by Gwynn White
I replied to her comment in my forum thread: I’ll PM you. Then I sent her a brief private message: I’m interested in the services you provide. I’d like to find my birth mom. How does this work?
She answered within seconds: Hello! I’m happy to help you. As with all reputable search angels, I don’t charge any money. If you find my services helpful and want to pay something, you can donate to any of the charities listed on my website, or another of your choosing. All the charities on my website help orphans. Now, what is your real name? I’ll need that to begin the search. Also, do you know where you were born? The hospital? If not, maybe the city or state, or country if you were born outside the United States?
My hands shook as I replied: My name is Jade Whitaker. Anxiety crept up the back of my neck, gave me a prickly feeling and that horrible out-of-body experience that I recognize as a full-blown anxiety attack. I was letting this complete stranger know my name and asking them to search for a person related to me by blood that I might be better off not knowing.
At this point, however, I was committed. I needed to see this through.
I typed: I don’t know any of the other information.
Hannah replied: Have you asked your adoptive parents about how you came to be adopted and if they have any records on your birth?
Tears streamed down my face as I replied. It was as though a floodgate had opened. Sobbing, my hands trembling, I typed: My mom (adoptive mom) died last year. She and my dad never told me anything about my adoption. I never asked, but now I want to know.
Hannah answered: Honey, I’m so sorry. May I ask you a question? You aren’t hoping that your biological mother will actually mother you, are you? That doesn’t always work out.
I was shocked by the question. I said: No, not at all. No one could ever replace my mom. She died of ovarian cancer and I’ve been having pain in my lower right abdomen. I suddenly realized it would be helpful to know my genetics.
Hannah replied: Can you ask your father about your adoption? It would help a great deal in our search.
I typed: Can I think about it?
Hannah answered: Of course. Everything’s on your schedule, dear. I’m just here to help.
I typed: Thank you.
That night, I thought long and hard about talking to my dad. When he came home, he looked too exhausted to approach. I decided I’d try the next day.
I slept fitfully that night. I finally decided to get up when I woke for the bazillionth time at 9:00 AM. I found my dad in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He still reads a paper version of the news every single day. There was a plate on the table filled with toast crumbs and gobs of strawberry jelly swimming in butter. He always heaps toppings on everything he eats, even jelly toast. His coffee would be the same way: multiple spoonfuls of sugar. I had started worrying about him after losing my mom, worried that he’d have a heart attack if he didn’t change his eating habits.
He looked up from the paper, said good morning and took a sip of coffee before returning to whatever he was reading. The headlines on the front page facing me screamed in large font: Disease from Alien Visitors Spreads Eastward. That was scary. I’d been reading online about people on the West Coast seeing humanoid creatures with green skin and large black eyes, or gray skin and the same kind of eyes. They said the eyes were so black and reflective, they hypnotized you. Then the creatures did something that scrambled your thoughts and downloaded images into your mind, often in rapid succession—just like when you click on something that you shouldn’t in your emails or online and viruses start streaming into your computer in rapid succession and damage it beyond repair. Except that with these creatures, it was your brain that was being destroyed. Scientists had started thinking that some kind of weird, alien virus might be involved because the effect was starting to spread to people in nearby areas who had no known contact with the aliens. There was talk about placing all of California, Oregon and Washington state under quarantine.
I poured cereal into a bowl, drowned it in milk and sat down at the table. I brought up the story on the front page before addressing the issue of my adoption. I said, “What do you think about the story on the front page?”
Looking up through the top of his bifocals, my dad said, “I think it’s mass hysteria. People going nuts for whatever reason and believing in something that isn’t really there to justify it. We’re living in trying times. It makes sense that people in California were the first to see the aliens. People out there believe in all kinds of stuff—healing crystals, chemtrails, that fake Morgellons disease, using marijuana to cure disease. The culture’s ripe for people blaming their problems on aliens from outer space.”
I didn’t want to contradict him because I didn’t want to get him upset, but it wasn’t true that Californians were the first to report seeing aliens. The first report actually came from a group of hikers in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State. Soon after that, an airplane pilot reported seeing flying saucers over the village of Aurora, New York.
I ate my cereal in silence for a few minutes. Then, as casually as I could, I said, “Hey, Dad, can you tell me about my adoption?”
Dad closed his newspaper. His facial expression changed to one of deep sadness, like the sky when storm clouds suddenly roll in. He said, “Sure. I knew this day would come.” Then he got up and walked out of the room.
I didn’t know what to make of that. Was he mad at me?
He came back into the kitchen with a large manila envelope in his hands. Sitting back down at the table, he said, “Your birth certificate’s in here. It doesn’t have the name of your father on it, but it does have the name of the woman who gave birth to you.” He placed the envelope on the table between us and slid it toward me.
I looked at him. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the right words.
My dad rubbed his hand through his hair, a telltale sign that he was nervous. I’d won poker games against him after I’d recognized that tell. He said, “I hope you aren’t trying to replace your mother. It would break her heart.”
