One Perfect Day

by Diane Burke

  Also by Diane Burke

  Hidden in Plain View

  Double Identity

  Silent Witness

  Midnight Caller

  Bounty Hunter Guardian

  Danger in Amish Country (with Marta Perry and Kit Wilkinson)

  MEMOIRS BY DEFINITION are a written depiction of events in somebody’s life. They are memories. All of the events in this story are as accurate and truthful as possible. Many names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of others. Mistakes, if any, are caused solely by the passage of time.

  Copyright © 2014 by Diane Burke and Steve Orlandi

  All photographs © 2014 by Diane Burke and Steve Orlandi

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  www.skyhorsepublishing.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Burke, Diane, 1951-

  One perfect day : a mother and son’s story of adoption and reunion / Diane Burke with Steve Orlandi.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-62873-779-0 (hardback)

  1. Burke, Diane. 2. Orlandi, Steve. 3. Birthparents--United States--Identification. 4. Birthmothers--United States--Biography. 5. Adoptees--United States--Biography. 6. Adoptees--United States--Identification. I. Orlandi, Steve. II. Title.

  HV874.82.B87A3 2014

  362.82’98--dc23

  2013044412

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dear Reader,

  Adoption reunions are high-octane events. Emotions and expectations are hard to put into words. When my mother and I talked about the possibility of writing this book, our intention was twofold:

  In a world filled with bad news, we wanted to share something uplifting, something inspirational. We also wanted to share our experiences with others contemplating reunions because it isn’t an easy path but, at least in our case, it was one well worth the journey.

  Imagine my surprise when I discovered my mother was an accomplished author and had the professional skills to reenact our lives with such accuracy and truth. Now I know where I get my creative side.

  I am proud of my mother and I was very happy to help her fill in the missing pieces of this story.

  I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as we are enjoying living it.

  Steve

  p.s. My mom wants me to let you know her author page can be found at www.amazon.com/author/dianeburke and her email address is diane@dianeburkeauthor.com. She loves hearing from her readers so go ahead and write her. Mothers! LOL

  Acknowledgments

  FIRST AND FOREMOST, I want to thank Nicole Resciniti, my agent, and Nicole Frail, my editor, who believed in this ­project and stood up against the marketers who told them that since I was an ordinary person and not a celebrity, this book would never sell. I hope my readers reward them for their belief in us.

  I wish to thank Barbara Orlandi and Kristin McKnight for encouraging and supporting Steve every step of this journey. I love you both.

  I wish to thank Nancy and Joe Orlandi for doing an awesome job of raising “our” son and for opening your hearts and your family to include me. I will be forever grateful.

  I wish to thank my sons, David and Dan, for taking this journey with me and welcoming Steve into our family.

  I wish to thank my brothers, Michael and Brendan, who didn’t worry about embarrassment, who stood by my side during periods of family derision and defended my right to tell this story.

  I want to thank Dan “Flannagan” for encouraging me to write this truthfully even though it didn’t show him in the best light. He’s become the man I always knew he could be. He loves the Lord, loves his sons, is a good grandfather, and we have become good friends.

  And last, but certainly not least, I want to thank my son, Steve Orlandi, who began a search not knowing where the road would lead, held on through the storms, and loved a mother who wasn’t the white-picket-fence mom he had hoped to find but loved her anyway. I love you, son. You’ve changed my life in more ways than you will ever really know.

  In God’s time, in God’s way, is God’s plan.

  Prologue

  SOMETIMES IT IS the simplest of things—making a right turn instead of a left, accepting an unexpected invitation, stopping to help someone on the side of the road—that can change the entire course of your life.

  I stood at the mailbox kiosk in my Florida development on a beautiful, warm April afternoon and had one of those inconsequential moments that should’ve meant nothing and yet … would soon mean everything.

  Leafing through the mail, there was a slip of paper stating a certified letter waited for me at the post office. Thinking it was some kind of elaborate marketing ploy like the one that sends you a car key in the mail and tells you to just show up at the dealership and see if this key fits a lock, I tossed the slip in the console drawer as I climbed back into my car and didn’t give it another thought.

  A few days later, on my way to the grocery store, that ragged, crumpled slip of paper poked out from the drawer and I decided to pick up the package. I had to show my photo identification and sign for it before the clerk handed me a nondescript white envelope. I remember thinking that if this was a scam or a request from some organization looking for a hefty charitable donation, they were going to a lot of trouble and expense to do it.

  As soon as I stepped out of the post office, I opened the envelope and withdrew the letter, which read:

  Dear Mrs. Burke,

  We have been trying unsuccessfully to reach you on a very personal matter. This will be our last attempt to contact you. Please call us at (phone number) between the hours of 9:00 and 5:00, Monday through Friday.

