“Not exactly,” I replied.
Tim removed his tie and walked into the bedroom. When he came back out, he asked, “Why not?”
I didn’t know where to begin. Now that the kids were old enough, I had actually begun to figure out who I was, in addition to being their mother. I wasn’t sure I was ready to let go of my newfound independence.
There was one other looming matter discouraging any elation I felt: What would Gene and Carol think? This would be their grandchild. How would they feel about Tim and me raising up this child across town from them? If they had, as Sarah maintained, sent her away to have this baby, then surely they wouldn’t like the idea of the child virtually coming home.
I suggested to Tim that, if we were going to adopt Sarah’s baby, we should only do it if Gene and Carol extended their blessings. Tim was in full agreement.
Sarah balked. She didn’t see any need to ask her parents’ blessing. “It’s my baby,” she said. “If I choose you and Tim, why should it matter whether my parents agree with my decision?”
The discussion over getting the Brills’ blessing went on for about six weeks. I told Sarah I wanted her involved in the baby’s life. The adoption would need to be an open one. This child would always know Sarah in some intimate way. On that matter, we agreed.
Sometime early into her third trimester, Sarah told us her father was okay with us adopting, but her mother was not. Carol did not want Tim and me raising her grandchild. I never asked Carol why. I’m not sure I wanted to know. I think it was because the hidden part of me was relieved.
Sarah was miffed when she told me her mother wouldn’t give her consent. She was upset at me and at her mom. She didn’t understand why it mattered what her mother thought. But now I wonder if Sarah really ever discussed the matter with her parents. Over the years, I’ve come to second-guess everything Sarah said.
I had one confidant in town whom I shared all this with, Janice Wells, who suggested an alternative couple for Sarah. Janice had friends in Portland who were possible candidates. Chuck and Missy McDonald already had a big family, like ours, but they wanted to add to it. Sarah was initially reluctant but eventually agreed to at least meet with Missy.
I didn’t know much about the couple, only what Janice told me. But after several phone calls back and forth between all parties involved, and with Sarah’s permission, I arranged for us all to meet. Missy drove up from Portland and I drove over from Pendleton, picking up Sarah along the way. We gathered in Westport, Washington, where my sister lives.
Out over the Pacific, and there in that harbor community, agitated clouds hung heavy and low. Looking back now, I might regard the darkening sky as an omen of the trouble sure to follow. But at that time, it made sense to trust fate to deal with whatever capricious winds were brewing.
Chapter Six
Sarah was raped, or so she says now.
The first time I came across the rape claim I was leafing through a pile of documents Shawn’s defense attorney gave me. Right there on Sarah’s medical records was a request that she have an all-female delivery staff because Sarah said her first pregnancy had been traumatic: the result of rape.
The next time I read that statement was in a report filed by the detective who interviewed her parents in the wake of Karly’s death.
“Sarah was a handful, a major challenge,” Gene Brill told the officer. “One year we had to send her off to a Christian boarding school in San Diego because we were afraid she was going to run off somewhere.”
“Was that the year she got pregnant?” asked Detective Mike Wells.
“No,” Carol Brill said. “Sarah mimicked her birth mother. She waited to get pregnant until she was the same age her mother had been when she was born. Her mother was twenty. Sarah was twenty. She was trying to make some sort of connection.”
“And that was a boyfriend? Or a rape she got pregnant from?” Detective Wells asked.
“A boyfriend,” Gene replied.
Detective Wells was confused. Sarah claimed she’d been raped and that was why she’d been pregnant.
“It was a casual relationship,” Gene said. “It wasn’t anything long term.”
That’s exactly how I remember it. The baby’s father was a cowboy from Heppner. Sarah told me they’d been drinking and got carried away. We even discussed whether she should get his consent for an adoption. I urged her to tell the young man she was pregnant with his child and to seek his consent. I would never have suggested it if I’d thought for one minute that Sarah had been raped. Sarah assured me they had talked and that he agreed with her decision.
