by Meg Kearney
when I felt lost, with curly hair, a point on
one ear, and the final twist, left-handedness,
all leading up not to what I’d fantasized
but a Jewish bride from Brooklyn who’d
taken her husband’s name, then soon lost
him—but by the time I reach the climax
(“Steinberger!”), Mom has Butter’s leash
in hand and is rushing for the door. “No
more,” warns Kate, and I stop. Butter
looks shocked—he wasn’t expecting
a walk when there is Kate’s chowder
and salmon on the table and what smells
like cheesecake for dessert. He hasn’t
even finished the chewy Mom had tossed
him when we’d sat down. Now she is
running out the door, her face a cross
between grizzly-bear and shipwreck.
“She’ll be back,” Kate says with a frown.
I just stare at Mom’s empty chair.
Mom Returns from Her Surprise Walk with a Determined Look on Her Face
Elbows on the table,
head in my hands,
I sit in silence while
the chowder turns
cold. Kate picks
at her salad. For half
an hour the clock
ticks and we don’t
say boo. By quarter
to one, Mom and Butter
come back, Butter full
of wags and half-
chewed-chewy-nut-
rapture. Mom full of—
what? Not annoyance.
Purpose? She sits
down with us, says,
“Lizzie, for years
you’ve had these
fantasies about finding
your birth mother.
They have filled me
with worries that
you’ll have your
heart broken, because
it seemed that it might
never happen. But
now, perhaps, it will.
You’re so close—
soon, I think, you’ll
meet her. So listen.
I’m not going to say
this as some token
sermon of wisdom,
or to keep you from
dreaming about
what that day will
be like. I might
as well ask you
to stop breathing.”
(Am I breathing?
I’m glad for
the reminder.)
“Just—try hard
to remember two
things: one, she loves
you very deeply.
Keep that always
in your heart.
Because two,
she’s as human
as the rest of us.
Don’t anoint her
to some kind of
sainthood, because
then she’s bound
to disappoint.”
After Church: Easter Sunday Brunch,
Then Back to the New York-Bound Train
“Let’s call Bob before you head back—he must
be up by now,” Mom says as our waiter
slides the bill onto our table. When her
train was leaving last night, Kate said, “I trust
at brunch tomorrow, you’ll praise those who must
cook all those fried eggs and omelets on Easter
Sunday, and rise at dawn, unlike our brother
who’ll sleep ’til noon.” When I tell Bob, he busts
up over that. “Hey, tell her I was up by nine!”
he says. Mom, who’s now driving, winks. “Ask him
which time zone.” It’s good for Mom and me
to laugh. So I pull out my journal. “Mind
if I read you my ‘First and Last Date’ with Sam
poem?” “Only,” Mom says, “if it’s funny.”
Good News While Studying in the Park
My phone starts to play “Winter River,” so
I know it’s Tim. Can’t help myself—why not
talk with him? On Ruth’s bench, a sparrow
stands alert. “She’s in the country, where you
should be,” I tell the bird. “I’d rather be
in New York City,” says Tim. “Well, you blew
that, going to school in Florida, then
getting yourself a cute girlfriend,” I tease,
then add, “Hi, Tim. Really, how’ve you been?
Thanks for the Easter text.” Tim hesitates.
“Well. Yeah. I’m good. But my golf clubs aren’t,”
he says mysteriously. “But here’s great
news—Zeena and I have . . . well, parted ways.”
That is great news, but I wonder why he
thinks so. “That tournament, Easter Sunday?
She was in the lead. Then totally blew
it. Threw a little hissy fit right there
on the green. I told her I never knew
she was such a bad sport. This was later,
in the parking lot. That’s when she busted
my clubs with her car. She’s an alligator—
Landon always said so.” “That’s a bummer
about your clubs, though,” I say. “She paid me,”
he says. “. . .Think I could visit this summer?”
Journal Entry #2219
Scene: Louise & I waiting in line for tea at the Third Rail
Louise asks if my mother expects presents on Mother’s Day (no, just a phone call, which I already made, I tell her, leaving out how Mother’s Day is always a loaded subject). Apparently, her mother demands gifts (plural) and hers weren’t up to par.
Then she tells me that Kimiko isn’t coming back this fall. She’s actually transferring to community college back in Arizona. Louise is looking everywhere—the menu board, the window, at people drinking tea and coffee at the little wood tables—but not at me. I can tell she’s trying not to cry. I tell her not to worry—Bob went to community college and immediately after got swept up by this software company in Silicon Valley. Kate says he’ll probably be a millionaire someday, and never have a BA or have to pay a college loan. I explain how it turns out that our brother is brilliant—he’s already got a patent! Who knew? So maybe Kimiko will do well, too.
