by Meg Kearney
_______
Entering the tunnel at Grand Central, text from Tim: “Hey, L. Hope u had great time in N. Hook. Talk soon? xo”
I answer: “Just back in NYC. Need some time. Hope you’re ok.”
_______
Evening, text from Bob: “Mom painting Butters portrait. Sounds strangely HAPPY. Must be ur doing, or did u send ur angelic twin home 4 break?”
Kate & I Face Down a Demon on a
Not-So-Cold Day in East River Park
To our right lies brownish lawn and picnic
tables where families celebrate birthdays
with yellow cake and butterscotch balloons—
where a juggler tosses china plates, where
a man with a sirloin-steak face brushes his
bulldog, where a hot Latina in a cornflower
sweater hula-hoops beside her daughters, all
bright as new coins. To our left, runners
lean and lank zip along a concrete path, near
the iron rail that marks the park’s edge
and the East River’s bank. Sunlight glistens
on the water, lends the scene a movie-set
feel. Across the river, Queens looks gray,
more cement than steel. Soon it’s Brooklyn
we see—both boroughs part of the island
they call “Long.” But as we stroll, it’s clear
something’s wrong. Kate’s pulled up her
hood—I barely see the tip of her nose.
Silence has shoved itself between us like
a stranger who doesn’t belong. It grows
louder as we walk. “Kate, talk to me,”
I finally say. Inside her jacket, my sister
seems to shrink. “Are you mad at me?”
I ask. The hood shakes, No. “So, what
is it? I don’t know what to think!” I cry.
We stop. Kate spins, her face panicky
pale, then grabs me as if she’s drowning.
“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie,” she whisper-sobs,
“What if you have another sister!”
Journal Entry #2209:
Sisterhood & Friendships
Early afternoon, we’re drinking strong coffee, sitting on the 3rd floor outside Sam & Calvin’s room, the one with the autographed Mind of Snow poster on the door. Stretched out in their sweats, the boys look like basketball players—their legs go on for miles.
My legs are sore from the long, long walk Kate and I took yesterday along East River Park, our silence broken by tears and finally honest talk. How could my love for Kate change because I find another sibling, sister or brother? With each step in this search, I only feel our sisterhood grow stronger. And as far away as he is, I suddenly feel closer to Bob, too. Protective of them both. Maybe that’s how they feel about me, too. No one, not even a blood relative, is going to come between us.
By the time we got back to Kate’s apartment, we were laughing, mostly over Butter stories. She says he stole Mom’s paint brushes and buried them in the back yard. In the same hole, Mom found the TV’s remote. Seems this was his revenge when she was spending too much time at her easel, or she was too busy watching anything but “Animal Planet.” He’d watch “Animal Planet” for hours if that were possible. (When Butter sees a dog, he runs at the screen, then sits, barking.)
Henri’s pulled her pony tail over her shoulder, begins to weave three strands into a braid. She’s trying not to stare at Calvin, while Rhett stirs her coffee without drinking it. Meanwhile, Sam’s telling us about this wild party his brother Dan threw (“Where were we?” Rhett wants to know.), while Calvin, half listening, scrolls through his iPod with a thoughtful look on his face.
Calvin came back from break with his hair in short cornrows. He almost looks like Cornelius Eady does on the back of Autobiography of a Jukebox, only his face is thinner. And Calvin wears glasses. Calvin has actually read Eady—discovered his poems when reading Terrance Hayes. Funny, I told him, it happened the other way around for me; reading Eady led me to Hayes. (Flash: Tim reciting Hayes’s “Clarinet” in high school English class . . .) A while back, Calvin and I got talking about how the work of one poet can lead you to another. He found Hayes after reading Willie Perdomo. I found Mark Turcote by way of Louise Erdich. Poor Henri kept trying to join in by mentioning fiction writers who’d done the same for her. I hadn’t heard of a single one except for David Capella, whose novel about a pyromaniac was just made into a movie.
Maybe I’ll read Ruth a poem. . . I can just imagine her face . . . It seems we’re all lost in dreamland this morning. Except Sam. Caffeine-jittery, he says something about the band at that party (all NYU students, I think), and then, “Right C?” He nudges Calvin with his elbow. Sleepily, Calvin says, “What’s that?” Sam hesitates, then just says, “Drink some more java, my friend.”
Rhett says, “A wild party with live music. That’s what this little tribe needs!”
Peace Offering
Instead of holing up in the library with Aristotle
or hunkering down in my room with Wendell
Berry or Ahora Hablemos Español, I’m out
by the fountain in the park with Rhett, people-
watching. We take turns hatching stories:
the woman in the dark green raincoat is on
her way to meet her lover on West Tenth;
the couple walking their white poodle are
plain-clothes cops. That boy eating noodles
from a cardboard carton? Last night he wrote
a pop song that will soon make him famous.