  I stared at the letter in my hands. Now I was more than curious. No one had tried to contact me. What were they talking about? Who was this person and what did they want?

  When I got home, I immediately went into my home office and dialed the number. I asked for the person who had signed the letter. I still had no idea what this was about. My imagination was flying—but not even my wildest imagination could have prepared me for the shock of what was to come.

  Every sixty seconds that I was kept on hold, the switchboard operator would come back on the line. She’d apologize that the person I was trying to reach was still on the phone and ask me to leave my phone number. Still believing that I was involved in some elaborate hoax, I refused to leave my number and told her I would continue to wait.

  When she came back on the line for the fifth time, my patience was wearing thin.

  “Are you sure you won’t leave me your telephone number?” she asked. “I’m sure Ms. Fowler will call you as soon as she finishes her call.”

  “No, thanks. It seems to me this woman went to a lot of trouble to find me. I’ll wait a little longer, but when I do hang up, I won’t be calling back.”

  “No! Wait! Please don’t hang up. She’ll be right with you.”

  I was put on hold again.

  Seconds later, a woman’s voice came
on the line. “This is Patricia Fowler. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I was tied up on another line. Is this Diane Burke?”

  “Yes. What is this about?”

  “Mrs. Burke, I promise to answer all of your questions, but will you bear with me for just a few minutes more and answer some of mine?”

  I was hesitant but said okay.

  “Was your maiden name Diane Bradford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you attend Kinnelon High School?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. I was right. They wanted money; it had to be an alumni collection.

  “Do you have six brothers and sisters?”

  A chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t any ordinary telephone call or a request for a charitable donation.

  “Who is this and what do you want?” I demanded, annoyance quickly turning into anger and maybe just a little bit of fear.

  In a very soft, gentle voice, Pat Fowler asked, “Mrs. Burke, did you give up a child for adoption in 1971?”

  I collapsed into my desk chair. It took me a moment to respond.

  “Yes,” I whispered, my voice laced with tears.

  Chapter

  1

  THERE IS NO such thing as a perfect family. Mainly because families are made of people and everyone knows people aren’t perfect. All families, even the best ones, have their idiosyncrasies, their varying degrees of dysfunction, and they have all mastered the ability to keep secrets.

  Sometimes the secrets are innocent, can stay secrets forever and don’t hurt anyone. Like the fact that their first child’s birthday comes eight weeks shy of nine months into the marriage. Or that big, strong dad is afraid of spiders and bugs. Or that money is tighter than the neighbors might think and mom’s parents have padded the home funds multiple times.

  Sometimes the secrets are hurtful, can fester beneath the surface for decades and end up damaging lives. Like the secrets that hide emotional, physical, or sexual abuse. Or the ones that hide dishonesty, infidelity, and betrayal.

  All families harbor secrets, and mine was no exception.

  I grew up in a typical middle class family in the days when mothers stayed home, ran the house, and raised the children while fathers labored forty-plus hours a week earning the money to support the household.

  My father’s job in retail management required us to move frequently. The company didn’t give raises. It gave promotions, which always meant a different store in a different location to earn that salary bump and move up the ladder. I think the longest we ever stayed in one place was two years. So I never felt I had a home or roots. When people asked me where I was from, I used to chuckle and say, “All over.”

  Some of my siblings had no difficulty with the moves. They made friends wherever we went and adjusted well to the many different schools. One brother excelled in it so well he spent his adult life working and traveling throughout Europe and exposed his daughters to a multitude of cultures, languages, and religions that served them well when they became adults.

  I wish I could say the same for myself.

  The moves were hard on me. Constantly having to leave friends and comfort zones behind and forge new ones didn’t make me outgoing or leadership material. I truly wish it had. I know hundreds of thousands of military families face those challenges all the time and I respect and admire their resiliency.

  For me, the frequent moves made me uncomfortable in new situations. The loss of the friends I’d made in the prior city made me less willing to try and make new friends in the new ones. As far back as I can remember, I haven’t handled loss well. If I had learned how to say good-bye and move on when I was a child, I might be able to look back and say those moves helped prepare me for what was to come.

  But good-byes were never easy for me under any circumstances.

  I had no idea during those childhood years that the hardest good-bye I would ever have to face was still to come.

  It wasn’t until I had married and left home that my father switched jobs and the Bradfords were able to put down roots.

  My middle and younger siblings got to attend the same school from beginning to end, graduate, and make friends who lasted from grade school through college. They actually had the opportunity to think of one location as home.

  My parents lived in their Oakland, Michigan, house for more than twenty years. For all of us, even the older ones who moved out on their own years before, when we traveled home for holidays and special occasions, this particular house became our gathering place.

