A Chance in the World

by Steve Pemberton

  Growing up in New Bedford, I’d heard stories of how whalers stared down into the depths looking for any hint of the enormous creatures, trying to determine where they would surface next. When they spotted a whale, it appeared as little more than a speck, but as it exploded to the surface its massive volume often swamped boat and crew. As I now realized, the issue of race had been like these whales— a barely discernible presence beneath the surface of our relationship. The Murphys recognized me and accepted my existence, but there was a distance there. And now, with my girlfriend at my side, that distance appeared to be about race, threatening to derail the very delicate balance we’d been nurturing.

  I let out a long, slow breath of air, trying to disguise my growing agitation.

  “Aunt Josie, you have to understand. There was no one there to tell me I had Irish blood. I went to Boston College, a Catholic university with Irish roots, and the entire time I didn’t even know my mother was Irish.”

  The topic we’d all avoided—my mother, her children, what had happened to us—was now in the room, larger than life.

  Tonya gently placed a hand on my forearm, and I knew what the gesture meant—tread carefully.

  “It was very difficult not knowing where I came from, who I looked like, where my family was, and why they had left me in that terrible situation.”

  The statement hung there like an accusation and was answered only by an awkward silence.

  Josie looked away. The room again grew quiet, except for the whirring of the fan. I didn’t express the other thought that had nagged at me since I had found the Murphys: Why didn’t you ever look for me? If I hadn’t found you, I’m not sure you’d have tried to find me. Didn’t you ever wonder where Marian’s children were or what had happened to them?

  I kept this to myself because I sensed it would dramatically change an already fragile relationship.

  “All I can tell you is that I am very proud to be African American. This is who I am. And if I am comfortable with that, then everybody else should be as well.”

  Grandma Murphy suddenly rose to her feet.

  “Steve, have you ever seen your mother’s letters?”

  “No, Grandma, I haven’t.”

  “Well, I’ll go get them for you. I think I know exactly where they are.” Her voice trailed away as she went deeper into the house. “They are in a back closet, I think.”

  The next few minutes were awkward. The Murphys talked among themselves about their careers and college. Tonya and I compared notes on the picturesque marina right outside the window. Finally, Grandma returned with a single letter.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “From your mother.”

  The Murphys continued talking among themselves. I was entirely focused on the letter. This was the first possession of my mother’s I had ever touched. The pages were tinged a faint yellow; the letter had not been opened in years and their perfect creases snapped as I unfolded them. I’d expected to see the ragged handwriting of a woman in tremendous turmoil, but instead I saw an artist’s elegant penmanship. The letters were perfectly formed, the loops of the g’s finishing with a flourish, the i’s dotted exactly above their stems. Teachers had often asked where I’d learned to craft letters and words so artistically. I’d never really known; it just seemed natural to me. Now it was clear: I’d gotten that from my mother. I smiled to myself, shaking my head at this amazing commonality.

  Through the open window I could see a small sailboat heading out of the marina. I laid the envelope on the small dining table and held the letter close, wishing that somehow this item my mother had touched could fill the cavernous void I felt at not knowing her. Tonya leaned over my shoulder and began to read with me. I can’t remember my mother’s exact words, but her message is seared upon my memory. It was addressed to her father. She wrote that she was ready to straighten out her life, ready to get back on her feet—all she needed was some money. She was tired of being tired, and most of all she wanted to get her children back, especially my youngest brother, Bernard.

  Where was my name?

  This thought had barely registered when I read the children’s names again: Ben, Marc, Joni, Bernard, all in chronological order. I looked again.

  It wasn’t there. My name was brutally and inexplicably absent.

  I scanned the letter again and again, hoping I was wrong—that if I read it one more time, I would see my name written in her beautiful hand, with the kind of care parents take when penning their children’s names. But I knew my first glance had not deceived me. Like my father, my mother, too, had written me right out of her life, this time literally.

  I doubt the Murphys had any clue how much emotion I was feeling just then. They were still deep in conversation—their conversation about colleges and careers now no more than distant chatter to me. Sighing heavily, I let the letter drop to the table and watched as it folded back into its original form. There was nothing more I wanted to read, no explanation that would ease the sting. I closed my eyes and rubbed my hand over my forehead. Tonya touched my hand softly, and when I finally looked up at her, I could see tears welling in her eyes. Outside, the sailboat had moved even farther out of the marina, its sail billowing in the late afternoon breeze.

  I had been warned several times about digging up the past. And I had ignored that counsel, even as the defeats piled up (and the victories too). Some of this defiance reflected my belief that nothing I learned would hurt more than the pain of the Robinson years or the even greater difficulty of not knowing where I had come from. And there was something else as well. As long as I kept pursuing the past, I could keep alive the hope of discovering and enjoying a family.

  The Pembertons’ disconnected family, Joni’s unwillingness to accept me, and the distance between the Murphys and me had begun to close the door on that dream. Now the slightly yellowed, perfectly folded letter had slammed it shut. And yet, despite this crushing discovery, I didn’t want anyone to know how much it hurt—not Tonya, and certainly not the Murphys.

