When You Never Said Goodbye

by Meg Kearney

  about poems or school or Karen Mason or

  the search or Rhett or Sam or even Tim.

  The truth is, I want to talk about Ruth.

  Journal Entry #2205

  Karen Mason called again—thank God both times she’s called, Mom has been out walking Butter.

  My conversations with Karen aren’t a big secret, but talking about my search with Mom is worse than having to talk about sex. We’d both rather talk about Butter, who has actually learned how to fetch Mom’s slippers. Next, he’ll be driving the car.

  Back to Karen: she’s given me a list of things to ask Sophie. I could ask them over the phone, she says, but it’s best to go back to The Foundling in person—“You tend to find out more that way.” That’s for sure.

  The list:

  1)Confirm maternal grandparents were born in Scotland.

  2)Was grandmother a nurse, or nurse’s aid? (degree = the question)

  3)Did grandparents continue careers as baker/nurse here in the U.S.?

  4)Does b.m. live in tri-state area? (Sophie might not be able to answer this, but push for as specific information as possible.)

  5)Name of doctor who presided over my birth? (Unlikely Sophie can reveal this, either, but try.)

  I have this recurring feeling that I’m living a movie, starring me. But where’s my script? What happens next, and next after that?

  _______

  Text from Rhett: OMG you MUST read Bleak House. Esther = adopted . . . birth mother just revealed! Wont give it away. (Hope alls ok there.) xoxo

  The Butter Cure

  Mom should know it will stun me.

  She says, “Come in” when I knock

  on her bedroom door. I enter—

  and there is Butter, stretched out

  on Dad’s side of the bed like a sun-

  bather on the beach. Mom looks

  serene, propped up on pillows, a book

  in her hands. The air smells faintly

  of lotion—mandarin orange—and of

  dog. Mom always said that if Dad

  weren’t allergic, we’d have a dog—

  but it would never be allowed

  on the furniture (as they are at Aunt

  Marge’s house), much less our beds.

  “Mom,” I say, “Butter sleeps here?

  On your bed?” “Yes,” she replies

  matter-of-factly, “unless he kicks

  me out. Then I sleep on the couch.”

  My chin must be near my knees,

  it’s dropped so far. “Mom, you sleep—

  Butter kicks you out?!” A laugh,

  soft as Butter’s fur, escapes her.

  “Lizzie, I’m kidding,” she says,

  laying her book aside. She pats

  the bed for me to come sit. Butter

  wags his tail; its thumps are muted

  on the mattress. Reaching over

  with one hand, Mom rubs his ear.

  “Butter has given me a much-needed

  gift,” she says, putting her free hand

  on mine. “I’ve been—” she stops.

  Her face looks fragile, as if it might

  break. But a faint smile radiates

  underneath all that sadness, as

  an unseen sun brightens a cloud.

  “All of my excitement over Butter

  probably seems—well, a bit

  outrageous.” Suddenly I want

  to protest—No, no it doesn’t.

  Mom takes a deep breath, starts

  again, “But a dog’s joy—it’s so

  simple. And very, very contagious.”

  Journal Entry #2206

  I’ve been blind as a newborn mouse. Blinded by my own stuff. Poor Mom! She’s been so lonely! And, duh, she misses Dad maybe even more than I do.

  When Mom and Butter come back from their walks, he greets me as if we’ve been parted for years. It’s true—it’s impossible not to smile when Butter’s around. Mom is almost like her old self again. Almost. She’ll never be the same person she was when Dad was alive—but neither will I. Neither will Kate, or Bob. We’re just—different. But that’s okay. That’s what happens when someone you love dies. Like stars, the dead keep on shining, making bright new constellations in the galaxy of your heart.

  I want to bury my face in Butter’s fur and thank him. I think Dad’s ghost already has.

  Three Mothers

  It was here on this bench beside the river

  in New Hook that I used to sit during

  my lunch break and think. It was here

  I wrote a poem about a party where I had

  too much to drink. Here that Tim first

  kissed me, his arms a shield from all I

  feared. How I could use those arms now,

  knowing any minute, any day news of my

  birth mother will turn my life upside-

  down. It can’t be otherwise, I realize—

  even if she’s my dream mother, best-

  selling author who’s been drowning

  in sadness, trying not to remember

  the day she surrendered me to social

  workers at The Foundling. As if

  the universe is reading my mind,

  a woman strolls by with a baby

  strapped to her chest. “Mama’s best

  little girl,” the woman sings softly,

  words that soothe and sting me.

  She stops to gaze at the river, molten

  glass flowing south toward the city.

  The baby can’t be more than a couple

  of months old. At that age, a stranger

  held me—not my birth mother, not

  Mom, but another woman paid to be

  my caretaker. A third mother of sorts—

  I have to believe she was good to me;

  I’ve always felt so loved. How would

  this woman feel if she had to give her

  child away? How could my first mother

  do it, unwrap her arms, deliver me to

  another, say farewell forever? Such

  heartfelt torment—those words from

  her letter keep whirling in my mind.

