When You Never Said Goodbye

by Meg Kearney

  when I felt lost, with curly hair, a point on

  one ear, and the final twist, left-handedness,

  all leading up not to what I’d fantasized

  but a Jewish bride from Brooklyn who’d

  taken her husband’s name, then soon lost

  him—but by the time I reach the climax

  (“Steinberger!”), Mom has Butter’s leash

  in hand and is rushing for the door. “No

  more,” warns Kate, and I stop. Butter

  looks shocked—he wasn’t expecting

  a walk when there is Kate’s chowder

  and salmon on the table and what smells

  like cheesecake for dessert. He hasn’t

  even finished the chewy Mom had tossed

  him when we’d sat down. Now she is

  running out the door, her face a cross

  between grizzly-bear and shipwreck.

  “She’ll be back,” Kate says with a frown.

  I just stare at Mom’s empty chair.

  Mom Returns from Her Surprise Walk with a Determined Look on Her Face

  Elbows on the table,

  head in my hands,

  I sit in silence while

  the chowder turns

  cold. Kate picks

  at her salad. For half

  an hour the clock

  ticks and we don’t

  say boo. By quarter

  to one, Mom and Butter

  come back, Butter full

  of wags and half-

  chewed-chewy-nut-

  rapture. Mom full of—

  what? Not annoyance.

  Purpose? She sits

  down with us, says,

  “Lizzie, for years

  you’ve had these

  fantasies about finding

  your birth mother.

  They have filled me

  with worries that

  you’ll have your

  heart broken, because

  it seemed that it might

  never happen. But

  now, perhaps, it will.

  You’re so close—

  soon, I think, you’ll

  meet her. So listen.

  I’m not going to say

  this as some token

  sermon of wisdom,

  or to keep you from

  dreaming about

  what that day will

  be like. I might

  as well ask you

  to stop breathing.”

  (Am I breathing?

  I’m glad for

  the reminder.)

  “Just—try hard

  to remember two

  things: one, she loves

  you very deeply.

  Keep that always

  in your heart.

  Because two,

  she’s as human

  as the rest of us.

  Don’t anoint her

  to some kind of

  sainthood, because

  then she’s bound

  to disappoint.”

  After Church: Easter Sunday Brunch,

  Then Back to the New York-Bound Train

  “Let’s call Bob before you head back—he must

  be up by now,” Mom says as our waiter

  slides the bill onto our table. When her

  train was leaving last night, Kate said, “I trust

  at brunch tomorrow, you’ll praise those who must

  cook all those fried eggs and omelets on Easter

  Sunday, and rise at dawn, unlike our brother

  who’ll sleep ’til noon.” When I tell Bob, he busts

  up over that. “Hey, tell her I was up by nine!”

  he says. Mom, who’s now driving, winks. “Ask him

  which time zone.” It’s good for Mom and me

  to laugh. So I pull out my journal. “Mind

  if I read you my ‘First and Last Date’ with Sam

  poem?” “Only,” Mom says, “if it’s funny.”

  Good News While Studying in the Park

  My phone starts to play “Winter River,” so

  I know it’s Tim. Can’t help myself—why not

  talk with him? On Ruth’s bench, a sparrow

  stands alert. “She’s in the country, where you

  should be,” I tell the bird. “I’d rather be

  in New York City,” says Tim. “Well, you blew

  that, going to school in Florida, then

  getting yourself a cute girlfriend,” I tease,

  then add, “Hi, Tim. Really, how’ve you been?

  Thanks for the Easter text.” Tim hesitates.

  “Well. Yeah. I’m good. But my golf clubs aren’t,”

  he says mysteriously. “But here’s great

  news—Zeena and I have . . . well, parted ways.”

  That is great news, but I wonder why he

  thinks so. “That tournament, Easter Sunday?

  She was in the lead. Then totally blew

  it. Threw a little hissy fit right there

  on the green. I told her I never knew

  she was such a bad sport. This was later,

  in the parking lot. That’s when she busted

  my clubs with her car. She’s an alligator—

  Landon always said so.” “That’s a bummer

  about your clubs, though,” I say. “She paid me,”

  he says. “. . .Think I could visit this summer?”

  Journal Entry #2219

  Scene: Louise & I waiting in line for tea at the Third Rail

  Louise asks if my mother expects presents on Mother’s Day (no, just a phone call, which I already made, I tell her, leaving out how Mother’s Day is always a loaded subject). Apparently, her mother demands gifts (plural) and hers weren’t up to par.

  Then she tells me that Kimiko isn’t coming back this fall. She’s actually transferring to community college back in Arizona. Louise is looking everywhere—the menu board, the window, at people drinking tea and coffee at the little wood tables—but not at me. I can tell she’s trying not to cry. I tell her not to worry—Bob went to community college and immediately after got swept up by this software company in Silicon Valley. Kate says he’ll probably be a millionaire someday, and never have a BA or have to pay a college loan. I explain how it turns out that our brother is brilliant—he’s already got a patent! Who knew? So maybe Kimiko will do well, too.

