florida’s weather. Trying not to think of Florida), I ask him, “What’s to worry about? You and Mom—you’re both over-reacting.”
“You don’t know what—who—you’re going to find, Lizzie,” he says. “This person could not only reject you. Again.” (I cringe.) “It could be worse than that. She might be homeless. She could be a drug addict. She could be just waiting for a nice girl like you to come along and pay all her debts or pay her dealer or—”
“STOP, Bob,” I insist. “I’ve thought this through, thought of every possibility. But I have to trust my instincts. I really believe in my soul that it’s going to be fine—she wants to be found, and she’s not . . . what you imagine.”
We drop it after that. I almost tell him about the letter. If he read her words, he’d know I’m right.
Tim has tried calling twice, but I won’t pick up. He didn’t leave a message. I wish he had.
Journal Entry #2199
On my way to Social Foundations class, I mail everything off to Kin Solvers. It’s like mailing off my soul. I say a little prayer, or try to—what to ask for? That they find her soon? That she welcomes me? That she’s not a lunatic, or what Bob thinks? That she be alive?
After class I break down and call Tim. He’s promised to be with me on this ship—and I need to hear his voice. The second I hear him—and how relieved he is to hear my voice—I think, maybe he is still loyal . . . as a friend. Then I sense I’m about to cry, so pretend I have to go before I really do. He does say one thing that keeps ringing in my head: “You’re doing the right thing.”
Now, I wait. Now, I just have to focus on my school work.
It’s All in Kin Solvers’ Hands Now
and it feels as if I’ve lit a fuse to a bomb
embedded in my heart—if I don’t use
my head phones, if I don’t keep busy,
I hear it tick, tick, tick . . . any queasy
minute I could get a text saying, “Check
your email.” Is it possible to fail
at waiting? Is it possible to refuse to
fret? Dad would calm me, urge, “No
regrets.” He’d say, “Turn to poetry—
your muse will help defuse that bomb.
Meanwhile, it could take months
for that text to come. Meanwhile, live
this dream you’re in, and what the heck—
allow yourself to have some fun!”
Rough
Today Ruth’s wearing a tan bandana, the kind Kate wears
when she’s cooking. Her hair is shorter than Jan’s ever was—
as if she’d shaved her head and it’s just growing back. “Look
who’s here,” she says as I approach. Someone’s on my bench,
so she pats the space next to her. “Was starting to think you
disappeared,” she says, unwinding a broken guitar string from
its metal peg with a pair of pliers. “Just living at the library,”
I answer. She glances at me, then gives each tuning peg
a twist, cuts the remaining strings. “Rhett says I’ve become
a hermit,” I add as Ruth works, “but that’s what I do when I’m—
when I need to focus.” Ruth looks at me, those brown eyes so
attentive. “When my dad died last year,” I add, “I spent a lot
of time in my room.” Why did I say that? Because it’s another
weight on my heart, another wire I’m trying to walk across
without falling off. Ruth lays her pliers between us on the bench.
I feel like that guitar—all that potential, but useless without its
strings. “Liz, I’m sorry,” Ruth says. “You’re too young to lose—
that had to be rough.” I stare at her stringless guitar. Something
tells me Ruth knows about rough. “The anniversary is next
month,” I tell her, “April first.” Ruth picks up her pliers, points
them at me. “That’s enough to make anyone w
ant to hide
in the library,” she says, pretending not to see the tears gliding
down my cheeks. Reaching into her guitar case, she pulls out
a new set of strings. Oh, I want to say, my life is so much more
complicated than you can imagine. “I’ve had some big losses
in my life, too,” she offers. “And as soon as I get this thing
rockin’ again, I’ll play something happy just for you.”
Rise On Up
“Although your soul
is full of woe, although
your heart is feeling
low, rise on up! Let it
all go,” Ruth sings,
her husky voice so
different from Luka
Snuff’s island richness,
but pitch-perfect just
the same. Until now
I hadn’t noticed
how the sun is
shining on the arch,
how a bird I can’t
name is twittering
in the tree behind
us. Shuffling by
with his mini-flock,
Pigeon Man waves.
The birds on his
shoulders, the bird
on his head seem to
bob with the music.
They all look so
carefree. Why not?
Why shouldn’t I be?
Really, I’m the lucky
one. I’m sick of
stressing all the time.
Suddenly it seems
something inside me
is about to take flight.
“Rise up, rise on up!”
I sing along, “Your
cloudy old world
will soon be bright.”
Journal Entry #2200
It’s Ruth’s left side I sit on, listening while a crowd gathers. When she plays I mostly focus on her fingers, long like mine, on those strings. Wishing I could play. Trying not to steal too many glances at her, though I do, here and there. I sit up straight, as she does. Funny I always seem to see her sitting down, but up close I can tell she’s tall. I think we even wear the same shoe size.
