Then I headed to the library to research the train schedule to Washington. I’d have to go back into New York to change trains, and then it would be three and a half hours to D.C. Three and a half hours and a lot of money. I googled hotels and the cheapest I could find that sounded safe and was within walking distance of the wall was a bit over one hundred and fifty dollars a night. This little trip was going to clean out the bank account I’d just opened and then some, but it was an absolute necessity. I wasn’t even sure how I was going to wait until Monday to go. If I could, I would go right now. I was glad to have the invitation to the Van Dykes’ for tonight to give me something else to think about.
The three Van Dykes were impressed by the dog treats. We were all in the large, always clean kitchen, the scent of beef stew rising from the Crock-Pot, when Joanna opened the box. The dogs clamored around her legs.
“They’re really too cute to give to the dogs,” Michelle said, peering into the box as she chopped cherry tomatoes in half.
Brandon poured himself a glass of red wine. “I bet Jobs’d like that turtle,” he said.
Joanna looked up at me. “Can I take it?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” I held the box steady so she could reach in and pull out the treat.
“You need to offer one to Poppy, too,” Michelle said as Joanna lifted the turtle from the box. Joanna studied the treats for what seemed like a full minute before deciding that Poppy could have the penguin. We gave the cookies to the dogs and sent them out into the yard.
I wondered why I’d been invited to dinner here tonight. It seemed almost too good to be true. Being here with them, with Joanna, felt like a dream. This was what I wanted, to be part of Joanna’s family. I couldn’t believe it was becoming a reality so quickly.
Brandon set down the glass of wine and put his arm around Michelle’s shoulders. “How can I help?” he asked.
I didn’t hear Michelle’s answer because I was too busy filling up with envy. Not that I wanted Brandon. I wanted Joe’s arm around my shoulders. I wanted Joe to ask me how he could help. I just wanted Joe.
Together, the four of us finished making the salad, setting the table, filling glasses with water, dishing the savory stew into gigantic soup bowls, and carrying the bowls to the dining room table.
“So what’s the ‘something funny’ you told me about?” I asked Joanna as we began to eat.
“You’ll find out,” she said mysteriously, and she and Michelle exchanged a smile.
“What are you guys talking about?” Brandon asked.
“Nothing,” Joanna said, digging into her stew, and I realized I may have let the cat out of the bag.
“I’m going to Washington, D.C., Monday morning,” I said to change the topic, “but I’ll be home in time Tuesday to babysit.”
“Yay!” Joanna said.
“Oh, that’s crazy,” Michelle said. “You can’t go to Washington just for one day! Don’t worry about sitting. We can get someone else.”
“No,” Joanna whimpered.
“I have to work Wednesday anyway, so it’s fine,” I said. “I’m just going to Washington to visit the Vietnam Memorial.”
“Very moving,” Brandon said with a solemn nod.
“Why there?” Michelle asked. “I mean, why make that long trip just for that one stop?”
“There’s a Vietnam veteran staying at the inn,” I said. “When I talked to him, I remembered a promise I’d made to my father that I’d go to the wall one day and make a rubbing of my uncle’s name. My father’s older brother. So that’s what I’m going to do.” Lies seemed to flow out of my mouth these days. It was almost as if I believed them.
“That’s really a nice gesture,” Michelle said, her voice sincere.
“That’s the wall with all the soldiers’ names on it?” Joanna asked.
“Right,” Brandon said. “All the men—and women—who were killed in a war that never should have happened.”
My jaw clenched. I’d come to agree with that sentiment, yet it hurt every time I heard it or read it.
“Is a rubbing like what you did on Poppop’s grave?” Joanna asked Michelle.
“Exactly,” she said.
“Do you remember when we went to the Air and Space Museum in Washington?” Brandon asked Joanna.
