by Toni Andrews
Even I couldn’t make someone love me.
Oh, I could make them think they loved me. Like they had tried to do since bringing me home. But even at eleven years, I knew the feelings they had for me weren’t the same as those I had observed in the parents of my schoolmates. That effortless warmth and complete ease with one another was a mystery to me.
I might even be doing them a favor. They could stop being guilty about what they didn’t—couldn’t—feel.
But I would always know.
So, instead of launching into my carefully rehearsed script, I’d looked the judge right in the eye and pressed deliberately and unsubtly.
“Do what Mr. and Mrs. Hollings have requested,” I said, the formal names strange and bitter on my tongue. “Make it so they aren’t my parents anymore.”
And he had. Invoking the authority of the state of New Jersey, he’d legally made me an orphan.
Of course, I’d regretted the words as soon as they’d left my eleven-year-old mouth, but the moment I’d felt the desolation and despair begin to well in me like a warm fountain, I’d clamped my teeth shut and fought both the nausea and the desperate words that threatened to erupt. I knew anything I said at that moment would be uncontrolled and dangerous. Even though, at eleven, I couldn’t have articulated it, I was afraid of the devastation my words could leave in their wake.
So I remained silent, turning my head so I couldn’t see the people I’d thought of as my parents for as long as I could remember walk out the door. And I’d stayed that way for weeks.
And now I was about to see them again. Despite three packets of sugar, the coffee I was drinking was suddenly as bitter as a child’s worst memory. And the sun had risen high enough above the outline of Catalina Mountain that the strange, suffocating feeling of the desert was returning.
Funny that the mountain that hid the sunrise here had the same name as the island behind which the setting sun fell back at home. With a last glance at the brilliant disk of light, I fled into the hotel room and closed the sliding glass door.
I felt better in the car, navigating the curving streets with the help of an online map. Tom and Bobbie Hollings lived in one of Tucson’s northern suburbs. The houses in Tortolita, while not exactly alike, seemed to have all been built in the same style by the same contractor. The Mexican hacienda-style cottages with their red tile roofs were familiar—Orange County was full of them—but no one here had a lawn. Rock gardens and cacti seemed to be the order of the day. With summer temperatures routinely reaching 115 degrees Fahrenheit, it was probably a sensible choice.
It was Saturday, so I had a pretty good chance of catching them both at home. I’d timed my arrival for 8:15 a.m., which I figured was late enough for them to be out of bed and early enough not to have left for shopping or whatever they did on Saturdays. I tried to remember how we’d spent Saturday mornings when I was a kid and only came up with a vague memory of watching cartoons and eating cereal. Had Tom worked on weekends? Had Bobbie slept late? I had no idea.
I turned onto Saguaro Court, which turned out to be a cul-de-sac. Damn. No way to cruise by casually a few times. I couldn’t find street numbers on the houses and felt panic rise sourly in my throat—was I going to have to knock on doors until one of them answered?—then realized the street numbers were painted on the curb beside each driveway. I slowed, reading each number until I came to the beginning of the spoon-shaped turnaround that marked the end of the road. There it was.
The house looked much like the others on the street—a little more run-down, perhaps, but nothing for the neighbors to complain about. The front yard was sand, with concrete stepping stones set in a curving path. A few sun-burnt weeds grew up between the stones, but not so many that it looked uninhabited. The end of the driveway was flanked by reflectors set on rusty iron filigreed stakes, the kind that have spikes on the end that stick into the ground. One was slightly askew, as if someone had dinged it with a fender. I pulled past the empty driveway and parked on the street.
I turned off the engine but hesitated before getting out. The garage door was closed, so I couldn’t tell if anyone was home. The windows had some kind of reflective film that turned them to mirrors. Probably the only way to survive in this heat without keeping the shades drawn twenty-four-hours a day. In the few seconds since the air-conditioning had stopped blowing out its frigid air, I was already getting a preview of what any vehicle left out in the sun probably felt like after only minutes. I turned the key back to the on position and rolled down my windows, hoping to alleviate the sauna effect. The neighborhood looked benign enough, and there wasn’t anything in the car to steal except the duffel bag in the trunk, which held only a change of clothes and my toothbrush. I had a couple of sun shades under the passenger seat, although I seldom used them, but I pulled them out now. Otherwise I would probably burn my fingers on the steering wheel when I got back to the car.
If, of course, I ever actually got out of it. Fighting a sudden urge to yank the sun shades off the windshield, start the engine and drive away in a cloud of burning rubber, I took the keys out of the ignition, pocketed them and opened the door.
The front door was recessed, with one side against the garage, which jutted out a good six feet from the front of the house. An iron security grille had been installed and was locked, making it impossible to reach the door to knock. They probably went in and out through the garage, because it didn’t look like the front door was opened very often—withered leaves were blown up against it, adding to the general bleakness. There was a button mounted next to the grille’s hinges, and I pressed it. If it rang a bell or buzzer within, I couldn’t hear it.
I held very still, trying to discern whether there were sounds of movement behind the impenetrable windows. I couldn’t even tell if there were curtains, never mind if someone was pushing them aside. I hesitated, unsure of whether to try the button a second time. Again the urge to flee rose hard and strong in my chest. But I’d driven eight hours to be here, and spent at least eight hundred hours talking myself into it.
