“How bad is it?” he asks, almost in a whisper.
“They’re trying to see if she’s brain dead.”
He gasps and starts to cry. I try to console him, but it doesn’t work.
I thought he liked her, but from his reaction, he must be in love with her.
David takes a few deep breaths, wipes his eyes, and says, “I’m sorry—it’s just that in a short time, I really got to know her. She’s an incredible person. I love her, I really do.”
Oh my God, this poor guy. I feel bad for him. But I am glad that Mom has someone who loves her; it gives me comfort.
“How did you and my Mom meet?”
“Like many people, I’ve been looking for a long time,” he says.
That surprises me. I wouldn’t take him for such a romantic. He is totally the type of guy Mom deserves, even though he is much younger. But look at Ashton and Demi—it could work.
He continues slowly, “I told you I have a good life, a great family. But there is this empty hole I could never fill. No matter how great my life was, who I was with, friends, girlfriends, nothing could fill it.” Tears welled up in his eyes.
“I know it stems from being adopted. I always felt that whoever gave me up for adoption really handpicked my parents so I would have a good life. Probably better than the one they could give me. But even with knowing that, there was always this emptiness.” He says the last sentence almost to himself.
Oh dear God, he has a mother thing—he’s dating Mom because he is looking for a mother figure.
He composes himself and continues, “It started when I was a kid, I think. I tried looking for my bio parents, but the adoption agencies wouldn’t give me any information, because I was so young—so I gave up. Out of the blue a couple of months ago, I got a call from a detective who told me my mother had been looking for me for years and years. He asked if I wanted to meet her. So it happened.”
He stops talking and smiles.
“What happened?” I ask, confused.
“It was Daisy,” he answers.
“What was Daisy?”
“Daisy is my biological mother. She hired this guy to find me,” he says.
“EXCUSE ME, WHAT?!” I ask, shocked.
He leans over to the table on the side of his bed. I can see that it’s painful every time he moves. I feel bad for him—hell, I like the guy—but he is fucking delusional. My mother would never give a baby up for adoption. It is absurd. We talk about everything. What is this guy trying to pull?
He hands me a book that looks way too familiar.
“Daisy gave this to me during our visit. It’s her journal chronicling the nine months she was pregnant with me. It’s all there,” he says.
I can’t speak.
“You telling me you know nothing about this?”
I look at the diary. It is an exact replica of the ones I found in my mother’s room. That must have been why they are on the floor—she was probably looking through the stack to find this one to give to David.
“This is the first I’m hearing about this. I don’t know what to say. I randomly glance through the pages. The handwriting is the same—maybe a little more mature than the writing in the other books.
“I guess my father was a boy she planned to marry, but he was killed in Vietnam,” he explains.
“Your father was Steve Santini!” I say. That’s why David looks so familiar. He looks like an older version of the photo I saw of my mother’s first love.
I feel betrayed. How could she possibly keep something this monumental from me? We discuss everything.
“After I was contacted by the detective, Daisy and I spoke on the phone for hours. She told me everything: how she was pregnant when he was killed, and how hard the decision to give me up for adoption was. Well, it’s all there in the diary,” he says, looking to me for assurance that I’m not too upset. He continues, “I came to visit and she was so open and loving and happy to see me. She told me all about you, how wonderful you are, and that you were set to visit her soon.”
I need to get out of the room, now!
“This is a little too much for me to process right now, David. Do you mind if I take the diary and read through it? I promise I’ll bring it back soon.”
I see that he’s disappointed that I’m leaving.
“Sure, take it. Listen, Lily, I know how upset you must be—”
I can’t listen to another word. I interrupt him. “Thanks, David. I’ll be back in a little while. I need to be alone for a bit.”
I walk out of the room and down the hallway. I see nothing. I am in a fog. So after all these years of my saying how predictable my mother is and how she can never surprise me—she finally did. In a major way! And I can’t even ask her about it. Why didn’t she tell me? Auntie D. must know everything. I text her and ask her to meet me in the chapel. I need to speak to her ASAP.
I get a text right back that she is in the hospital parking garage and will meet me as soon as she finds a parking spot. She asks if I have any news. I don’t respond.
I rush out of the elevator to the lobby, which is crowded with visitors walking through, and doctors and nurses rushing around. I see nothing; I can’t focus on anything. All I feel is deceived. All these years she could have told me. We could have searched for him together. Why did she exclude me, why didn’t she feel she couldn’t tell me? I get to the chapel, open the door, and wait for Donna. I don’t have to wait too long.
“What’s the matter? Is everything all right?” She rushes in and sits down next to me. “Oh my God, did you speak to the doctor already?”