  “Steve, are you okay?” Tonya asked, searching my face.

  “I am, T,” I whispered, patting her hand. Jayne came over to talk to Tonya, and I got up from the table and went to find my grandmother. I found her in the kitchen filling up a pitcher of iced tea.

  “Grandma, where is your bathroom?” I asked.

  “Around the corner,” she said politely.

  Stepping into the small bathroom without windows, I flicked on the light, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on my face, letting the water run from my face into the sink. When I felt ready to go back out, I remembered that I had wanted to see if I had the same jawline as my relatives. Staring into the mirror, I saw that I did; it was the only physical resemblance I could discern. I lingered for a moment longer, and then turned out the bathroom light, ready to leave this lonely place, determined never to return.

  CHAPTER 37

  History, despite its wrenching pain,

  Cannot be unlived, but if faced

  With courage, need not be lived again.

  —MAYA ANGELOU, “ON THE PULSE OF MORNING”

  I can’t say I remember much about the ride back to Tonya’s home in central New Jersey. From time to time, Tonya reached over and laid her hand on mine. I sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window, watching the trees whipping by, still too stunned to talk. We did not return to her mother’s house as we had planned but, instead, went to Colonial Park near her home in Somerset. With its gardens and arboretum, the park was a popular place at all times of the year but especially in summertime. Large, grassy fields and a vast open sky offered a freedom not easily found in the hectic pace of everyday life. People strolled slowly along the many walking paths to take in the fragrant irises, peonies, roses, and lilies. There was a peace and quiet here. We parked and walked over to the lake. Clouds were rolling in—a summer storm—and the staff was waving the paddleboats back to the small dock.

  We didn’t go to the gazebo but instead sat d
own at the base of one of four weeping willows that lined the banks. Tonya had pulled a blanket from the car, and I spread it out on the ground. She sat, legs crossed at the ankle, and patted the spot next to her. I shook my head no and stood a few feet away, tossing small pebbles into the water. “Steve, talk to me,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

  That was a good question. Ordinarily my response would have been a quick, emphatic yes. But now I had to think about it. For years I had remained above my own story, soaring like a bird over a landscape, gazing down but unwilling to land. Perhaps this was nothing more than a survival mechanism, one now rendered useless by Marian’s letter. A duck glided across the pond and then landed, sending little ripples toward us. The seas of gray clouds were now being blown away by a more ominous color of gray. The wind had picked up. “I know that I will be okay,” I said, “because I always have been, but this . . .” I shook my head in a side-to-side motion.

  I’d always been stubborn and willful, never more so than in pursuit of my origins. Even after I learned who my parents were, I kept asking questions because, maybe, I would find different answers. Perhaps somewhere I would learn that my parents had fought for me, that I had meant something to them. The revelation that I’d been an inconvenience, a child simply discarded, was the greatest disappointment of my life. All those years of longing and dreaming had represented little more than the naive quest of a boy who had stubbornly refused to let go of his one childhood wish. It was time for me to be done with it all, to stop playing the role of a time traveler trying to change the past. Although part of me would always long for what had been lost, I needed to end this fruitless task of trying to reclaim my history as if it were an antique capable of restoration.

  I looked out over the nearly empty park. The big question now was what to do next. How do you overcome something like this? How do you live a meaningful life when you know for sure that your mother and father didn’t want you? How do you become a man? As the crew locked up the last of the paddle–boats, the sound of the heavy chains rattling, I realized that the answer to that question had been in front of me all along. Alongside my lifelong mission to find my family had been another, relentless quest. It had begun as a child, formed in the darkest of days in the basement of the house on Arnold Street, furthered as I plotted my escape during my teenage years, and solidified as I grew into manhood. It’s a quest that continues to anchor me today. I could build. I could create a better life than the one I had inherited. I can end this, I thought. All of it. I can make certain this never happens again. I can begin anew. Right now. I extended my hand to Tonya and together we hurried toward the car to beat the storm.

  The coming days and months would bring a realization of how fortunate I was, despite all that had been lost. My career in college admissions gave me as much pleasure as ever. One of the best parts of my job was the ongoing opportunity I had to read applicant essays. Out of those papers poured the unique life stories of thousands of students and their families: where they had been, where they were going, what they had overcome. For months on end, I sat by my fireplace in the dead of winter, the essays on my lap, logs cracking and popping, snow falling gently outside my window, marveling at these amazing tales of human resilience. Those stories helped me realize that, although tragedy and loss are regrettably commonplace, we aren’t measured by what happens to us but rather by how we respond to it.

  And that had not been my only blessing. Around this time I met Dierdre and Russell Jackson, a wonderful couple from Los Angeles; she was an aide to the lieutenant governor, and he was an anesthesiologist at Cedars-Sinai. They were deeply spiritual, caring, and loyal. While I was having dinner with them in Los Angeles one night, they made an announcement: they were going to adopt me. I laughed openly at their humor. I was then in my midtwenties—too old, I reasoned, to be adopted. But they did not return my laughter. “You are never too old to have parents. So, we are going to be your parents, and there really is nothing you can do about it. Pass the water, please.”

