I am six, and rummaging through the junk drawer in the kitchen. I find a pile of photos, wrapped together with a rubber band. I bring them to my mother, and ask her what they are. They are not photos, she explains to me, but various postcards and funeral announcements. There are small laminated cards with various depictions of the Virgin Mary, some dating back over 75 years. There is a small laminate of Johannes Vermeer's “Girl with the pearl earring”. I ask my mother who this woman is, and she tells me that nobody knows who she really is. She is a mystery. Later on that night, I sneak into the kitchen and find that little card. I take it into my room, and hide it in my top drawer, underneath my white laced undershirts and Barbie socks. It will be years, still, until I see my birthmothers photograph. Until that day, whenever my adoption is discussed, and I wrack my brain in an attempt to conjure up an image of the woman who was my mother.. I picture Vermeer’s famous portrait. I don’t think my mother ever notices that it’s gone missing. I take it out when nobody is looking, and stare into the woman’s eyes, though her gaze never meets my own.
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My parents are taking me to therapy. I am uncomfortable discussing my adoption, and they worry. I am eight years old. I sit with my parents in the doctor’s dark office. She is kind to me and offers me markers and a pad of paper. I talk to her while I sketch a lion, a tree, a zebra and a cupcake. She asks me to draw my family. I do it. It is an accurate depiction- myself, my father, my mother, my brother, and my cats. My parents are silent beside me.
“What about your birthparents?” she asks me, using their first names. I freeze. “Why don’t we talk about them for a while?”
I shake my head no. She asks me why. I shake my head no again. “This is the elephant in the room,” explains the doctor. I don’t know what this means but I picture a large, pink elephant standing between us. They ask me again, “what about Francesca and Paulo?” she asks. Let’s talk about them. I close my ears and say loudly, “ I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you.” At hearing my birthparents names again, I run through the door, out of the lobby, and outside into the cold. I climb up a small pine tree right outside the office. I expect my parents to show up any moment. I can see them through the office window. They can see me. I turn away, and face the parking lot. The sun begins to set. They do not follow me, they do not demand that I come down. I tree bark is rough against my cheek. I do not say a word.
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The bark bench is warm. I am sitting with my mother and some of her friends. I long to go on the monkey bars, where my friends are, but I have to finish my lunch first. I sit listlessly in the heat, munching on watermelon, listening to my mom and the other mothers chat. They are talking about the days their children were born. They go into detail, about the months proceeding, about the hospital stay. My own mother is curiously quiet. She smiles, and listens intently to what the others have to say. I finish my watermelon, and throw the rind to the dusty ground. I almost get up to leave, when I see my mothers face. I sit back down. I scoot a little closer to her, touch her hand. We do not make eye contact. She squeezes my hand ever so slightly, a reassurance.
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I ask a lot of questions. What is my birthmother like? She is very beautiful. My birthfather? Strong and handsome. These come easily to my mother, who chops garlic and basil and drops them into the blender. We are making pesto. I pluck the basil leaves off the stems. The air is fragrant, summer time. The fan is on low, gentle breeze that cools us off just enough. My father is in the living room behind us, watching jeopardy. Occasionally, he yells out an answer. “Did they love me?” I ask. My mother does not stop chopping. “Yes they did, very much.” I pluck a few more leaves, my mother tells me to leave the rest on the plant, that we have enough. That if we pluck too many the plant will die. “But they gave me away.” I say. My mother stops chopping. She places down the knife, turns to me. “ They couldn’t raise any baby at that time, they placed you for adoption because they weren’t ready to be parents.” I am silent. I pluck a leaf off the basil plant. My mother does not chastise me.
“But..you said they loved me,” I whisper.
“They did”
“But they gave me away.” I hear that my father has muted the TV in the next room. He is listening.
“Grownup problems are difficult,” she says, wiping her hands on her dark green apron, “they had grownup problems that had nothing to do with you.” I smile and my mother smiles back. I am unconvinced.
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I do not tell my friends that I am adopted. Finally, one day, in my 4th grade class, I let it slip. I tell my 4 best friends. They are astonished, they beg to know the details. Were you in an orphanage? Why didn’t anyone want you? Overwhelmed, I try and take it back, try to convince them that I was joking. They give me a strange look. I insist that it was a joke.
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I do not watch a lot of TV. I watch a lot of PBS and BBC. One day , there is an Italian production of the play “Romeo e Giulietta.” I am engrossed. My mother comes in and sees what I am watching. I do not understand all of the Italian, so I ask her to tell me the story. She does, and I am astounded grotesquely fascinated with it. Two people who fell in love but shouldn’t have. Two people who made mistakes, who paid the ultimate price. I feel sorry for them. I tell my mother this and she smiles a little bit.
“Oh Romeo and Juliet….a pair of stupid teenagers!” I am quiet. “They acted rashly,” continues my mother, “ we cannot feel sorry for them- they made their foolish choices. Really we feel bad for their families. ”
“Still, I feel sad for them. I say, tentatively. I understand that Juliet and Romeo cannot take back what they‘ve done. How would things have been different if they‘d only known how permanent their decision was? How permanent. How foolish.
“Sometimes it takes losing everything to realize what you had,” my mother says. I have a feeling she is not really speaking to me.
“I bet the families wish they had just let them be together,” I say, decisively.
“ Mmm,” my mother murmers, “I bet you’re right.”
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I have mentioned wanting to meet my birthparents on more than one occasion. I was always told that I could, when I was a little older. So when I am still in middle school, and my mother nonchalantly asks me if I’d like to know my birthfather while we are returning from the grocery store, I am too shocked to speak.
“He has written you a letter,” she says. “ I have it at home.”
I think. By now I have a few photos of them, from a few days before I was born. My birthmother is breathtaking, with long , dark auburn hair and creamy skin. Her lips are a deep, red color. Her fingernails are painted to match. In the photo she stands next to my birthfather, who is large and strong looking. He has deep golden hair that curls, and is dressed sharply in khaki pants and a polo shirt. He has his arm around her shoulder. I know that my parents are the ones taking the picture. They photo is at a distance, and I strain my eyes to see them up close. My birthfather stands up straight, he smiles right at the camera. He is confident. My birthmother does not. She is facing the camera, but looking slightly to her right. She does not look directly into the lens, her attention is elsewhere. She is like this in all of the pictures- elusive, always slightly out of reach. She is not smiling.
We are driving and the air is warm and the sun is calm. We pull into our driveway.
“The letter is here?” I ask, “right now?”
“Yes,” my mother says, “ would you like to read it? Maybe write him a letter back?” I do not hesitate.
“Yes,” I say. And I open the door.