  The big white house on the hill that called to each one of us, that housed us during Thanksgivings and Christmases, that heard the echo of grandchildren’s feet racing through the halls and down the stairs, became our Bradford roots.

  We used to joke that that house was Mom’s Tara from Gone with the Wind. She’d been raised in a row home in Philadelphia. Her life’s ambition was to do more, be more, and have more. She cared deeply about her social standing and what the neighbors thought.

  This house was her pride and joy. Her stamp of success.

  I’m happy that she attained it.

  Everyone has dreams in life. Not everyone sees them come true.

  Society was different when my parents were first married. No one asked women if they were happy staying home with the children. No one encouraged women to have careers. In poor families, like my mother’s had been, the choice to go to college was offered to the first-born son and was never even a remote possibility for a daughter.

  At the age of sixteen, my mother met my father and fell in love. At nineteen, they married. I was born exactly nine months later.

  My mother never liked or wanted children, but she had seven of them.

  She would have made a fabulous CEO of a large company if she’d been given the chance. She was an intelligent woman with business savvy who read voraciously and kept herself up-to-date on politics and current affairs. She was well-liked in social settings and I truly believe she would have blossomed and thrived if she had been afforded the opportunity to have a career when she was young.

  Instead I’d often hear her say she had to watch “weak men,” probably referring to her brother who was given the opportunity to go to college, make stupid business decisions while she was stuck at home with a brood of kids reminding her that this wasn’t the life she’d dreamed about but one she couldn’t escape.

  My mother adjusted to her life at home. Of seven children, she even found two of them she liked enough to earn the title “mom’s favorites” from the rest of us. Mom fed us, clothed us, raised us, and criticized us without mercy. She was the queen of taking whatever glimmer of accomplishment or pride you had in yourself and beating it into the ground so you felt inferior and worthless.

  For some reason I never understood, and to this day my siblings haven’t figured it out either, I was also one of Mom’s favorites—her favorite one to hate.

  That’s probably a harsh statement. I don’t like to think my mother actually hated me. I’d like to think the softer side of my mother, which I saw outside the doors of our home in social circles or with strangers on the street, would have prevented her from ever feeling hatred for anyone.

  But she sure did carry a very, very heavy dislike for me.

  Even though we were oil and water, we were also mother and daughter. Although I didn’t always like my mother, I loved her. She wasn’t perfect. Neither am I. She made some terrible mistakes in her life. So have I. I helped care for her in the final days of her life. I sat by her bedside with my father and siblings until she died. I visit her grave occasionally. And I miss her.

  She was my mother.

  A part of me and me a part of her.

  Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her when I look at my reflection in the mirror. Or I’ve heard the echo of her voice when I scolded my children with idle threats like “Get in that bed or I’m coming up there.”

  So I am not trying to bash my mother.

  She did the best she could being the person she was
and dealing with the circumstances facing her.

  I understand that.

  But if this is to be a truthful depiction of events, a true testament of how one person’s decisions can so negatively impact another person’s life, then I have to discuss my mother—and myself—and the choices we made.

  I was eighteen and had just finished my first year of college when I met Steve’s father. I had gotten a summer job on the assembly line of a plastics plant packing trash bags. Steve’s father was a year older and it was his job to keep the machines up and running. On a visa from a foreign country, I found him fascinating and, for me, it was definitely love at first sight.

  I was nineteen and four months pregnant before I had the courage to tell my mother. But … the truth is that I never had to tell her. One afternoon I was sitting on the side of my bed. She was standing in the hallway. She looked at me, really looked at me, and she knew. I will never forget the expressions racing across her face, the shock, the disbelief, the shame, and finally the rage.

  “Are you pregnant?” she screamed at me from my bedroom’s open doorway.

  Terrified, I couldn’t find my voice to answer.

  “Are you?” She stared at me with such anger—and what, to this day, I truly believe was hatred. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “How could you do this to your father and me?” Without another word, she turned and walked away.

  That evening, my siblings in bed for the night or otherwise scattered, my mother sat in her usual chair in the living room reading one of her many mystery books, or at least feigning to read. I don’t think either of us could concentrate on anything that night. I sat at the dining room table. She hadn’t spoken a word to me since the morning’s accusation. Neither of us looked at each other or spoke. We just waited for Dad to come home from work.

  My mother had called him earlier and prepared him for the situation he was walking into. I heard the garage door go up and my pulse began to race. We lived in a split-level house and I could hear his slow, heavy footsteps as he made his way up the two short flights of stairs. My heart beat so hard I thought it would push through my chest. Tears burned my eyes no matter how hard I tried not to cry.