  Louise: Well, Kimiko could be brilliant. But I’m not sure she’s that brilliant. She is good company, though.

  Me: But you’ll be back this fall.

  Louise: Yeah, but I might have to live at home. Kimiko’s actually my cousin—she was the reason my parents let me stay on campus. They won’t pay for it now.

  Me (thinking: I am so lucky.): You could still hang with me, with us—

  Louise (stops): Liz, you are such a nice person. You know that? Naïve, but nice.

  Me: Not so bad for a country girl?

  . . . she hugged me.

  Journal Entry #2220

  On the walk home from class, I spot Ruth in the park. I haven’t seen her since Passover, which coincided this year with Easter. She’s writing something in a little blue notebook, then stopping to strum her guitar. Hating when people interrupt me if I’m writing, I decide to leave her be—but she sees me, waves me over.

  She is so inquisitive about my weekend at home for Easter that I decide to tell her ALL, my whole story, right through the Steinberger punch line. “Oh, Liz, I’m so flattered,” she says, laughing so hard little tears spring from her eyes. A knot in my stomach unravels. I laugh, too.

  Frustrating realization: I ask why she plays guitar right-handed. “Because no one would teach me left-handed,” she says, and I think, WHOA. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, I could have learned that way, too . . . I would be a good player by now.

  According to Ruth, “When You Never Said Goodbye” was one of Jessica Rose Hemley’s hits, but it was actually written by Hemley’s friend, Iona Grosart. Ruth do
esn’t know if Grosart was adopted, but that’s my guess. As for “mother-ghost,” Ruth thinks it means dead, like the mother died suddenly without having a chance to say goodbye. That makes me think of Ruth’s husband, and Tim—how he lost his mother when he was a baby. He’s going to love this song. Maybe this summer he’ll hear Ruth play. . .

  “Let’s sing it together, okay?” Ruth says, lifting her guitar to her lap. I nod. My voice is a whisper when we begin, but grows bolder by the second verse. Then I’m lost in it all—wind-blown, sea-borne. Ruth winks.

  _______

  . . . I just texted Karen Mason. Told her please, please don’t text, email, or call me, no matter what, until after exams end on May 17. It’s hard enough focusing without her asking me to call Sophie at The Foundling, or telling me—anything else.

  Need I Say More?

  (Two Haiku in Honor of NYU’s Annual Strawberry Festival)

  1)

  Ten-thousand berries / sweeten New York’s best,

  longest,

  strawberry shortcake

  2)

  We eat strawberry

  ice cream, smoothies,

  cheese

  beneath

  strawberry balloons

  Coffee Study Break With One of Us Five Missing

  Rhett swears she smells coffee. Then: knock knock—

  knock knock. Henri? This wasn’t the plan originally;

  I was heading to the library, but Rhett convinced me

  we could study here. When the clock struck one, Sam,

  Calvin, and Henri would show. We’d have chocolate,

  a box of Fig Newtons. The boys would bring coffee.

  So here’s Sam and Calvin with a crock-pot of French

  roast. They even brought soy milk for me. But

  where’s Henri? A few minutes later, my phone ding-

  dongs. “Don’t wait 4 me,” reads Henri’s text. “Maybe

  c u at the rock friday. Good luck w/ rest of classes

  & finals & hi to the tribe!” “What’s up with that?”

  Calvin asks, his arm around Rhett. Can’t he guess?

  Metaphor Poem for Last Workshop:

  “Studying for Final Exams”

  Got my hiking

  boots, back-

  pack, walking

  stick. Got

  a water bottle,

  trail mix,

  map. Now

  it’s straight

  up

  this

  mountain

  of memory—

  these tests

  of all

  I know—

  until

  I reach

  the patch

  on top

  where

  blueberries

  grow

  One Chapter Closes, Another Opens on Its Heels

  As crowded as a subway car at rush hour, Mind of Snow

  barely audible above the din, cellar-dark and smelling

  of sweat and beer, The Rock is clearly the place to be for

  an end-of-finals party. Rhett and Calvin made it here early

  enough to grab a table—Sam’s here now, too, and we four

  toast this day. “Think you did okay?” shouts Rhett, already

  a little tipsy. I smile, lift my drink in reply, then glance

  around for Henri. “Hey!” calls Sam, who sees her first—

  she spots him waving one arm. Calvin and Rhett squish

  over to make room for her to sit. But wait. She’s not alone.

