When You Never Said Goodbye

by Meg Kearney

  know I won’t be alone, so have plans of their own—

  window shopping in SoHo, a street fair near Madison

  Square Park. I decide to silence my phone—Mom

  and Kate are busy, and Bob and Tim and Jan and Jade

  can leave me a voicemail, or send a text (they all call

  constantly; I’ve made a game of guessing who will

  be next). “Thanks, but I’m fine, I’m fine,” I keep

  insisting. “Yes,” says Mom, “you will be. In time.”

  Journal Entry #2224: The Promised Letter

  (It’s in my mailbox when I get back from the Brooklyn Bridge; glad Rhett & Henri are still out, I read it in my dorm room.)

  My Dear Elizabeth,

  How I have longed to say those words. Every day since I signed the papers of relinquishment more than 18 years ago, I have prayed that I would have the chance someday to say to you what is in my heart. I’m so grateful that God has offered me this chance. God, I should say, and your steadfast spirit.

  Because it’s been decided that it’s best we do not meet, I have been allowed to speak not only with Karen Mason, but with Sophie Fedorowicz at The Foundling. It’s through Sophie that I’ve learned what a kind, intelligent, and accomplished young woman you’ve turned out to be. That you are a poet comes as no surprise, as your grandmother was a poet—were she alive, she’d be as happy and proud as I am to know you’ve followed in her footsteps. (Your grandfather—my father—is alive but very frail since Mom died. I must agree it’s best we not tell him about your finding me.)

  All I’ve ever wanted for myself was to know you were safe and happy. Learning that you have been blessed with the loving, caring parents I’d hoped for has filled me with immeasurable solace and such great happiness. My friend, Sister Francesca, says I no longer walk, but float. I tell you this to dispel any lingering doubts you may have about my love for you, dear Lizzie. (Sophie says your family calls you that. I hope you don’t mind if I do, too. It does seem like a miracle that you’ve kept the name I gave you. All the first-born girls in the Smith clan are named Elizabeth.) I wish I were able to send you more than one letter, but must be grateful for this much. I will do my best to explain what could otherwise take decades.

  Having grown up in Catholic schools on Long Island (Kings Park), I often felt close to the nuns who were my teachers. I didn’t realize I was meant to be one myself until I turned 13—it was then that instead of boys, God came calling. My parents were surprised. When they realized this desire was not a passing fancy, they worried about “losing” their youngest child behind convent walls. They convinced me to go to college before making up my mind.

  I won’t go into everything that happened that first year at NYU. You happened. Just know that you were conceived in what I thought was love. When that fantasy dissolved, I clung to you, growing inside me. I told myself that I would let go of my dream; I would still be a teacher, but not a nun. We would be a family. My mother let me think things through. My father was less than happy. Oh, Lizzie, how I prayed those months before and after you were born. There was so much I wanted to give you. Finally I knew—to give you that, I must give you up. That was like losing a limb. And like an amputee who still feels her missing arm or leg, I have always felt your presence, always felt that pain of loss. But when at last I knew what I had to do for you, I also knew what I had to do for me. To respect my parents, I finished college. By that time, God was knocking loudly on my heart’s door! When I took my vows, I understood you had been God’s first gift to me. By listening to Him, I was given another. And now, this news of you—what a priceless treasure!

  Sophie tells me that you are a student at NYU. I like to think some essence of us lingers there, and that’s what drew you to that school. How many hours I sat in Washington Square Park, singing softly to soothe you when I felt you turn or kick. The park was often filled with people playing music, no matter what the weather. Now I will picture you there—from Sophie’s description, I know you very much resemble me. (I have no photo to send you, but if you visit our website, you’ll see me in our garden, staking peas. In another photo, Sister Francesca is holding a basketball, and I’m in the background with my hands in the air. I hold the record for most free-throws in a row!)

  Because Karen already has gathered so much information, I’m putting together a little family tree to help you make sense of it all. I will be able to send this to you through her. My sisters and brother know about you. (They have from the beginning.) If you ever feel like contacting them, I’m sure they will be happily surprised, and welcoming. Your cousins, too. I believe that they will all be proud to know you are their relative, Elizabeth Ann McLane. Since you look so much like me, I imagine they will also know who you are at first sight!

  Before I close, I have to tell you—I sought out a semi-cloistered community. It was part of my calling—I don’t expect you to understand. Some days I’m still trying to understand it myself. But these last few days have certainly thrown me into a whirlwind of emotion, making it hard for me to focus on my purpose here. Perhaps that’s why Sister Gabriella (our Prioress General) made the decision she did. It’s not for me to question. All I ask is that if you don’t understand, you at least try to accept who I am. And, if you need to, please forgive me? Acceptance, forgiveness, love—they are the only path toward happiness (another name for God).

  How to end this letter, when I could go on for years? With a prayer that you’ll be safe, healthy, and happy. And that you will know you were always wanted, always loved.

  Blessings and peace

  be yours forever,

  Sister Dorothy

  your first mother

  p.s.