Her eyes lit up. “Totally!” she said, and she began telling me everything she saw and experienced in the museum. All the simulators she was able to use. All the exhibits she seemed to have memorized. She loved seeing the Wright Brothers’ plane, and she told me nearly every detail about the exhibit of the Apollo 11 astronauts who walked on the moon. Hearing about that felt spooky to me, knowing I was the only person in the room who had seen that event live on television barely a year ago. Joe and I had watched it together. To Joanna, it was ancient history.
“We couldn’t tear her away,” Michelle said. “I swear, her birth parents must have been astronauts or something.”
I smiled. No, I thought. Just a physical therapist and a structural engineer. God, how Joe would have loved this girl!
“Did you know that Kitty Hawk, where the Wright Brothers made their first flight, is only a few miles from where I lived in the Outer Banks?” I asked Joanna, intentionally using the past tense, curious to see how it felt. It didn’t feel good or right and I nearly winced as the words left my mouth.
Joanna’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding!” she said. “That is so cool.”
“The place they took off from is no longer a part of Kitty Hawk, though. It’s now called Kill Devil Hills, and there’s a monument there to mark the spot.”
“That’s another crazy name,” Joanna said. “Tell them the name of your city. The horse name.”
“Nags Head,” I said. And then I went through the whole “how Nags Head got its name” story again. When I finished, Michelle stood up.
“I think it’s time for dessert,” she said.
I pushed back my chair to help clear the table, but Joanna stopped me. “You stay here with Daddy,” she said. “Mom and I’ve got this.”
Brandon gave me a shrug and we watched Michelle and Joanna whisk away the bowls and salad plates.
“They have something up their sleeves,” Brandon said to me with a smile. “Been whispering ever since I got home.”
In another minute, Michelle brought out a plate covered by a box. Joanna giggled at her side, a stack of dessert plates and forks in her hands. Michelle set the plate on the table in front of Brandon. With a flourish, she lifted the box from the plate to reveal a cake in the shape of a yellow baseball cap, “Massey’s Golf Park” written in a shaky brown script on the crown.
I started laughing immediately, though it took Brandon another second to catch on. “Oh, good God,” he said finally, grabbing Joanna around the waist and hugging her to him. “You two are crazy! Which one of you made this?”
“We did it together,” Joanna said. “I frosted it but Mom did the writing.”
Michelle handed Brandon a knife. “Hope you’ll share,” she said.
I was still chuckling as Brandon began cutting oddly shaped pieces of the cake, but before I knew what was happening, my laughter turned into tears.
“Why are you crying?” Joanna stared at me from her father’s side at the head of the table, and Michelle and Brandon looked over at me.
I couldn’t answer her. I wasn’t even sure why my tears were falling. I felt overwhelmed with joy at being with my Joanna, seeing this family, witnessing their love, knowing my daughter was safe. At the same time, I remembered holding her, my tiny newborn infant, such a short time ago. She’d been trapped in a network of tubes and wires. I remembered her light weight in my arms. The scent of her. The feeling of her smooth temple against my lips. I thought of all I went through to give her life.
So worth it, all of it, I thought. Even if she’s no longer mine.
Brandon had stopped cutting, the knife halfway through the cake, and all three of them stared at me.
“I’m al
l right,” I reassured them, trying to smile. I scrambled for a way to explain my tears. “I’m just touched by this family,” I said. “You’re all so perfect.”
“Oh, honey.” Michelle laughed. “We are so not perfect! Nobody is.”
“I don’t mean ‘perfect,’ as in you don’t ever make mistakes or … not that kind of perfect.” I stumbled over myself. I couldn’t possibly explain what I meant. What I meant was that if I had had to give Joanna up and could have handpicked a family for her to grow up in, I would have picked this family, where she was so perfectly loved.
“We are totally not perfect,” Joanna agreed with her mother.