Once she moved off to Corvallis, however, it appears Sarah’s life took on the fictional characteristics of a James Frey memoir. She claimed she got pregnant from a date rape. According to several of her friends, who heard Sarah repeat different versions over the years, Sarah said a fellow she knew had climbed in her bedroom window and raped her.
Detective Mike Wells had his work cut out for him, trying to sort out fact from fiction. He interviewed Shelley, Sarah’s best friend and sometime roommate, before speaking to the Brills.
Wells said, “The way Shelley understood it, when Sarah was fifteen or seventeen, she was raped, got pregnant, and was sent away to some type of boarding facility, and the baby was adopted out.”
“That’s not how it happened,” Carol said. “Sarah had willingly gone to the home for unwed mothers.” But Carol added, “It had probably been another mistake, sending her there.”
“Yeah, it’d been a hard time for her,” Gene said.
“Sarah didn’t fit in well there,” Carol explained. “All the other girls there were on welfare.”
“Yeah,” Gene said. “Sarah hated that place. I mean, they were really good Christian people and all involved there, but Sarah decided on her own to give that baby up, and in the end it devastated her. But Sarah was wise enough to know she wasn’t ready to care for a baby. So she lost that one. And now look—this one is gone, too.”
Gene and Carol never told Detective Wells that Sarah wanted to give her first child to Tim and me. They didn’t mention how upset they’d been with her for getting pregnant. They didn’t say that Sarah had returned to Pendleton after giving Hillary away and lived with our family, not theirs.
Chapter Seven
We met for lunch at a touristy restaurant down on the docks, Sarah, Missy, my sister Linda, and me. Sarah barely looked pregnant. She wore a blue-jean skort, with thick white stockings and a denim blouse. Her baby bump was hidden under an oversized white knit sweater. Her hair, usually cut short, was longer now and softly curled.
Dancer thin, Missy looked more like a college coed than the mother of five in her jeans and leather bomber jacket. Her blonde hair was shoulder-length and curly, most likely the result of the spiral perms so popular then. Sarah was pleased that Missy was so pretty and I was happy that Missy was so genuine. She greeted us all with lingering hugs and an infectious smile.
Everybody had a case of the jitters. Meeting potential parents as a birth mom is a lot like going on a blind date; it’s a search for the right mix of character and chemistry. The conversation started slowly but my sister Linda, who isn’t really the sort to insert herself, filled in the holes with tidbits of information about Westport and its tourist trade.
Sarah has always been soft-spoken. She never had to demand center stage; when the spotlight was turned her way, no one shone brighter. Hollywood might say she has that “IT” factor, a beguiling charisma that attracts people to her.
Carol Brill said Sarah is the sort of person who has many casual friends but few people really know her in an intimate way. I saw that in her, too. Sarah played everything close to the vest. No matter how well a person thought they knew Sarah, it was always difficult to know what she was thinking.
Yet, by midafternoon, it was obvious Missy had enchanted Sarah. The laughter came easy and the conversation soon turned to chatter, as though the two were old friends. Missy appeared to be all that S
arah was seeking in an adoptive mother. She was gregarious, warm, funny, and a good listener.
By early evening, I felt like the dying woman who had just introduced her husband to his next wife. I was elated for everyone else but grieving the loss up ahead. Sarah was so comfortable with Missy, I felt replaced. It’s one of my least favorite emotions: an ugly mix of jealousy and insecurity, undergirded by the fear that I no longer matter. I couldn’t tell Missy or Sarah what I was feeling, so I confided in my sister, who assured me it was normal, and part of the process of letting go.
I knew before we left the beach the next morning that Sarah would adopt her baby out to Chuck and Missy. She never said so but I knew it deep in my bones. I uttered a prayer of gratitude; Missy was going to be the perfect mother for Sarah’s child. However, I cried as I drove, knowing full well I had given up something very precious.
Sarah called me from the hospital on a sunny spring day when the cherry tree was in bloom.
“I’m in labor,” she said. “Can you get here as soon as possible?”
“That’s terrific, honey,” I said. “Is your mother there?”