  It’s so very difficult to say hello and then goodbye. Please realize that every time you wake, every time you glance in the mirror, chances are I’m praying for you.

  I’ve Read that Letter Twice &

  Don’t Know What to Feel

  . . . the road beneath me

  has changed again. No—

  it hasn’t turned left

  or right, not become

  a new road, exactly.

  Instead, there’s

  a difference in the light.

  I’ve moved from murk

  to rain. A shower, really;

  I can see, but I’m afraid

  to be happy or sad or

  anywhere between.

  It’s not anything I can

  yet explain to Kate

  who’s at work or Mom,

  who’s planting flowers

  at Dad’s grave. So instead,

  I run down seven flights

  of stairs, burst through

  the turnstile and Goddard’s

  front door, then cross

  the street to the park.

  This park I’ve visited

  since I was in the womb.

  I know, I know she’ll be

  here. And she is. Ruth.

  Ruth’s kind eyes darken,

  sense the rain falling

  inside me. We talk—

  I talk—and then I read.

  And reading that letter,

  I hear Mom’s voice:

  The universe is unfolding

  as it should. Ruth puts

  her hand in mine. “Liz,

  we’ve had enough

  of grief,” she says when

  I’m done. “This is yet

  another gift: your other

  mother’s words and what

  you now know. There’s

  nothing left to do but

  believe. You’re no longer

  stranded out at sea.”

  First Mother: So Near, Yet So Far

  So much like Dad’s death, this

  could take years to absorb,

  to accept. I take it in as a swimmer

  takes a breath, then keep

  kicking, keep

  pulling through this water’s

  murky depths.

&nbs
p; Journal Entry #2225

  She is a mother-ghost.

  Or, a ghost mother:

  here, and yet not

  here.

  What Might Have Been

  In daydreams

  I am the ghost

  peering into windows

  of what might have been.

  Look, there in the glow

  of my parents’ kitchen

  I’m sitting at the table

  sipping tea. Across

  from me is a woman—

  her eyes, my own

  brown earth. Her hands

  reach out for mine—

  and now we’re arm

  in arm, strolling

  through the park.

  People passing say,

  “How tall they are!

  They look so much alike!”

  And they are right.

  We smile, wave at Ruth,

  who’s playing our song.

  My heart opens

  like a door. So we sit

  for a while. Listen,

  she says, to my story.

  Then, tell me yours.

  Journal Entry #2226

  Every time I glance at these photographs, newly framed on the little table next to my bed, I’m startled. It’s like jumping at your own shadow, then realizing, Oh—it’s just me.

  But the woman in these photos is not me. And—what’s really starting to sink in—she’s not a ghost, either. Thanks to the convent’s website, I have not just one photo, but two of her—this first mother I’ve fantasized about my entire life.

  1)Her ginger-brown habit blends in with the garden she’s kneeling in, as a deer blends into the forest. Her profile makes me do a double take—there is the incline of my own nose; there is the slight upward curl of my lips, as if I’m happy but not quite smiling. Yet most of all, I stare at her hands. Those long fingers grasping a thin wood pole and the sort of green mesh that Gram used to stake her peas. Now I know who to thank for my fingers—and, I’m guessing, my toes—that, years ago, I compared to root vegetables God pulled from a garden.

  2)This one completely slays me. In my high school year book, there’s a photo of me striking this exact pose at a home game: Margaret Dunn is in the foreground; I’m a few feet back, my hands raised above my head, mouth slightly open. Just like my birth mother. Like my other mother, this tall woman who plays basketball and went to NYU.

  When I catch myself staring at that face, I think, That’s not you. But—someday, you’ll look just like that. What a strange feeling. As if she’s put her arm around my shoulders. Then I hear her words: “Every time you wake, every time you glance in the mirror, chances are I’m praying for you.”

  Happy tears. These, running down my face, are mostly happy tears.

  Mom & I Have the Longest Talk Ever

  . . . and now I feel like a traveler

  who’s been driving and driving

  for years

  not always paying attention

  when she steers

  or missing the signs, often lost

  and surprised by those turns

  they call “blind,”

  but who suddenly

  brakes

  because she realizes

  HEY, I know that house

  I just passed—I know this road

  that I’m on—

  I know where I am!

  I’m home. Home at last.

  Journal Entry #2227

  Goals for the rest of summer & coming year:

  1)Read more, write more, drink less.

  2)Have a long, face-to-face, heart-to-heart talk with Tim. Are we together, or not? And if we are, what does that mean?

  3)Practice reading in public—go to as many open mics as possible.

  4)Learn to play guitar. Ruth says she’ll teach me. Left-handed.

  5)Take a song-writing class . . . writing lyrics could be a blast.

  6)Send copies of The Secret of Me and The Girl in the Mirror to my birth mother, to Sister Dorothy at her convent in Oregon. Maybe they’ll let her read them. They said no letters, but they didn’t say no book manuscripts. At least I’ll have tried to communicate—to tell her what it’s been like to be me. To let her know that she did the right thing. That giving me up—it turned out okay. More than okay. She gave me a wonderful life.