  She felt so much sorrow. So why not

  at least ask for an open adoption, where

  we could be in touch? Was that too

  much to bear? Wouldn’t that be less

  hellish than this? Perhaps someday

  she’ll tell me. Perhaps I’ll never know.

  Not Here

  My father’s disappearing from this house.

  His navy wool coat’s no longer hanging

  in the closet; dress shoes, work boots, not

  on the mud room floor. His robe doesn’t

  dangle from the back of the bathroom door,

  eyeglasses don’t rest atop today’s New Hook

  Star. His photo’s in the living room next

  to the couch, on Mom’s dresser and taped

  to the fridge, but his voice no longer rings

  from the kitchen as he cooks, his hands

  no longer bring in logs for the fire, slippers

  don’t wait beside his chair. His stack of books

  lean now on a shelf, unread. Dad, where

  are you? I call one night in a dream. Dad,

  I miss you, I whisper to the morning sun.

  Scrabble

  My old friend Cornelius calls from out of the blue—

  a bunch of friends from high school are going to

  Noah’s Ark to hang out and shoot pool about

  eight o’clock tonight. “You have to come, Lizzie,”

  he says. But they’ll have to have fun without

  me—I want to stay home and play Scrabble

  with Mom, who made a yummy vegetable

  stew for dinner and is now about to

  open a bottle of wine. “Liz, are you sure

  you don’t want to go out? Your friends miss you.

  You still have time,” she says
, but I assure

  her I’m where I want to be. Butter

  is stretched before the fire—“Watch out

  you don’t melt,” I warn him. He thumps his tail

  once, his eyes all dozy. There’s no doubt

  this dog knows he’s landed in heaven. Mom sets

  the Scrabble board on the coffee table, gets

  two wine glasses from the china cabinet.

  “You’re not driving,” she says, “you can have some

  wine.” “Butter, do you know where my Mom went?”

  I ask this so seriously, Butter opens an eye, rises,

  pads over to lick my face. I’m surprised

  he doesn’t join us on the couch, expecting

  to play. Mom counts out our letter tiles—

  “He’d cheat, anyway,” she says, laughing.

  Over cabernet, firelight, and words like “napkin”

  and “poignant” I start to tell her all about Tim

  and Sam, Rhett, Calvin, Henri, and Louise—

  so many stories, we laugh hard when I spell

  “restraint.” “Well, Liz,” Mom says, “I’m relieved—

  don’t take this wrong—I adore Tim, and think

  he’s right, though his timing is bad.” Butter blinks

  his assent. “You should date other people—

  now’s the time—and if you’re meant to be—”

  (she stops, her hand hovering with a tile

  that turns out to be a “y,” turning “leather”

  into “leathery”) “. . .you’ll get back together.”

  “That doesn’t mean—” (I use her “y” to write

  “yonder”)—“I should date Sam.” “No. It means,

  as your dad used to say, and he was right—

  the universe is unfolding as it should.” I want

  to believe that, and wish it could apply to my

  search and wherever that leads. Mom’s thinking

  the same. “Yes,” she says, “that includes your

  birth mother.” We set down our glasses and hug.

  Back at Mack’s Auto

  “Look, this Ruth can’t be your birth mother. That’s too crazy—

  just because her last name is Smith, she plays songs for you

  on her guitar, likes poetry—” Jan steps back from the hood

  of a black car, shaking her hot-pink head. Suddenly my mouth

  tastes like dread. “Don’t even fantasize, much less hope—” she

  stops when she sees my face. Perched atop my old metal stool,

  breathing in the smell of gasoline and oil, admiring the tools

  strung along the shop’s walls, I’d felt content until the subject

  of Ruth popped up again. Obviously, Jan’s been pondering what

  I told her and Jade at Gertie’s the other day. “I know, I know,”

  I say, “Ruth’s even the right age, I think, but—damn. She can’t

  be her.” Jan wipes her hands on a rag, studying me. She’s too

  perceptive, knows me too well. The pink spikes of her hair are

  dotted with the grease she’s trying to clean from her forearms

  and hands. Those hands. Capable as any man’s. Now one is on

  my shoulder. “Liz, you’ll hear from Kin Solvers—maybe soon.

  Then—well, I hope your story’s happier than mine. But mean-

  while, please don’t write Ruth into some fairy tale you tell

  yourself.” Abandoned by not one mother, but two, Jan’s no

  believer in Disney-like stories. Hers could have been written by

  the Brother’s Grimm. I wonder if she’s too cautious. But no.

  She’s just being realistic. She knows what’s at stake. I try to

  smile. “Coffee? Diet Coke?” she offers, glancing at the clock,

  “Jade will be here in a while, and we both really need a break.”

  Journal Entry #2207

  How fast do four greeting cards burn? In 1.3 minutes if you count the last paper embers brightening, then dying out like silent, miniature fireworks.