“Yes.”
“And Missy and Chuck? Are they there, too?”
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“Great. That’s just great,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” she said. “But when are you getting here? You need to hurry.”
I was pacing the floor between the living room and the dining room. I did a quick mental check. Everybody was pretty self-sufficient, and Tim would understand if I packed up at a moment’s notice. He always understood when it came to Sarah. Nevertheless, I was torn between a desire to be there for the birth of this child and the realization that my presence, while a comfort to Sarah, would be uncomfortable for everyone else.
“Sarah, honey, I’m not coming,” I said.
Silence sliced the air. Sarah had not imagined I wouldn’t come when called, that I would ever in a million years miss this event.
“Why?” she cried.
“I don’t belong there, Sarah. You have your mother. You have Missy. This is a time for you all.”
“But I want you here,” Sarah said, pleading. “Come on. Please. I need you.”
Sarah’s entreaties almost swayed me but the mother in me held me back. I didn’t want to stomp over holy ground. This was a time, I hoped, for healing between Sarah and Carol. I did not want them to risk missing this chance.
I told Sarah she could call me anytime, day or night, no matter what. But I was not going to make the trip because I would be in the way.
“You need this time alone with your baby, with your mama, and with Chuck and Missy.”
Someone called me later to tell me that Sarah had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Hillary Jane, called Hillary, was born the day before her mother’s twentieth birthday.
The next call I got came from a very distraught Missy, who told me Sarah was reluctant to relinquish the infant. I had expected as much. Missy was hoping I could talk some sense into Sarah, get her to realize she couldn’t possibly handle motherhood. There was desperation in Missy’s voice. She was afraid Sarah was going to change her mind.
I assured Missy I would talk to Sarah, try to figure out where her heart was in all of this. A flurry of phone calls took place over the next forty-eight hours. Janice Wells called. I called Sarah. Sarah called me. Missy called me.
If Carol was part of this decision-making, I didn’t know it. Carol and I never spoke about Sarah’s pregnancy, or Hillary’s adoption. If Missy called Carol and spoke with her, she never mentioned it to me. It seems wrong now that I would not have welcomed Carol’s input, but I’m sure at the time I was simply trying to honor Sarah’s wishes.
I wanted to extract myself from the situation and to let things progress naturally, but here I was in the thick of it. If I felt that much pressure, I couldn’t imagine how Sarah must have felt. I had wanted more than anything to protect her from that.
Chuck and Missy decided if Sarah wasn’t ready to relinquish the infant child, well, by golly, they would take the whole kit and caboodle home with them. They invited Sarah to bring Hillary and come live with them for a while.
I have often thought that, had I gone up to Tacoma the day Hillary was born, all of this might have been avoided. Not the pain part— giving up Hillary was hard on Sarah. Anyone who knew her knew that. She really had mixed feelings about her decision, in part because Sarah needed to belong to somebody. She needed to be a mother.
Three weeks later, with Sarah still in their home, Chuck and Missy grew more worried. Would they get so attached to Hillary, only to have Sarah yank her out of their arms? Had they set themselves up for heartbreak? The few times I spoke with Missy she was every bit as emotional as Sarah. Everyone’s nerves were on edge.
In the balance hung the welfare of an infant unaware, and a birth mother who was all too keenly aware of her separation from the baby she’d carried for nine months. Her child was in the arms of another woman. Sarah was not nursing or tending Hillary. Close as she was, Sarah was a visitor to Hillary, not a mother. If she left Hillary with Chuck and Missy, that’s all she would ever be to Hillary: the visitor who had birthed her.
Sarah was struggling to figure out who she was and what she was going to do with the rest of her life now. She might as well have been trying to figure out how to maneuver around New York City on a zip line. Loneliness loomed before her like a dark street. Without a baby to care for, what was her purpose? She had no idea what she was going to do, or where she was going to go.
Tim and I suggested she should come live with us. It would allow her time to regroup and develop a plan for her own life. It didn’t take her long to decide our offer was her best option.