“Why didn’t you or Mom tell me she gave a baby up for adoption before I was born?”
“Whaaat?” She is stunned.
I glare at her. She too has lied to me all these years—a lie of omission, which is just as bad as a bald-faced lie.
“Lily, I can see you’re upset. Please calm down and tell me what’s happening.”
“I’ll tell you what’s happening.” I stand up and pace back and forth in front of her. “My mother forgot to tell me, my whole life, that I have a half-brother. That she gave birth to a son and he was somewhere out there. Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Lily, please, honey, sit down and tell me what you’re talking about. Why are you telling me this?”
“It’s him, Auntie D. David is the child she gave up for adoption.”
She gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. Tears fill her eyes. “Oh my God, she found him, she finally did it. After all these years. That was the big news she wanted to share with me when I got back,” she says, softly.
“He gave me this.” I show her the diary. “It’s a journal of the months she was pregnant.”
She takes the diary, looks through it. “I haven’t seen this in years. But I know what’s in there. You should read it, honey—it’s all there.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?” I ask again.
“Can you please sit down, honey?” I do as she asks. She takes my hand, holds it to her heart, and says, “Lily, you must believe me. It had nothing to do with not wanting to tell you. After your Mom gave the baby up for adoption, she agonized over it the rest of her life. But she really had no choice. When Steve died, she dropped out. She was like a zombie. She didn’t want to eat and she didn’t want to speak to anyone. She went to sleep crying and woke up in the morning crying. She was despondent. Remember, Lily, she was barely seventeen years old. Three weeks after Steve died; she found out that she was pregnant. It gave her something to live for again.”
She closes her eyes, almost as if the memories are too overpowering. When she opens them, her face looks older.
“But her father refused to let her stay with them if she had the baby. Sam was very adamant; she had to give up the baby for adoption. So she did. She had no choice. Daisy mourned for the death of Steve and then for the loss of the child. It changed her.” Donna put her arm around me.
“She started looking for the
baby after she married your father. He wasn’t at all thrilled that she had a child by another man. He never felt she loved him as much as she loved Steve, and unfortunately for them both, he was right. When all her searches ran into dead ends, she was heartbroken and stopped looking. She got pregnant with you, and life continued.”
Auntie D. puts her hand under my chin and tilts my face up so that I’ll look into her eyes.
“You must believe me. It was so painful for your mother that she refused to talk about it, even to me. After she gave birth to you, she showered you with all the love and affection she couldn’t give to her first child.” She pauses and asks, “What’s he like?”
“From what I can tell, he’s a really nice guy. He’s an almost-lawyer and seems smart—and not bitter about anything. The adoption…the accident… nothing.”
We sit in silence for a good ten minutes.
She looks at me. “I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”
“I will be.” I hug her. She is Mom’s best friend and the keeper of her secrets. It was never her place to tell me. Until now.
“Listen, we have to meet with the doctor in a half hour. Can you give me some time by myself ? I’ll meet you up there.”
She looks worried. “Are you sure you want to be alone? I can sit with you, we don’t have to talk.”
“No, you go, I’ll meet you upstairs. I’m all right, really.” She kisses my cheek and leaves the chapel.
I look through the pages of my mother’s journal. Each entry begins with Dear Baby instead of Dear Diary. This is a journal for her son, so that one day he would know what she had gone through. I flip to the last entry, which is dated August 24, 1972.
Dear Baby Boy,
Everyone at the hospital has been so nice to me. Right now you are sleeping in your little bassinette next to my bed. You look so tiny, beautiful, and perfect. You hardly cry, you are so happy and content to be here with me. I want you to know that I love you now and I will always love you, no matter what.
I know I can’t take good care of you. Mama and Papa have told me that they will disown me if I don’t put you up for adoption. The truth is, I really can’t take care of you, my precious baby, not like a good mother should.
I look at your beautiful face and wonder what type of boy you will be, and what kind of man you will become. I pray to God that someday we can find each other again. I can only hope that you will forgive me and know that I truly feel you’ll have greater opportunities with a loving family that has the resources to take care of you.
After writing that last sentence, I had to stop and pick you up again. I cannot bear the thought of being away from you. Before I placed you back into the bassinette, I kissed both of your tiny cheeks.
I have memorized exactly how you look. I promise you, I will never forget your beautiful face or your sweet baby smell.
Catholic Charities have been really wonderful and let me go through files of different couples who are looking to adopt. I don’t know the name of your new parents, but I do know they have been trying to have a baby for years and have had no luck.
The husband’s a doctor and the wife’s a nurse. I read a letter they sent to the agency saying that if they were blessed to be able to adopt a child they promise that baby would have so much love and attention. They would dedicate their life to honoring that promise. When I read that last sentence, I had a feeling deep in my heart that they would be very good parents for you. Better than I could be.