  When Jade got to Mack’s Auto after her class, we made a little ceremony out of incinerating the Christmas and birthday cards Jan’s mom and birth mother mailed her. Of course, this was Jan’s idea. She sometimes talks on the phone with her mom, who actually married that slick lawyer dude she left Mr. Mack for, but they moved to New Jersey and Jan doesn’t see her. I don’t know if that’s Jan’s choice or her mom’s, but I fear it’s the latter and so don’t ask. As for “The B.M.,” as Jan calls her—well, she sends two cards a year. So much for open adoptions. Some of them, anyway.

  We burned the cards in a little black cast-iron woodstove Mr. Mack used to fire up when he needed to heat the shop. Now that Jan’s taken over, she just turns on the thermostat, and the stove sits cold in its corner. As we stood there watching the flames, I thought how all three of us are puzzles with pieces missing, moons separated from our planets.

  Jan says all of her anger and disappointment rises with the smoke every time she has one of these ceremonies. Maybe I should create something similar, a ritual to ease my nerves before I go back to The Foundling. The more I picture myself back in Sophie’s office asking questions about myself and my blood relatives—questions I have every right to ask and have answered—I feel like someone who’s been booed off stage, a poet smashed in the face by a rotten tomato thrown from the front row. Who threw it? My birth mother? “Lawmakers & the system”? History?. . . Me?

  Visiting Dad’s Bench:

  Sacred Heart Cemetery

  I stroke this marble

  as if it is your face,

  smooth after shaving.

  Remember how, when

  I was a little girl,

  you’d chase me down

  the hallway—your face

  buried under a blizzard

  of shaving cream—then

  cover my cheeks with snow

  kisses? I was your

  captured snow girl. Your

  mint-scented snowflake.

  You’d carry me giggling

  back to the bathroom,

  hand down my blue plastic

  razor with its cardboard

  blade, and we’d peer into

  mirrors (yours above

  the sink, mine running

  the full-length of the door)

  and make our faces tingly

  new. I didn’t think you

  could ever disappear,

  leave me here alone to trace

  the letters of your name

  carved in stone.

  End of Spring Break

  “Next train to Grand Central Terminal will be leaving

  from track two in eight minutes,” booms a man’s voice

  over the loudspeaker as Mom pulls up to the Poughkeepsie

  train station. In the back seat, Butter’s panting. He knows

  now what my suitcase means and probably feels the strain

  of this goodbye. Mom and I aren’t at each other’s throats

  as we were back in January—this is a tension we share.

  A question mark dangles in the air above our heads like

  a piñata about to crack. What secrets will it spill? Maybe

  next time I see her I’ll know my birth mother’s first

  name, maybe I’ll know more than that. Where we’ll go

  from there, who can guess. Joe will give me tips. All I can

  tell her now, I do: “Mom, I love you. You’re the best mother

  anyone could ever ask for.” A March wind whips my hair

  into my face as I step from the car. Caught in an updraft,

  a plastic bag swirls past my head, then sinks. “Be a good

  boy,” I tell Butter. Then, Brace yourself, Girl, I think.

  Journal Entry #2208

  Scene: Heading back to NYU on the train after Spring Break

  Out the window to my right, the Hudson Ri
ver seems to flow in two directions. Like me.

  So what did you do on spring break? asks an imaginary friend. Oh, I moped, cried, hid from most friends, hung out with my Mom, visited Dad at the cemetery, I answer. You know, the usual things college kids do on break.

  It seems right to be on this train, heading south. My birth mother didn’t want me to grow up in the city—well, I didn’t, and I love the country, this wide river. But obviously my living in New York is meant to be. (So where, first mother, are you?)

  _______

  The closer we get to Grand Central, the more my heart pounds like a prisoner in my chest. I close my eyes, sing “When You Never Said Goodbye” in my head. Two seats in front of me, a couple shares a bag of popcorn. The smell makes me nostalgic for Calvin’s “cooking.” I don’t know yet how I’ll deal with Sam—maybe just tell him I can’t date someone who’s so tan he makes me look as white as Florida’s beach sand. (That won’t work; he’s seen Tim’s photo.) Maybe I’ll tell him I just need a while for my feelings about Tim to settle. Tell him meanwhile, Rhett—oh, forget it. She’d kill me.

  _______

  A little while ago, a woman got on at Croton-Harmon, sat in the seat across the aisle from me. Her hair falls in loose, sparrow-brown curls around her shoulders. It’s hard to tell, but she could be late-30s. My birth mother is 37, if The Foundling info was right. Cathy said there were mistakes in hers, stuff her crazy b.m. told her adoption agency. (“The Home for Little Wanderers.” As if the babies there just wandered in off the street, asked if there were any parents around they could spare.)

  There’s a plastic scrish-scrish sound; the woman’s eating potato chips. She catches me staring. Her eyes are dark. Brown. Her long gray coat, black cashmere scarf, designer-looking jeans, tall black leather boots practically reek of money. She could be . . . what number reunion fantasy is this? Maybe it will be better if my b.m. isn’t rich. I don’t want her thinking I want a relationship just because of that. Does my b.m. have kids? They’ll like me better if they aren’t worried about my taking a cut from their inheritance.