Louise: Well, Kimiko could be brilliant. But I’m not sure she’s that brilliant. She is good company, though.
Me: But you’ll be back this fall.
Louise: Yeah, but I might have to live at home. Kimiko’s actually my cousin—she was the reason my parents let me stay on campus. They won’t pay for it now.
Me (thinking: I am so lucky.): You could still hang with me, with us—
Louise (stops): Liz, you are such a nice person. You know that? Naïve, but nice.
Me: Not so bad for a country girl?
. . . she hugged me.
Journal Entry #2220
On the walk home from class, I spot Ruth in the park. I haven’t seen her since Passover, which coincided this year with Easter. She’s writing something in a little blue notebook, then stopping to strum her guitar. Hating when people interrupt me if I’m writing, I decide to leave her be—but she sees me, waves me over.
She is so inquisitive about my weekend at home for Easter that I decide to tell her ALL, my whole story, right through the Steinberger punch line. “Oh, Liz, I’m so flattered,” she says, laughing so hard little tears spring from her eyes. A knot in my stomach unravels. I laugh, too.
Frustrating realization: I ask why she plays guitar right-handed. “Because no one would teach me left-handed,” she says, and I think, WHOA. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, I could have learned that way, too . . . I would be a good player by now.
According to Ruth, “When You Never Said Goodbye” was one of Jessica Rose Hemley’s hits, but it was actually written by Hemley’s friend, Iona Grosart. Ruth do
esn’t know if Grosart was adopted, but that’s my guess. As for “mother-ghost,” Ruth thinks it means dead, like the mother died suddenly without having a chance to say goodbye. That makes me think of Ruth’s husband, and Tim—how he lost his mother when he was a baby. He’s going to love this song. Maybe this summer he’ll hear Ruth play. . .
“Let’s sing it together, okay?” Ruth says, lifting her guitar to her lap. I nod. My voice is a whisper when we begin, but grows bolder by the second verse. Then I’m lost in it all—wind-blown, sea-borne. Ruth winks.
_______
. . . I just texted Karen Mason. Told her please, please don’t text, email, or call me, no matter what, until after exams end on May 17. It’s hard enough focusing without her asking me to call Sophie at The Foundling, or telling me—anything else.
Need I Say More?
(Two Haiku in Honor of NYU’s Annual Strawberry Festival)
1)
Ten-thousand berries / sweeten New York’s best,
longest,
strawberry shortcake
2)
We eat strawberry
ice cream, smoothies,
cheese
beneath
strawberry balloons
Coffee Study Break With One of Us Five Missing
Rhett swears she smells coffee. Then: knock knock—
knock knock. Henri? This wasn’t the plan originally;
I was heading to the library, but Rhett convinced me
we could study here. When the clock struck one, Sam,
Calvin, and Henri would show. We’d have chocolate,
a box of Fig Newtons. The boys would bring coffee.
So here’s Sam and Calvin with a crock-pot of French
roast. They even brought soy milk for me. But
where’s Henri? A few minutes later, my phone ding-
dongs. “Don’t wait 4 me,” reads Henri’s text. “Maybe
c u at the rock friday. Good luck w/ rest of classes
& finals & hi to the tribe!” “What’s up with that?”
Calvin asks, his arm around Rhett. Can’t he guess?
Metaphor Poem for Last Workshop:
“Studying for Final Exams”
Got my hiking
boots, back-
pack, walking
stick. Got
a water bottle,
trail mix,
map. Now
it’s straight
up
this
mountain
of memory—
these tests
of all
I know—
until
I reach
the patch
on top
where
blueberries
grow
One Chapter Closes, Another Opens on Its Heels
As crowded as a subway car at rush hour, Mind of Snow
barely audible above the din, cellar-dark and smelling
of sweat and beer, The Rock is clearly the place to be for
an end-of-finals party. Rhett and Calvin made it here early
enough to grab a table—Sam’s here now, too, and we four
toast this day. “Think you did okay?” shouts Rhett, already
a little tipsy. I smile, lift my drink in reply, then glance
around for Henri. “Hey!” calls Sam, who sees her first—
she spots him waving one arm. Calvin and Rhett squish
over to make room for her to sit. But wait. She’s not alone.