Rhett’s dreaming up lyrics when Louise walks
by—we’re all surprised. She gives us a shy
wave and I say Hi, then turn to look at Rhett.
Who would have guessed it? Rhett hesitates,
then says, “Hey, Louise. Liz here has been
telling me that you’re a really good poet.”
In Workshop
(I bring in a poem I wrote during Winter Term, before I knew Ruth’s name)
We critiqued “Ms. Guitar” in workshop today.
Few students are writing formal verse, so
this was a chance for Professor Aguero
to point out how form provides room to play—
most students write in free verse because they
think formal verse is too strict. They don’t know
how form can stretch your limits, make you grow
as a poet in surprising ways.
Then she spoke about form and content, how
villanelles are perfect for obsessive
subjects. The form shows how the speaker in
the poem can’t get “Guitar Woman” out
of her mind. “This doesn’t need aggressive
work,” she said, “only minor revision.”
On Second Thought
Sometimes I’m like Bob,
trying to carry too many
grocery bags from the car
to the kitchen—so
of course one slips,
leaves a mess of eggs
and tomato sauce mixed
with glass and shells
in the driveway. That’s
me: spring classes and this
“thing” called a search
already nearly too much
to carry, and now I’m
scheming with Louise
about how to become
an editor for West 10th
Magazine. Bob would
say, Put a cork in that
bottle; save it for later.
So I’m editing my plan.
This summer I’ll take
NYU’s program,
“Writers in New York,”
earn eight credits plus
four more weeks here
at Goddard after spring
term ends. I’ll be living
my writer’s dream for
real! Or, my life will be
truly insane by
then.
Journal Entry #2210
New security guard in the lobby today. Of course, Sam introduced himself, shook her hand, asked her name while we were flashing our IDs, pushing through the turnstile toward the elevator. Digging through his pockets for his ID, he must have pulled out ten coupons (for Klong, Big B, the Third Rail). Reminded me of Mom at Kelly’s Grocery Store. Rhett teased, “Life’s too short to cut coupons!” Something, apparently, her mother used to say.
Sam’s not acting crazy, as I worried he might when I got back from break. Maybe he realizes I’m not ready for another relationship—he knows how much I’ve got on my mind, as they all get an earful some nights when we sit up talking.
When he’s tired, Sam rubs both eyes with the palms of his hands, and his eyeballs make this gross squishy sound. Last night Calvin said, ‘Stop that, man—you sound like a B-horror movie.”
A horror movie. That’s what my stomach feels like lately. I’ll be glad to get this next step with The Foundling done.
Determined: At The Rock
Clunk clunk clunk
clunk clunk:
the sound of five shot glasses
hitting the bar after we’ve each
slammed a Pineapple Bomber.
“Do not tell me what’s in that
thing,” Calvin instructs Clive,
the bartender; “It’s too smooth,
too sweet—it’s gotta be evil!”
My jaw, my shoulders, do start
to relax as I feel the liquor seep
through my stomach. We never
slam shots, but in light of the fact
that tomorrow I’m going back
to The Foundling, Rhett suggested
The Rock. Then Sam suggested
the shots. I guess I’ve been wired
since coming back from break.
When I called Sophie to make this
appointment, she sounded pleased
to hear my voice. That didn’t cool
the fire I’ve felt smouldering inside
me since that day of Jan’s card-
burning ceremony. “You okay?”
Henri asks. “You seem—” Rhett
says. She and Henri exchange
a knowing look, while the boys
pretend to study the bottles
behind the bar. “WHAT?”
I want to know. “Five more,”
Sam says to Clive, and I’ve got
that feeling I should say No,
but don’t. Won’t. “Like a bull
about to enter the ring,” says
Calvin. “And the world,”
Rhett adds, “is wearing red.”
Second Visit to The New York Foundling,
Karen Mason’s Questions in Hand
I’m no longer nervous. Now I’m pissed.
Not at Sophie, but the system she works for.
Why is it a crime to want to know who you are?
There is that folder—my life in Sophie’s hands.
The story of my birth held tight, like a fist.
I’m no longer nervous. Now I’m pissed.
Were my grandparents born in Scotland?
Once here, was my grandma a nurse, grandpa a baker?
Why is it a crime to want to know who you are?
Was I such a danger? A big secret to protect?
My birth mother must have agreed to this.
I’m no longer nervous. Now I’m pissed.
Who was the doctor who delivered me? No one
will say. And my birth mother, does she live very far?
Why is it a crime to want to know who you are?
“I’m sorry,” Sophie says, “No one deserves this.
I want to help, but can only go so far.”
I’m no longer nervous. Now I’m pissed.
Why is it a crime to want to know who you are?