There ensued a good-natured listing of everyone’s imperfections: Michelle was scatterbrained and spent too much money on yoga clothes, Brandon talked too much about work projects, which put other people to sleep, plus he burped too loud, and Joanna read in bed when she was supposed to be sleeping and she was lazy when it came to cleaning her room. They were the tamest of imperfections, presented with good humor and laughter. I was certain that, beneath the surface, there were shortcomings and failings, weaknesses and inadequacies, flaws that gnawed at each of them, heavier imperfections not fit for the ears of a guest. That was to be expected. But sitting there with the three of them, the cute cake hat ready to be devoured, I found that all I wanted from them and for them was to be a happy, healthy family.
* * *
“Round up your dog and I’ll drive you home,” Brandon said, after the four of us had cleaned the kitchen and straightened the dining room.
“All right,” I said, walking onto the deck. I called Poppy and she came running to me across the dark yard. Snapping on her leash, I headed toward the driveway where Brandon was once again covering the backseat of the car with a blanket. Poppy hopped in and I closed the door behind her, then sat down in the front seat.
Brandon was quiet as he turned the car around in the driveway and I spotted the dark tree house in the far corner of the yard, its windows picking up a glint of light from the deck.
“That tree house is amazing,” I said, thinking the tree house was neutral conversational territory.
“I always wanted to build one.” He turned onto the road. “My father built one for my siblings and me when I was a kid. Not as … high-end as this one.” He chuckled, and I knew I’d picked the right topic. “But I wanted to build one for a child of mine. It was one reason I wanted us to buy this house. Michelle and I were only in our twenties back then, and when I saw this beautiful yard and all the trees. All the oaks … I knew this was it. The only problem was getting the kid to go with it.” He glanced at me. “You think that’ll be easy. ‘Oh, we’ll get married and have three kids.’ And then it doesn’t work out the way you planned.” He drew in a breath and let it out as a sigh. “It was a tough time. Then we finally got Joanna and I started building.”
“How long did it take you?”
“To get it to the state it is now? A couple of years of pretty intense weekends and evenings.” I could see his smile as we passed beneath a streetlight. “She loves it,” he continued. “Someday she’ll outgrow it. Or more likely, she’ll turn it into a make-out den or something.” He laughed, lost in memory, I thought. “That’s what I did with mine, anyhow.”
“I think you’re a good dad,” I said sincerely.
“Thanks,” he said. We were at a stop sign and he looked directly at me. “I didn’t trust you at first, you know,” he said.
Of course I knew, but I played dumb. “What do you mean?” I asked.
He pressed the gas and we started moving again. “When you adopt a child, you’re always afraid,” he said. “Afraid that child is never truly, one hundred percent yours and that someday, someone will come and take her away. The way you just showed up … And you look like her.” He shook his head. “Rationally, I know her parents are dead, plus you’re not old enough, but I thought you might be a long-lost, much older sister or an aunt or … I don’t know. Related in some way. It scared me and I didn’t trust you.” He glanced at me. “Sorry if I was a jerk to you.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” I felt so guilty. I’d won him over under false pretenses.
“I didn’t want you around her,” he continued, “but Michelle told me I was crazy, and she was right. You’re good for her. I can imagine you becoming an older mentor type of friend to her. Jo has a lot of pressure in her life, from her school and from us. Everything at her school is tough. All the science and math.” We’d reached the inn and he pulled into the driveway. “What other kid names her dog after Steve Jobs, for Pete’s sake?” He laughed, and I heard his love for Joanna in the sound. “Thanks for giving her a little balance.”
“She’s giving me some balance, too,” I said, my throat tightening again as I opened the car door. “And thanks for the ride. I’ll see you Tuesday night.”
My tears started again as soon as I began walking up the sidewalk to the inn with Poppy. I was thinking about Joe. He would have been this same kind of father as Brandon, I thought. Protective. Loving. Kind.
If he’d only had the chance.
55
I was up early Monday morning for the long train trip to Washington. I should have been tired, but I was too geared up for the day ahead. I only had my backpack with me—Hunter’s old backpack, which I washed in Winnie’s washing machine but which still looked pretty grimy. I didn’t need much. Just my nightgown and toiletries, two bottles of water, two apples, two of Winnie’s scones, and a plastic bag of almonds. As the miles zipped by, though, I began to think I should have brought a suitcase with me. How was I going to carry the rubbing of Joe’s name in a backpack without destroying it?