I pressed the button again, holding it down for long seconds. Wake up, dammit, I ordered them. I considered trying to project my thoughts but didn’t know how to do it without a familiar target. The Hollingses had ceased to be familiar a long time ago.
I considered what I would do if no one answered the door. The obvious move would be to return to the hotel or find someplace to walk around, then come back later. They had to come home sometime. But I was afraid that if I got back into the car, I’d drive straight to the I-10 and head west, even with the prospect of a second day under the crushing desert sky to daunt me. As for walking around, it was already at least 85 degrees out, and this was November. What must August be like?
I jumped when the door opened with a sucking noise, as if coming unstuck. It opened maybe ten inches.
“Yes?” The woman’s voice didn’t strike a chord of familiarity, and I could barely make out the figure in the gloom, standing in dazzling sunlight as I was. “What is it?”
“Bobbie, is that you?” I asked.
“Who are you? What do you want?” It wasn’t an answer, but the tone was sharper, and I felt a frisson of recognition. It was Bobbie, all right.
“It’s Mercy,” I said flatly. “Come on, Bobbie, let me in.” I resisted the urge to press her, but I would if I had to.
There was an intake of breath, followed by a beat of silence. I expected the door to slam shut, but instead it opened a couple of inches farther. “M-Mercy?”
“Yes, Bobbie, Mercy. Are you going to let me in?”
This time the hesitation lasted a little longer. I took a deep breath, ready to command her to open the door, and then she said, “Just a minute. I have to get the key.”
The door closed, and in the silence that followed I could hear my heart beating. Stay calm, I told myself. Remember to breathe. After a few seconds the door reopened and Bobbie Hollings stepped into the sunlight.
She was smaller than I remem
bered, no more than five feet, four inches. Her hair was dishwater blond and tied back with a rubber band, and I could see a good half-inch of salt-and-pepper roots as she leaned forward to insert the key in the lock on the iron gate. How old would she be now—fifty-eight? Fifty-nine?
The grille opened on squeaking hinges, and she stepped aside to let me pass. She didn’t look at me.
I walked through the entryway and into the dim interior beyond. There was a short hallway leading into a small living room. I saw a matching chintz sofa and love seat in a faded rose print, and I only hesitated for a minute before sitting down on the latter. The magazines and full ashtray on the table at the opposite end of the sofa identified her regular seat. I’d forgotten that she smoked. When I was a kid, she’d always gone outside with her cigarettes.
She sat down and looked at me. “I always knew you’d come. I didn’t think it would take this long, though.” Her face was calm, but there was a barely discernible tremor in her voice.
I reminded myself that however unsettling this was for me, it had to be worse for her. The thought didn’t displease me.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked. Other than her niche on the sofa, the rest of the room didn’t look like it got much use.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ve been divorced for almost twelve years.”
Twelve years? “But his name’s on the title,” I said and, when her eyebrows rose, added, “That’s how I found you. Property search.”
She nodded. “We were going to sell it. You know, split the assets. But he had a good job, didn’t need the equity. The mortgage payments were low, so I took it over.”
Divorced. I hadn’t considered this possibility, even though it seemed obvious now. I had planned what I wanted to say to the two of them. Would Tom’s absence make a difference?
“You really don’t know where he is?” I asked.
“Florida somewhere. Tampa, maybe. I get a Christmas card from his sister. Do you remember your Aunt Kate?” I shook my head, and she went on. “She generally jots a note, says if he’s moved or anything.”
She picked up a tooled leather cigarette case from the table and shook a cigarette out of it, put it between her lips and lit it. As she inhaled, I studied the deep vertical lines that transected her mouth. She wore no makeup, but I remembered her always applying bright red lipstick before leaving the house. I shuddered at what that would look like now.
“So,” she said, “why did you come? To tell me to kiss your ass after all these years?” Her tone was hard, bitter. This wasn’t how I remembered her. I thought about what Sukey had said last week in the office and realized that, no, I had no such intention.
“I didn’t come to try to make you feel bad,” I said. This was part of my rehearsed speech. “I do have a few questions about the dissolution of the adoption, but that’s only because my memory of the whole thing isn’t very clear.”
She took that in, regarding me through a haze of blue smoke. The place was air-conditioned to a degree of frigidity that must have cost her a mint, but the air didn’t seem to move much in this room. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see that the ceiling was stained yellow from nicotine.
“Ask your questions, then,” she said. Her tone had lost its harshness, but there was still something unsettling in her expression. Fear, I suddenly realized. She was afraid of me.
Well, of course she was. I felt like an idiot for not anticipating this. Now the realization took all the nervous tension out of me like a suddenly deflating tire.
Reservations gone, I pressed her. “Relax, Bobbie. You don’t need to be afraid of me. You can be assured I don’t mean you harm.”
She almost slumped in relief. I wondered if she knew I’d pressed her not to be afraid, the way Madame Minéshti, a gypsy woman who had met others like me, had immediately recognized the feeling of being compelled. I didn’t think so.
