As soon as I spoke, I knew this was a mistake. Maisie at the family court would probably have had me arrested if she’d known I was here; every adoption search website strongly reminded adoptees not to do exactly this: ambush the birth mother, make her accept you on your time frame rather than hers.
“See, here’s the thing,” I said. “After thirty-five years, I think you owe me five minutes.”
Juliet stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She wasn’t wearing a coat, and on the other side of the door I could still hear the dog barking. But she didn’t say a word to me.
What we all want, really, is to be loved. That craving drives our worst behavior: Charlotte’s insistent belief that you would one day forgive her for the things she said in court, for example. Or my mad chase to Epping. The truth was, I was greedy. I knew that my adoptive parents wanted me more than anything, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to understand why my birth mother hadn’t, and until I did, there would always be a part of me that felt like a failure.
“You look just like him,” she said finally.
I stared at her, although she still would not meet my gaze. Had it been a love affair that ended badly, with Juliet pregnant and my birth father refusing to support her? Had she gone on loving him, knowing their baby was somewhere in the world; had it eaten away at her even as she made a new life for herself with a husband and family?
“I was sixteen,” Juliet murmured. “I was riding my bike home from school, through the woods, a shortcut. He came out of nowhere and knocked me off. He stuffed a sock in my mouth and pulled my dress up, and he raped me. Then he beat me up, so badly that the only way my parents recognized me was by my clothing. He left me bleeding and unconscious, and two hunters found me.” She lifted her face, so that she was looking directly at me, finally. Her eyes were too bright, her voice thin. “I didn’t speak for weeks. And then, just when I thought I could start over again, I found out I was pregnant,” she said. “He was caught, and the police wanted me to testify, but I couldn’t. I didn’t think I could stand to see his face again. And then, when you were born, a nurse held you up, and there he was in you: the black hair and the blue eyes, those fists swinging. I was glad there was a family that wanted you so badly, because I didn’t.”
She took a deep, trembling breath. “I’m sorry if this isn’t the reunion you’d hoped for. But seeing you, it brings it all back, when I’ve worked so hard to forget it. So please,” Juliet Cooper whispered, “will you leave me alone?”
Be careful what you wish for. I staggered backward, silent. No wonder she had not wanted to look at me; no wonder she had not welcomed the letter I wrote that Maisie had forwarded; no wonder she only wanted me to go away. I’d want the same thing.
We had that much in common.
I started down the stone steps to my car, trying to see through the rush of tears. At the bottom, I hesitated, then turned back. She was still standing there. “Juliet,” I said. “Thank you.”
I think my car knew where I was headed long before I did. But when I pulled into the old white Colonial where I’d grown up, with the thicket of overgrown roses and the weathered gray trellis that never managed to tame them, I felt something burst inside me. This was the place where my photos were in the albums stacked in the front closet. This was the place where I knew how to work the garbage disposal. This was the place where, in an upstairs bedroom, I still kept pajamas and a toothbrush and a few sweaters, just in case.
This was home, and these were my parents.
It was dark out by now, nearly nine p.m. My mother would be wearing a fuzzy robe and slipper socks, and eating her nightly dish of ice cream. My father would be surfing the channels of the television, arguing that Antiques Roadshow was far more of a reality show than The Amazing Race. I let myself in through the side door, which we’d never locked the whole time I was growing up. “Hi,” I called out, so that they wouldn’t be alarmed. “It’s just me.”
My mother stood up when I came into the living room. “Marin!” she said, hugging me. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood.” This was a lie. I’d driven sixty miles to get here.
“But I thought you were wrapping up that big trial,” my father said. “We’ve been watching you on CNN. Nancy Grace, eat your heart out…”
I smiled a little. “I just…I felt like seeing you guys.”
“Are you hungry?” my mother asked. It had taken her thirty seconds; surely that was a record.
“Not really.”
“Then I’ll get you a little ice cream,” my mother said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Everyone can use a little ice cream.”
My father patted the spot on the couch beside him, and I stripped off my coat and sank down into the cushions. They were not the ones I’d grown up with. I had jumped on those so often that they’d been rendered flat as pancakes; several years ago my mother had had the furniture reupholstered. These pillows were softer, more forgiving. “You think you’re going to win?” my father asked.
“I don’t know. It’s not over till it’s over.”
“What’s she like?”
“Who?”
“That O’Keefe woman?”
I thought hard before I spoke. “She’s doing what she thinks is right,” I said. “I don’t think you can blame her for that.” Although I have, I thought. Although I was doing the same thing.
Maybe you had to leave in order to really miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was. My mother sat down beside me on the couch and passed over a bowl of ice cream. “I’m on a mint-chocolate-chip kick,” she said, and in unison, we lifted our spoons, so synchronized that we might have been twins.
Parents aren’t the people you come from. They’re the people you want to be, when you grow up.
I sat between my mother and my father, watching strangers on TV carry in Shaker rockers and dusty paintings and ancient beer tankards and cranberry glass dishes; people and their hidden treasures, who had to be told by experts that they’d taken something incredibly precious for granted.
Amelia
I tried looking it up on the Internet, but there’s nothing that tells you what you’re supposed to wear to court if you’re a witness. I figured, though, that I definitely wanted the jury to remember me. I mean, they’d had a parade of really boring doctors for the most part; compared to them, I planned to stand out.
So I spiked my hair, which made it look even darker blue. I wore a bright red sweater and my purple high-top Converses, and my lucky jeans, the ones with the hole in the knee, because I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
It was pretty ironic, but even last night, my parents hadn’t slept in the same bed. Mom was overnight with you at the hospital; Dad and I were back home. Although Guy Booker had said he’d pick me up to go to court, I figured I could hitch a ride with my father and still make it look like I was unhappy to be dragged there. Guy and I had both decided that the longer we could keep my testimony a secret, the better.
My father, who had already testified, was now allowed to be in the courtroom gallery, which left me alone in the lobby, which was perfect. Shaking, I stood next to a bailiff. “You okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “Butterflies,” I said, and then I heard Guy Booker’s voice:
“The defense calls Amelia O’Keefe.”
I was led inside, but all hell had broken loose. Marin and Guy were up at the bench, arguing; my mother was in tears; my father was standing up, craning his neck around to locate me.