I imagined making that rubbing. I’d read that if the name was up too high, a park ranger would make the rubbing for you, but I hoped Joe’s name was low enough for me to do it myself. I needed to touch his name. It was crazy how much I needed to do that. For other visitors to the wall who’d lost loved ones, the loss would be old. For me, it was fresh and new and terribly, terribly raw.
I arrived in Washington a little after eleven and found a taxi outside the train station. I asked the driver to take me to the memorial, so I was surprised when he tried to drop me off in an area that looked like a park. He must have misunderstood me.
“I want the Vietnam Memorial,” I said. “The wall.”
“This is it,” the man said, pointing. “Can’t see it from the street. Just follow that path.”
I paid him, got out of the taxi, and fell into step with several other people who were walking along the path, the sound of traffic fading behind us.
I’d seen pictures of the wall online, but nothing prepared me for seeing it in person. It was a deep scar in the earth and looked like a long black mirror reflecting the puffy white clouds, the blue sky, the trees and grass. It reflected the things people left at its base—small flags and stuffed animals and photographs. And it reflected the faces of the people who stood in front of it, looking, pointing, weeping.
It reflected me.
The wall grew taller as I walked. It grew and grew until it overwhelmed me with all the thousands and thousands and thousands of names engraved on its surface. I couldn’t wait to see Joe’s name. He’d believed in his country. He’d believed he was doing the right thing when he left for Vietnam. He deserved to be honored on this wall.
I scanned the surface of the wall as I walked, even though I knew that spotting Joe’s name among fifty-eight thousand others was impossible without some guidance. I knew there was a register at the end of the walkway that would tell me where to look, but I tried to slow down. I didn’t want to rush hungrily to the wall to look for his name. I felt a duty to pay respect to all the men whose names rose above me as I walked.
There were two registers at the end of the walkway, both in use at that moment. A park ranger—a woman in a broad-brimmed straw hat—stood between them. She offered me a somber-looking smile as she motioned me toward one of the registe
rs, and I queued up behind a man and woman who were jotting something down from the book. I clutched my hands together in front of my chest, feeling both anxious and excited. It’s only his name, I reminded myself. Not him.
It was my turn. I knew the book was in alphabetical order and I quickly paged through it looking for the Ss. I found a Benjamin Sears and a Devon Sears, but no matter how hard I stared at the page, there was no Joseph Sears.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking over at the ranger.
She walked toward me. “Need some help?” she asked.
“I must be doing this wrong,” I said. “It’s alphabetical, right? I’m trying to find my uncle, Joseph Michael Sears, but he’s not here.”
I stepped aside to let her look herself. “Here’s a Joseph Spears,” she said. “Could that be him?” I looked where she was pointing.
“They got his name wrong,” I said, my heart aching, my hands again clutched at my chest. Then I saw Joseph Spears’s birthdate. “This isn’t my hus … my uncle’s birthdate. My uncle was twenty-six. This guy was … twenty.”
“Come with me to the kiosk,” the ranger said. “I have some other ways of checking.”
Please, please, please, I thought as I walked silently next to her down the path. Please don’t take this honor away from him.
At the kiosk, the ranger told me to wait in front of the glass window while she stepped inside. “Now let me check a different way,” she said from her side of the window. She began tapping keys on a computer. “Joseph Sears, right?”
“Right.”
“Birthdate?”
“January 8, 1943.”
“Army or…?”
“Army.”
“Hm.”
I could tell she wasn’t having any luck. I dug the nails of my right hand into the palm of my left.
She glanced up at me. “Do you by any chance know when he was killed?” she asked.
“November 28, 1969.”
The ranger pressed a few keys. Frowned at her screen. “Maybe you need to check on his name,” she said. “Talk with your relatives. Maybe Joseph was his nickname and—”
The Dream Daughter Page 33