I went on, no longer pressing. “I’ve become interested in trying to find my birth parents. I’m wondering if you have any paperwork or anything relating to the adoption.”
She thought for a moment, unconsciously lighting a new cigarette from the old. “Maybe,” she said finally. “There’s a box in the garage with old records. We—Tom and I—lugged it around for a few moves. I haven’t looked in it in years. I’ll go get it.” She started to rise, but I stilled her with a gesture.
“You can get it before I leave,” I said. “I have a few more questions first.”
She settled back. “Shoot.”
I almost smiled. I had a sudden vivid picture of a younger Bobbie, the skin on her face unravaged by time and cigarettes, wearing shorts and serving potato salad at a backyard barbecue. A man—a neighbor, maybe—had said, “Can I ask you a question, Bobbie?” She’d turned her head, grinning flirtatiously, and said, “Shoot.” I’d thought it clever and cool at the time.
“When you adopted me, did you know where I’d come from? You told me I’d been abandoned. Was that true?”
She winced. “Yes, it was true. I probably could have phrased it better, though.”
“You may have—I don’t really remember. But go on, what do you know?”
“You were in some kind of orphanage run by a church, but they only took care of the babies. They didn’t have anything to do with the actual adoption, which was all done through the state.”
“What church? Where was it?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure—it’s probably in the paperwork. We didn’t go to the orphanage to see you. Once we made it to the top of the list, they showed us pictures, and then a woman who worked for child services—a social worker, I guess she was—brought you to meet us.”
“How old was I?”
“Seven or eight weeks old,” she said. Her face took on a wistful expression. “You were so beautiful. Everyone says that about babies, I know, but you were like some exotic doll. A full head of dark hair, and eyes already brown—not a hint of blue, like with a lot of newborns. You didn’t even seem like a real baby. I couldn’t believe you were real, that they would actually let me keep anything so perfect.”
“She brought me to your house?” My throat was beginning to feel oddly constricted.
“It was an apartment, back then. But yes, they brought you there. You were supposed to stay for a couple of nights before everything was decided. But the moment I saw you, I already knew I was going to keep you.”
“And did you—” I searched for words. This wasn’t going the way I’d planned. I’d grown used to the idea that they’d never loved me. But that wasn’t what I was hearing here, not exactly. “Did you still feel the same way…later?”
She got very still. “I wanted to,” she said, her voice small. “I held you and kissed you and played with you. You never cried, were never a problem. You slept through the night.”
I was hearing an unspoken “but” here. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I kept expecting this…this zing to happen, and all at once I’d really feel like you were mine. My little girl. That we loved each other. I read books. They said sometimes a mother can take a while to bond with her baby, even her natural child.”
“And did it? Ever happen, I mean?” I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear her say it.
She looked at me, then away. “No,” she said, finally. “I mean, I was fond of you, and I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. But you’d watch me with those big brown eyes like you were expecting something, too. Something that never came. I knew some of the other mothers from day care, and their babies would look at them and just burst into a smile. Like they were connected. I wanted that so bad….”
Her voice broke, and I looked away, giving her time to collect herself.
“What about Tom?” I asked eventually. “Did he notice anything wrong, do you think?”
She snorted. “Tom? He thought you were some kind of toy to take out and play with, and then put away when he was done. He liked showing you off—you were so pretty and, once you got a li
ttle older, so smart. But Tom was old-school. Children were the mother’s business. The father was responsible for their financial well-being, making sure they had a roof over their head and a college fund, but, beyond that, he didn’t pay much attention to what was going on.”
I nodded. My memories of Bobbie were more vivid than those of Tom, who seemed like a background figure. I waited for her to say more, but she’d apparently come to a stopping point.
“Tell me about having the adoption dissolved,” I said. “When did you start thinking about that?”
She lit another cigarette. “When you started to…get odd.”
“Odd?” I, of course, knew what had been different about me, but only from my own point of view. I wanted to know what it had been like for her.
“I think other people noticed before I did, because I started hearing whispers. From other mothers. They didn’t want their kids to play with you. They were afraid.”
“The mothers?” I hadn’t known this, but it made sense. Certainly the kids had started to be afraid.
“One of your teachers called me, asked for a meeting. But she couldn’t really explain what was wrong, and I got pretty nasty with her.”
“You did?” I was surprised.
Bobbie smiled for the first time since I’d arrived. “I may have had my doubts, but that didn’t mean anyone else was allowed to mess with you. You were my kid, even if it didn’t always feel like it.”
For a moment there, I almost liked her.
“But then something happened that scared the bejesus out of me,” she said. “And I started wondering if what everyone was saying was true.”
I had no memory of a specific incident. “What was it?”
“You were in your room, probably reading. You always had your nose in a book. Anyway, you were supposed to be taking out the trash—we’d given you some chores—and I’d already reminded you once. So I called in, and told you to get your butt out there and take out the damned trash.” She looked at me funny then.
I nodded, and she went on.
“You didn’t come out, though. You yelled back at me and said ‘Wait a minute, I’m busy.’ I was really pissed, because you’d been ignoring me, and I was going to march in to your room and yank the book out of your hands. But I couldn’t.”