That was probably true; but I was pretty sure it was his way of telling me it would break his heart, too, even though he’d never admit it. I would have been more shocked that he’d even suggested such a thing except that the search angel had already questioned me about it. I guessed that was a thing people did, looked for someone to replace the mother they’d lost.
Reaching out and putting my hand on my dad’s arm, I looked into his eyes that were now filled with incredible sadness. I assured him that I only wanted to know who my biological parents were in order to ask about diseases that might run in their family. I said, “I think after mom’s death, I’ve suddenly become aware of my own mortality. Dad, I’d like to know what steps I should take to look after my health—you know, risk factors that I should be aware of, medical tests I should have done, stuff like that.”
My dad grasped my hand and covered it with his other hand. He said, “That makes so much sense. You do what you need to do. Just remember: I love you and I’m here for you, just like your mom always was.” Nodding his chin in the direction of the envelope, he said, “Go on, then. Take a look.” He released my hand.
I reached over. Grabbed the envelope. Undid the metal clasp. I felt like my life was about to change in some hugely irrevocable way. Opening the envelope would be like opening Pandora’s box. I had no idea what I was releasing into my world.
Curiosity propels us forward. There was no going back now.
I peered into the envelope. There were a bunch of things in there.
I dumped the contents onto the table. The first thing I noticed were two hospital bands. I flipped them over to read them. One had my name: Jade. No last name. My birth date. And the words: Daughter of Cora Frost.
A feeling of shock went through me. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect to see my mother’s name on my band. I wanted to warm up gradually to finding her name on my birth certificate. I wasn’t ready for
this.
I looked up at my dad. His eyes were even sadder than they’d been a moment earlier. I said, “Cora Frost—is that my biological mother?”
My father said, “Yes.”
I asked, “Why don’t I have a last name on my baby bracelet?”
My dad said, “Because we were planning to adopt you right away. This was all prearranged.”
I asked, “You mean through an adoption agency?”
My father said, “Well, kind of. The process was actually called an independent adoption. It was arranged by a lawyer rather than an agency. Your mom and I desperately wanted a child. With an independent adoption, we were responsible for paying all the medical and living expenses for the pregnant woman and all the legal fees involved in the adoption.”
I tried to absorb all that. I’d never even heard of an independent adoption before that moment.
I asked, “So, did you know this…” I looked down at the band again. “…Cora Frost? Did you know her?”
My dad said, “Yes.”
I was shocked that I’d never heard of this before. My parents had known my birth mother. I’d never even heard of her. I’d just assumed my parents had gone through an adoption agency and had no knowledge whatsoever about who my biological parents were.
I asked, “So what was she like?”
My dad said, “She was twenty years old when she had you. She was very smart.” He smiled. “You obviously inherited that from her.” Drumming his fingers on the table, another sign that he was nervous, he continued, “She was in college. She got pregnant by a boyfriend who took off as soon as he heard she was pregnant. She had big dreams. She planned to go on to graduate school, get her doctorate degree and eventually become a professor.”
I liked the sound of that. I asked, “Do you know where she is now?”
My dad seemed surprised by the question. He said, “Oh, no. We didn’t stay in touch. We visited her during the pregnancy.” My dad got a wistful look in his eyes. He said, “Your mom bought newborn outfits and baby blankets for the day we got to take you home from the hospital. We were so excited about the new baby we’d soon have. We were worried that Cora might change her mind after you were actually born, but we didn’t need to worry about that. She wanted a good home for you, but she made it very clear over her entire pregnancy that she didn’t want to be a mother. Your mom was there for the birth. The hospital set it up that way, so that your mom would be part of the birthing process and so that she could hold you right after you were born, to begin the bonding process. We never saw Cora again after she was discharged from the hospital. She seemed ready to move on with her life. And we were ready to begin our lives as new parents.”
I asked, “Do you know where she is now? Or how I could find her?”
He said, “I have no idea. She was just a college student back then. She had pretty big ambitions. She could have gone anywhere to graduate school or to teach, if that’s what she ended up doing.”
I thought about records. The more records I could give to Hannah, the better.
I asked my dad if he knew what college she had been attending.
He remembered, so that gave me another lead. If she had gone on to graduate school, maybe the college had a record of where she’d gone.
I asked my dad for the name of the law firm that had set up the adoption. He wrote down the name. He said, “I don’t know if they’re still in business or not, but that was the firm we used. Our lawyer was Evan Hawkins. Nice man. Probably in his mid-thirties back then.
I stood up, gave my dad a big hug and said, “I’m glad you and mom raised me. You were the best parents anyone could ever ask for.”
Dropping the hospital bands back into the envelope, I headed off to my room to let Hannah know what I’d found.
I closed my bedroom door. Before contacting the search angel, I pulled my birth certificate out of the envelope. And I discovered additional papers, including one from the hospital with footprints of my newborn baby feet. They were so tiny! And information I’d never had before that day. My birth mother’s name: Cora Frost. My birth weight: 8 pounds, 2 ounces. The time I was born: 4:10 AM.