Journal Entry #2211
Scene: Sophie Fedorowicz’s office
“WHY IS IT A CRIME TO WANT TO KNOW WHO YOU ARE?” I say too loudly. Then I just stare at Sophie. A strand of her short, gray hair hangs just above her left eye. Last visit, I had wished that—when I was her age—my hair would turn such a beautiful gray, like Professor Aguero’s hair. Now I’ve decided I’ll color my hair until I turn eighty. Now it’s all I can do to stay in my chair, not leap up and rip that folder from her hands. Okay, so now I know both of my birth mother’s parents were born in Scotland. And though my grandmother worked as a nurse, it’s not clear how my grandfather made a living once he landed here. He was a baker in Scotland. That’s as much as she could say. The folder is keeping the rest of its secrets. For now.
“I understand why you might be angry, Liz,” Sophie says gently. She pauses, looks at me with such . . . kindness. As a mother would.
Sophie takes a deep breath. Then she says, “I am a social worker because I love children. I feel a strong kinship—and care especially for the children we have placed. Like you. Like your brother and sister. I can’t imagine how difficult this search is for you. For your family. Maybe only orphans and other adoptees can truly empathize at your level, feel what you feel—but I do care. And I agree—the laws are not fair.” She stops, her eyes glistening.
Sophie looks down at that folder, then at me. “Liz, for whatever reason, your mother signed those papers for a closed adoption. But based on her history, her letter—you know nearly as much as I do now—I have to believe she dreams every day of being found.”
It takes me a while to pull myself together. Then Sophie walks me through a maze of offices and cubicles, down the elevator, then across the lobby to the front door. “Call me any time you need to, Liz,” she says, “Even if it’s just to talk. And—God bless, dear.”
(Other) Mother
Mother—
I will find you.
I’m getting closer. Now,
any day.
Mother—
How will we speak?
What will you say to me
when we are at last alone?
Mother—
When we meet
wear no perfume.
I will know you
by your scent.
Mother—
What is our story?
How could you end it?
We were so young.
Mother—
What will our life be
when we have found we?
Postcard from Cathy
Liz!
So happy to hear your Mom’s doing better.
Your Butter stories had me falling off my
chair. And now I’m on the edge of it, as
you are, waiting for NEWS from Kin Solvers.
. . . BIG surprise: Jan wrote me. I was
so jealous you all hung at Gertie’s (wow,
I could go for a cheeseburger & fries),
but happy her dad’s selling the house.
So she and Jade are getting an apartment!
Where? All she said was “near the shop.”
Isn’t it great? Jade’s so good for Jan
(she seems genuinely happy for once),
and it’s about time she stopped serving
as her dad’s maid. Now let’s hope he moves
somewhere walking distance to O’Toole’s
and stops driving drunk. They should set
up a bed for him under the bar! Anyway,
miss you and can’t wait till June, as hard
as it will be to say goodbye to “my” kids.
Lots of tears around here these days.
Con un abrazo,
Cathy
p.s. growing out my hair again!
The Eye of the Storm Doesn’t Last Long
(After I call Karen Mason with the few facts I learned from Sophie)
If my life were a canoe, I’d say I’ve been rushing
down rapids for months, a year—then suddenly
calm water surrounded me. I knew it couldn’t
last: Kin Solvers
could text me any day; classes
kick my butt, make me stay in the library way past
dinner; and then there’s this nutty situation of men.
I miss Tim as a newly deaf person might miss
music. And here is Sam, ready to tango—yet
he must know as well as I do how Rhett likes him,
how loyalty to her means I can’t even give an “us”
a waltz. So he keeps things light, flirts with her
and Henri as much as me, and I like him more
for that. But through it all, I’ve known the date
was looming; heard the thunder booming from
afar. Soon it will be April first, the day my father
died. Water’s churning around me again, white
caps whipping in little waves. Then I see her,
Ruth walking toward me, guitar case in hand,
her head a mess of curls.
Journal Entry #2212
Scene: Washington Square Park
Ruth’s face is sunnier than the day, which is bright and warm for late March. “Gorgeous morning,” I say, strolling at a fast pace toward her. “Gor-geous, just like ya-self,” Ruth says in an overdone New York accent. She is as tall as I am. And way less pale than usual. Resisting the urge to run to her, I think, Could you be? Did you ever—? She says, “We’ll never score our bench today! Do you care—do you have time to sit over there on the marble bench? I have a song for you.” Nodding, beyond pleased, I follow her, asking in my head, Is it you? Is it? But I can’t bring the words to my lips. Stop it, Lizzie, I think. You nut job. She’s not.
On the long marble bench close to the arch, we’re surrounded by running kids, mothers with arms stacked with jackets, even a few early daffodils and tulips. I feel as awkward as Sam looked that day when I caught him sketching me. “Can I take your picture?” I manage to ask. Ruth nods, smiles, runs one bony hand through her new walnut curls while I fumble with my phone. I stand, snap a few shots, then settle on the bench beside her, words tumbling in my head like water over rocks.