Sarah came to our home and Hillary remained with her adoptive parents. When friends hosted a baby shower for Missy and Hillary, I drove to Portland, and took along a pair of tiny Nikes, a stuffed bunny and a poem Tim had written. It was the first and only time I would meet Hillary, though I’ve seen photos of her over the years. The week before I learned of Karly’s death, I serendipitously came across a yellowed copy of the poem Tim had penned:
Ode to Hillary Jane
Welcome to the world,
Hillary Jane!
Not as gentle an abode as that
from which you’ve come.
Yet, God, The Creator, carves out human souls,
and yours, Hillary Jane, He designed especially so.
Wear these shoes of Nike, classic messenger of God,
as honor to the mother who bore you,
and the family God appointed you.
Go boldly into this world, Hillary Jane.
step lively, step swiftly, along the path,
watch out for side roads,
stay within His lane, listen to the pace.
God, The Creator, designed you for a purpose,
Our Little Hillary Jane.
Sarah saw very little of Hillary during that first year of her life. The phone calls between Missy and Sarah that had taken place almost daily during the pregnancy became less frequent, once a month, then every other month, and then months would pass without any at all.
That disturbed me. I knew that if Hillary had been in our home, Sarah would have had regular contact with her. I thought Sarah needed and wanted that. Whenever I asked if she had heard from Missy recently, Sarah would shake her head no.
It was such a hard place to be in. In some ways it still is. When I look at photos of Hillary now, all grown up and dressed in blue satin, and I consider all those homecoming dances, the proms, the school musicals, the youth fellowships and all the late-night talks I missed out on, and of the story not written, it grieves me deeply.
Missy recognized that grief in me long before I ever did. Sometime shortly before Hillary’s first birthday I wrote Missy a letter expressing my dismay at the breakdown in her relationship with Sarah. I blamed Missy for it, never allowing for the possibility that it was
Sarah who was being unreliable or manipulative.
A month passed before Missy replied. The letter she sent me in May 1995 reads now more like a prophetic word than the defensive rebuttal I mistook it for then:
Dear Karen,
When I received your letter in February I wanted to respond right away, but I really wasn’t quite sure how to. I went through a lot of emotions, first I bawled for hours. I felt very hurt by your disappointment in Chuck and me. For you to think we didn’t care about Sarah and had closed the door on her was very hard to understand. But as I reread the letter and Chuck and I discussed it, I began to understand better where it was coming from. I think it comes from your heart and reveals your deepest emotion. I know that you care very deeply for Sarah, as though she was your own child. You have seen her hurting so much and you would like to stop it for her. I believe that you hear from Sarah, perhaps, a slanted view of the actual truth or fact. We both know Sarah has a way of making people feel sorry for her. I’m not saying she isn’t experiencing some major emotions but there is also tremendous confusion in her life and she doesn’t want to acknowledge where it’s coming from.
Karen, not only were you expressing Sarah’s pain, but also your own. I realize you must be going through a tremendous amount of your own grief. I know Hillary could as easily have been living in your home as ours. I’m sure you think about how you would have dealt with things if that had been the case. It’s very easy to imagine what we would do if we were in a situation, but we can’t always know until we are actually in it. The choices Chuck and I make are made with a lot of discussion and prayer. We do feel our first consideration has to be for Hillary. Sarah has to be second to that. If that means there will be times when we distance ourselves, it is because we feel it’s the best for our whole family, not because we don’t care about Sarah. We have tried to explain this to Sarah. We have also tried to get her to respond and tell us how she feels about everything. She said very little, but what she has said is that many people are trying to make her feel bad about not grieving over Hillary. She feels she has done that (not that I agree). She also expressed that she missed the relationship with Chuck and me that she had in the past. We have discussed the fact that things can’t be the same as they were but that we will always be open to a relationship with her. I don’t doubt that Sarah and Hillary will have a relationship in the future. How and when I don’t know but it doesn’t scare or threaten me in the least because Hillary will always know who she is and where she came from and that we love her very much.
A Silence of Mockingbirds Page 3