  Just before going back to New Jersey to meet Aunt Josie and her family, I had begun to share my own story. I had long been reluctant to talk about it publicly—not because I felt ashamed or embarrassed but because I wasn’t sure that talking about it would help anyone. As it turned out, my tale seemed to enthrall my audiences, whether college students or professionals attending national conferences in their fields. They, too, were trying to help family members or were struggling to repair their own fractured pasts. After I spoke, they came up to me, grabbed me gently by the arm, looked deep into my eyes, and told me that I did not look like my story. I would respond by saying that none of us really do; it is impossible to tell, from a single glance, the journeys someone has traveled, the experiences that have made them who they are. Ultimately, I realized that what they were really asking was how I managed to survive.

  Tonya had been asking me the same thing. For years I had never really known the answer to their questions. There had been a period in my late teens and early twenties when I had carried a hubris that bordered on arrogance, a belief that I had survived because of my own strength. But maturity had shown me that though willpower may have had something to do with it, it wasn’t the sole reason or even the predominant one. Still, I groped for answers. Why had I survived?

  Clarity came soon enough. I was speaking to a conference of foster parents and caregivers in Columbus, Ohio. Afterward, many members of the audience came up to share their appreciation of my remarks or to ask me a question. One particular woman caught my eye because she kept allowing others to cut in front of her. I realized she wanted to be the last one in the line. Nearly an hour passed, and still she waited. She was middle-aged and white, had long brown hair, and wore a pantsuit that matched the color of her hair.

  The last person stepped away, and finally she walked up. The only people left were the conference organizers and the hotel staff breaking down the room for the next event.

  “You’ve been really patient. I just hope I can answer your question,” I said as she approached.

  “Oh, I don’t have a question,” she said. “There is something I need to tell you. I was sitting there listening to you, and it just came over me, and I wanted to make sure I told you.”

  I folded my hands in front of me. There was a quiet intensity emanating from her dark green eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What I want to tell you is . . . God is not done with you yet.” And she quickly turned on her heel and exited the room.

  In the most difficult times, I always found comfort in prayer. I first discovered this comfort as a small boy in the basement of the house on Arnold Street. I don’t know how I knew to pray; the Robinsons rarely went to church. Still, I found that peace and quiet and strength often followed my humble requests. I talked to God the way one talked to a best friend. These petitions had changed from desperate pleas to lighten Willie Robinson’s hand to earnest appeals to help me find my family.

  The kind stranger had reminded me that God had been there all along—never more than in the last several years when I found my biological family and met Tonya.

  I didn’t realize it then, but God was about to really show up.

  In the fall of 1996, several weeks after returning home from my ill-fated trip to visit the Murphys, I received a strange phone call. I was in my office packing for an admissions trip to California when Marci, my assistant, knocked on the door and said a caller was on the line. Usually she just put the call through. But standing there in the doorway, shifting her weight nervously from side to side, I could tell that this call was different.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Well . . . he says he is your brother.”

  “Is it Ben or Marc?” I asked, smiling. This was a pleasant surprise. I had not heard from either of them in some time.

  “Neither,” she said. “At least, I don’t think so. He says his name is Mr. Sanchez.”

  I stopped packing and looked up at Marci. “I do
n’t have a brother named Sanchez.”

  “Well, he said you do. And he won’t give his first name.”

  How strange. Neither Ben nor Marc had the last name Sanchez. Who could it be? A fraternity brother? A friend pulling a practical joke?

  “Steve,” she said, pulling me from my reverie. “What should I do? Put the call through?”

  “Sure, sorry, Marci. Please, put it through.”

  She left my office, and I walked over to my desk, waiting for the call. My office overlooked the famed Quad at Boston College, an intersection of four of the university’s oldest buildings. On this particular day I had my window open to allow the last vestiges of summer in. Students hustled in between classes while snippets of their conversation drifted up to me. I was too perplexed to sit, so I just stood there, staring down at the phone. When it finally rang, I picked it up slowly, taking advantage of the pause to try one last time to figure out who this caller might be. “Hello? Hello?” someone on the other end of the line said.

  “I’m here,” I said, pulling the phone closer to my ear.

  “Hi,” a voice said. There was a long pause.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I’m looking for Steve Klakowicz.” The voice was soft and quiet.

  “This is he.” It would take too long to explain to a stranger that Klakowicz was no longer my last name.

  “You’re my brother,” this voice said emphatically, the softness replaced by conviction.

  “I don’t have a brother with the last name of Sanchez,” I said. “My youngest brother’s name is Bernard Klakowicz.”

  “Well,” the voice said, “that was my name before my adopted family changed it.”

  I stood there, stunned, holding the receiver to my ear. Though I had spent considerable time and effort looking for him, it hadn’t occurred to me that my youngest brother would have been adopted and assumed a different name. Nor had it dawned on me that he would also have been searching for his family. I thought I had been the only one yearning for a connection.