I had opened a door into a whole new world and into a part of myself I’d never known before.
8
The next day at work, I was scheduled to visit two homes with Andy: Max Davenport’s where one of his sons was supposed to show up after Maggie talked him into it and the home of a new client named Olivia Barrett. She apparently hoarded cats as well as things and her neighbors were quite upset because so many of her cats ran around outside, looking emaciated and killing birds.
First thing in the office, I grabbed a cup of coffee from the Staff Lounge and the files on my two clients. Aubrey was cheerful as always. Her sunny disposition clashed with my feeling close to a hangover from getting so little sleep. A migraine was dancing around my eyeballs, threatening to go full-blown headache. I tried to be civil and to get away as quickly as possible.
I asked for the charts.
Aubrey had her hair in pigtails. Star shapes had been shaved into the rainbow stripes on the back of her head. Every time she moved, the pigtails bounced with energy, reminding me of springs. Her hair had been died pink, no more blonde. She had glitter in her blush and eye shadow—subtle, but specks twinkled every time the light hit them. She was wearing a pink top with a short white skirt, hoop earrings and a bunch of bangle bracelets. Her brightness made me feel like something that had crawled out of a cave.
She said, “Hi, Jade! How are you this morning?” and flashed me a huge smile. Her teeth were incredibly white and perfect.
I said, “Good. Busy. But good.”
Undefeated by my attempted hint that I was too busy to talk, she asked, “How was your weekend?” in a rather sing-song voice.
I said, “Good. Good. I need the charts ASAP. I’m going out to visit those clients with Andy this morning.”
Aubrey said, “Sure. Sure. Just remember to sign them out.”
I scribbled my name on the sign-out sheet. As soon as I had the charts in hand, I made my escape through the maze of hallways to my office. I shut the door and pored over the files, slugging back coffee to wake up.
At 9:30, Andy knocked on my door. “Ready to go?”
We drove to Olivia’s house first. It was a white ranch-style house with red shutters and a dark blue door. When we rang the bell, someone peeked out from behind tattered lace curtains. When the door opened, we encountered a woman in her thirties wearing a gray T-shirt and sweatpants. She had short black hair with wonderful shine and well-defined muscles in her arms. She looked healthy and in great physical shape.
Andy said, “Hello. We’re here to see Olivia Barrett.”
Opening the door wider, the woman said, “That’s me. Come on in.”
This was different than Max’s house. Whereas Max had stacks of boxes that created walls around the narrow aisles winding through them, Olivia had simply piled things on top of each other without bothering to put them in boxes or containers. As we entered a cleared rectangular space about two feet by three feet, we came face-to-face with a wall built from layers of collected things: stuff like an old-style TV and rowing machine on the bottom, a coffee maker box and microwave in the middle, papers and blankets and all kinds of other things piled on top to create a jerry-built structure.
A tiny kitten suddenly appeared at the top of the mountain. It was a black ball of fluff with blue eyes. Olivia reached up and grabbed it. Holding the kitten in one hand and stroking its fur, she said, “Come in. I cleared a space for us to talk.”
Sure enough, the center of the living room was uncluttered and vacuumed. Andy and I sat on comfortable chairs. Olivia sat on the couch.
Andy started the session. “I understand that you contacted our office to ask for help.”
Olivia said, “Yes. I’d like help with my neighbors.”
Andy asked the obvious question: “With your neighbors?”
Olivia said, “Yes. The
y reported me to our local health department. I agreed to seek counseling in return for not being evicted from my house.”
Andy said, “Do you understand what we do?”
Holding the kitten up to her face and looking into its eyes before placing it on the couch, she said, “Yes. You help hoarders. I understand that I’ve been labeled a hoarder.”
I expected her to continue. When she didn’t, Andy asked, “Do you consider yourself to be a hoarder?”
Olivia said, “I don’t put much stock in labels. I just hold onto things for a sense of continuity. And, also, I don’t want to be part of our throw-away society.” With a defiant tone, she added, “I’m guessing you wouldn’t either if you were in my shoes.”
Andy said, “Oh, I don’t know about that. Labels aren’t always a bad thing.”
Olivia said, “You ever been to war?”
Andy said, “No, I haven’t.”
Turning to me, she asked, “How about you?”
I said, “No, I haven’t either.”
Olivia said, “Well, I have. Two tours of duty in Iraq, another tour in Afghanistan. Nothing was permanent. I lost friends.” Pulling up the right side of her sweatpants, she revealed a robotic leg. “I also lost a leg.”
Andy said, “I’m sorry.”
I felt incredibly uncomfortable. I had no idea what to say.
Olivia continued. “OK, so now I’m back home, and my neighbors think they’re going to tell me how much stuff I can have in my house or how many cats I can own? I don’t think so!”
Andy asked, “How many cats do you own?”
Olivia answered, “Twenty-six counting the five new kittens I just got. I know all their names. Do you want me to recite them?”