  Charmed

  This silver full moon around my neck

  lights my way through dark and broken

  places, illuminates the faces of those

  I love—faces around the dinner table,

  on the other end of the phone. Faces

  that let me know I’m not alone—

  faces framed by wild dark braids

  and hot-pink spikes; freckled faces,

  olive faces, cocoa-brown faces

  and once-pale faces now browned

  by sun. Even a new face, one that

  mirrors my own, peeking out

  from a white cloth called a wimple.

  I’ve stared at that mirror for a long,

  long time. Its reflection, like its love,

  is not a simple one. But it’s mine.

  A Haiku: I Swear Before You and God Above

  My one and true name:

  Elizabeth Ann McLane,

  lucky daughter of

  Like a Tree

  Sometimes I’m dizzy with it all—Dad dead

  and first mother a nun, the fear that love

  will chose another if I’m not good enough.

  But how lucky I was, as Mom said,

  to have had such a father; and the love

  of my first mother was so very deep,

  like the roots of a tree, that even when

  she gave her greatest gift, those roots held tough—

  still hold me. Love isn’t something to keep,

  after all, but to give away. And love,

  I’ve learned, is like a special tree. In storms it bends

  but does not break. Its blossoms lure the bees.

  Each year it grows another ring where none was.

  What’s not true love burns bright, then falls like leaves.

  The Story Behind the Novel

  READERS OFTEN ASK ME, “Is Lizzie McLane really you?” I have to explain that no, she is a fictional character who “lives” only in my imagination. I do like to add that Lizzie is the teenager I wish I had been. At least, I wish I had been as brave as she is when I was young, as determined to speak my mind and to express my feelings in poems, if not out loud.

  Like Lizzie, I am adopted. But I wasn’t writing poems about that when I was fourteen, as Lizzie does in the first book I wrote about her, The Secret of Me. While I started writing poems when I was about twelve, adoption was a subject I avoided on paper and in most conversations until I was in my mid-twenties. And though I lost my dad at a fairly early age—twenty-six—my second book about Lizzie, The Girl in the Mirror, tells of her losing her father when she’s only a senior in high school. Still, losing my dad rocked my world much the way Lizzie’s father’s death rocks hers.

  In this third book Lizzie, or “Liz,” as she is now known, searches for her birth mother—which I also did, but it took me until I was twenty-eight to begin.

  Yet we do have a great deal in common, Liz and I.

  Like Liz, I spent the first five months of my life in foster care. Until that point, my birth mother had hesitated to sign the papers that would mean surrendering me and making me available for adoption. She wanted to raise me. She wanted me to have a life filled with love and with opportunities. She believed that, “So many doors are open to the mind that is filled with the beauty to be found everywhere—in nature, poetry, music. The person who is out to learn all that is good sees so much more in everyday life, and lives a much richer existence than the one who remains passive in the doldrums of routine.” Those words, contained in the letter written by Liz’s birth mother to The New York Foundling, were actually written by my own first mother about me. That letter is ninety-nine pe
rcent my birth mother’s words, verbatim.

  How lucky I was, like Liz, to be so loved. My birth mother, who was a schoolteacher and a deeply religious woman, did not believe she could offer me the life she thought I deserved, and so she finally did sign those papers, relinquishing her parental rights. She told the social workers at The New York Foundling that she had broken up with my birth father months before she realized she was pregnant, and so decided not to involve him. To this day, he probably does not know I exist.

  A month later, I was adopted by Joe and Trudy Kearney and immediately had not only two new parents but also a brother and a sister, who were adopted as well. The three of us kids came from different families, but all of us were placed with our mom and dad through The New York Foundling in New York City. We lived in a little town called LaGrange, about seventy-five miles north of Manhattan. The fictional town of New Hook is in the same region—just west of Red Hook in New York State’s Hudson Valley. I was brought, as Liz was, into my birth mother’s dream family: affectionate, close-knit, Roman Catholic, living in the country. I was surrounded by books and music. My mom was a nurse and, in her younger years, a painter. My father was a teacher and then an elementary school principal. I had an older brother and sister who watched over me, and who today rank among my closest friends.

  So the first two books of the trilogy mirror my own life in many ways, although growing up I didn’t know anyone else (beside my siblings) who was adopted—I didn’t have a Cathy or a Jan or a Jade, friends who understood my longing to know where I came from because they had similar questions themselves. (Luckily I did have a best friend, who is still very much a part my life, who saw me through all the trials and joys of growing up.) But the subject of adoption was avoided in my home much the way it is in Liz’s. My siblings and I were Joe and Trudy’s children; the word “adopted” was left out of conversations with anyone from outside our immediate family. I understand now that this was done out of love alongside a fierce sense of loyalty felt by all of us. I was the one who continuously wondered about my origins, especially about the woman who gave me life, though I learned pretty early on to keep my curiosity to myself.