Henri elbows her way over to us, her face brighter than
the candle Rhett just lit. “Hey, guys, this is Edmund,”
she says, “Edmund Dante Rodriguez.” Calvin knows him—
I think Sam, too—they rise, shake his hand. “Edmund
Dante?” Rhett yells, looking like Henri just said “free
drinks.” The guy looks familiar. “Like, the Count of Monte
Christo?” Rhett’s standing now, ready to hug him. A storm
cloud rushes across Henri’s face. Edmund makes a low bow.
“Wow! My favorite book of all time!” Rhett squeals like
a kid. Putting my hand on Henri’s arm, I feel her relax.
“My mother’s, too,” says Edmund. He slides his arm around
Henri’s waist; out pops the sun again. “A round of drinks?
We’re heading for the bar,” Edmund offers. As I dig through
my purse for some cash, I realize I have a text I didn’t hear.
Then the roar of people, the music, my friends next
to me, fade. It’s as if I’m under water. The text is from
Karen Mason: “Tests done? Been sitting on your info two
days. Call when you get this.” I stare at those words.
My heart thumps harder than the band’s base beat bouncing
off the walls. My mouth’s cardboard. Will my legs hold if I
stand? “I can cover you ’til later,” Henri’s saying in my
ear. “We know you’re good for it,” Edmund adds, as if
I didn’t hear. “Liz, why do you look so weird?” asks Rhett.
Their voices sound so far away. “No—thanks,” I manage
to say. “Something’s come—up. I really have to go.”
After the Text
I remember trembling
out on the sidewalk
as if it were snowing
and I had no coat,
but don’t remember
leaving The Rock.
I remember Karen
saying “complicated”
and “Mark ‘Saturday
delivery,’” but don’t
recall what else she
said, or what was so
“complicated” at all.
I remember Rhett
walking me to UPS,
her endless chatter
to ease the stress, but
have no memory of
first fetching the money
order from our room.
I do remember sending
the money. Soon after,
hugging Rhett, hailing
a cab. The ride over
is fuzzy: I can’t picture
letting myself in Kate’s
apartment door, or
texting Kate to say
I was there. Ginger
tea, I remember that;
me calling Mom,
insisting, No, don’t
come. I remember Tim
playing his guitar
into the phone, but
I’m not sure when
Kate got home. Garlic
and mint: her scent
as she hugged me.
Her voice was a balm
to the wound we were
born with, for the grief
we’ve always carried
for something that was
ruptured, something
torn then hidden away
long before we had our
say in our own futures.
There was no use in
even trying to sleep.
It’s all been leading
to this day, I recall
thinking as Kate and I
watched the sun rise.
The sun. It was fat
and red as a beach ball
over Brooklyn. Yes,
I remember that.
Waiting for Karen’s Email, Thinking,
“A New Road Beneath Me”
Soon after dawn I finally slept,
dreamless—
then woke,
feeling a new road beneath me.
Life has taken
another turn—
this one just as sharp
but different
from the turn Dad’s death
made, and the road
I’ve now found myself on
is a road
I’ve always dreamed of driving
Journal Entry #2221
I wake to the smell of eggs and coffee. Dressed in Kate’s sweats, my hair a tangled nest, I’m practically richocheting off the walls like a pinball. Karen said she’d send the email by 10 a.m. I glance at the clock—less than an hour until then.
“When You Never Said Goodbye” is on eternal replay in my mind, haunting me:
Had that dream again of asters
and black birds—you like a page torn—
just outside my door.
The wind stirs
and the leaves all let go.
Rushed out to greet you,
your face turned to snow.
After one look at me in the little kitchen’s doorway, Kate says, “For you, I’m brewing half decaf. You’ve already got the jitters.” Or the shivers. I can’t seem to warm up.
Kate sets up her laptop on the coffee table near the couch while I shower. At 9:55, the email flashes in my inbox:
“Dear Liz, are you in a place where you can speak privately? If so, please call me asap. Thanks, Karen.”
This wasn’t expected.
Karen’s Call (On Speaker Phone)
“I have to admit I’ve been grateful for
the extra few days to think this through,”
Karen says when I call. “Your case is more
unusual than any other—this is new
to me, and I thought it best to explain
on the phone.” Beside me on the couch, Kate
takes my hand. “In order to save you pain,
I’ve made a few calls. Liz, to tell you straight—
this isn’t the best news.” “Oh my God she’s dead!”
I blurt. “No, no, not that—she’s very much alive,”
Karen says, “and it’s important I add ahead
of time that she’s so happy to know you’re alive
and well. . . . She’ll send you a letter. Only one.