  Henri elbows her way over to us, her face brighter than

  the candle Rhett just lit. “Hey, guys, this is Edmund,”

  she says, “Edmund Dante Rodriguez.” Calvin knows him—

  I think Sam, too—they rise, shake his hand. “Edmund

  Dante?” Rhett yells, looking like Henri just said “free

  drinks.” The guy looks familiar. “Like, the Count of Monte

  Christo?” Rhett’s standing now, ready to hug him. A storm

  cloud rushes across Henri’s face. Edmund makes a low bow.

  “Wow! My favorite book of all time!” Rhett squeals like

  a kid. Putting my hand on Henri’s arm, I feel her relax.

  “My mother’s, too,” says Edmund. He slides his arm around

  Henri’s waist; out pops the sun again. “A round of drinks?

  We’re heading for the bar,” Edmund offers. As I dig through

  my purse for some cash, I realize I have a text I didn’t hear.

  Then the roar of people, the music, my friends next

  to me, fade. It’s as if I’m under water. The text is from

  Karen Mason: “Tests done? Been sitting on your info two

  days. Call when you get this.” I stare at those words.

  My heart thumps harder than the band’s base beat bouncing

  off the walls. My mouth’s cardboard. Will my legs hold if I

  stand? “I can cover you ’til later,” Henri’s saying in my

  ear. “We know you’re good for it,” Edmund adds, as if

  I didn’t hear. “Liz, why do you look so weird?” asks Rhett.

  Their voices sound so far away. “No—thanks,” I manage

  to say. “Something’s come—up. I really have to go.”

  After the Text

  I remember trembling

  out on the sidewalk

  as if it were snowing

  and I had no coat,

  but don’t remember

  leaving The Rock.

  I remember Karen

  saying “complicated”

  and “Mark ‘Saturday

  delivery,’” but don’t

  recall what else she

  said, or what was so

  “complicated” at all.

  I remember Rhett

  walking me to UPS,

  her endless chatter

  to ease the stress, but

  have no memory of

  first fetching the money

  order from our room.

  I do remember sending

  the money. Soon after,

  hugging Rhett, hailing

  a cab. The ride over

  is fuzzy: I can’t picture

  letting myself in Kate’s

  apartment door, or

  texting Kate to say

  I was there. Ginger

  tea, I remember that;

  me calling Mom,

  insisting, No, don’t

  come. I remember Tim

  playing his guitar

  into the phone, but

  I’m not sure when

  Kate got home. Garlic

  and mint: her scent

  as she hugged me.

  Her voice was a balm

  to the wound we were

  born with, for the grief

  we’ve always carried

  for something that was

  ruptured, something

  torn then hidden away

  long before we had our

  say in our own futures.

  There was no use in

  even trying to sleep.

  It’s all been leading

  to this day, I recall

  thinking as Kate and I

  watched the sun rise.

  The sun. It was fat

  and red as a beach ball

  over Brooklyn. Yes,

  I remember that.

  Waiting for Karen’s Email, Thinking,

  “A New Road Beneath Me”

  Soon after dawn I finally slept,

  dreamless—

  then woke,

  feeling a new road beneath me.

  Life has taken

  another turn—

  this one just as sharp

  but different

  from the turn Dad’s death

  made, and the road

  I’ve now found myself on

  is a road

  I’ve always dreamed of driving

  Journal Entry #2221r />
  I wake to the smell of eggs and coffee. Dressed in Kate’s sweats, my hair a tangled nest, I’m practically richocheting off the walls like a pinball. Karen said she’d send the email by 10 a.m. I glance at the clock—less than an hour until then.

  “When You Never Said Goodbye” is on eternal replay in my mind, haunting me:

  Had that dream again of asters

  and black birds—you like a page torn—

  just outside my door.

  The wind stirs

  and the leaves all let go.

  Rushed out to greet you,

  your face turned to snow.

  After one look at me in the little kitchen’s doorway, Kate says, “For you, I’m brewing half decaf. You’ve already got the jitters.” Or the shivers. I can’t seem to warm up.

  Kate sets up her laptop on the coffee table near the couch while I shower. At 9:55, the email flashes in my inbox:

  “Dear Liz, are you in a place where you can speak privately? If so, please call me asap. Thanks, Karen.”

  This wasn’t expected.

  Karen’s Call (On Speaker Phone)

  “I have to admit I’ve been grateful for

  the extra few days to think this through,”

  Karen says when I call. “Your case is more

  unusual than any other—this is new

  to me, and I thought it best to explain

  on the phone.” Beside me on the couch, Kate

  takes my hand. “In order to save you pain,

  I’ve made a few calls. Liz, to tell you straight—

  this isn’t the best news.” “Oh my God she’s dead!”

  I blurt. “No, no, not that—she’s very much alive,”

  Karen says, “and it’s important I add ahead

  of time that she’s so happy to know you’re alive

  and well. . . . She’ll send you a letter. Only one.