I don’t know how I am going to be able to say goodbye to you. I look at you now, so peaceful and innocent, not knowing that your life will soon change forever. I pray, my dear child, that my decision will insure that you have a good life. I also pray that someday I will be able to be with you and give this diary to you, so you will understand how much you are loved. And if that day ever comes, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for not staying. I know I will think of you every day and pray to God that you are well taken care of and that you have a good life with good parents. I love you with all my heart and soul and nothing will ever change that. I will always be
Your Loving Mother
Tears stream down my face. My heart aches for Daisy, the young mother, who had to part with her precious baby. The baby who was the final connection she had to her true love. I realize how strong she must have been—carrying this child for nine months, while grieving for its father. Then to go through the pain of delivery, only to realize that her child would have a better life away from her.
Even through my own veil of grief, I understand the profound irony of discovery and loss that would forever unite Daisy and her son. For them to have found each other after so many years of yearning, only to be lost to each other again, is unfathomable. For twenty-nine years, I had the honor of knowing Daisy Lockwood. Did I ever genuinely appreciate her? Did I truly treasure her or grasp how remarkable she was? Of course on a superficial level, I knew she was terrific. But why hadn’t I stopped to realize how much this single mother had accomplished, or how positive an impact she had had on the lives of the people she touched, including mine, on a daily basis? I had taken her for granted. I was too into chasing the next great thing or finding the next best designer or trying to get invited to the ultimate fantastic party, to see my mother for who she truly was. I was just another one of those Hollywood brats who took everything for granted—took her for granted. I came to expect her devotion and commitment to me. Like expecting that the sun would rise in the morning. You don’t think twice about it—it’s just there. Until one day, it’s not.
Conversely, here is David, who dreamed his whole life of meeting the woman who gave birth to him. The brave woman who gave him away to insure that he would lead a better life. She didn’t have to do anything for him, or buy him anything, or help him in any way. He just wanted to spend time with her and talk to her. He didn’t have any preconceptions or requirements—he wanted only to be in the same room with her. He wanted nothing more from his birth mother.
I close my eyes and realize that, as usual, Daisy, in the only way she could, came through to guide me. Discovering this emotional truth from her past will certainly affect me when I have to make my own difficult decision.
I stand up, leave the chapel, and steel myself for my meeting with the doctors.
I sit across the table from Dr. Niptau. Auntie D. is on my right side, Tommy on my left. Tommy said that the thought of this meeting was enough to send poor Fernando into uncontrollable tears, so Tommy made the executive decision that he would be better off sitting with my mother.
Fernando stayed in my mother’s room, trying to entertain her with nonstop gossip about friends in Hollywood and the fashion world. The longer he sat there, the more bizarre and whacky his stories got, almost as if he wanted to shock her back to reality. Of course my mother did not move, did not blink, she did nothing. But still, as long as there is a minute chance that she can recognize something and respond to it, we will keep trying.
Dr. Niptau is there without his usual team and seems more tired, yet in some ways more human. When he speaks to me, he looks directly into my eyes, something he has not done before. His hands are crossed on the table. My mother’s now-thick chart is in front of him. He speaks very slowly, deliberately.
“In the last twenty-four hours, your mother went through several tests to determine the extent of her brain injury. There are guidelines in New York State that we are required to follow to make our determination.”
I look at Auntie D. and notice that her hands are shaking. I take her hand in mine. Dr. Niptau looks through the chart to find the page he needs, and briefly reads. He looks up and clears his throat.
“Your mother had no cerebral motor response to pain in all extremities, as well as nail bed pressure. Her pupils did not show response to bright light. There was no facial sensation or facial motor response. For example, no corneal reflex, no jaw reflex, and no grimacing in response to pain. There are no pharyngeal and tracheal reflexes, which are brai
nstem-programmed mechanisms such as those governing the integration of the laryngeal closure into swallowing, belching, and vomiting mechanisms—and brainstem reflexes emanating from the pharynx, larynx, and esophagus.”
He looks down at Mom’s chart, then back up at us.
“She has no response after stimulation of the posterior pharynx, and no cough response to tracheobronchial suctioning.”
Tommy jumps in, “So what does that mean? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“It means that the brain stem is showing irreparable damage.”
“Will she ever recover?” I ask. My voice sounds shrill.
He runs his hands through his comb-over, and the hair responds by standing straight up. If this was any other time, I wouldn’t have to look at Auntie D. and Tommy to know they, too, were on the verge of uncontrollable laughter. But not today—not at this meeting.
He sighs. “If you allow me to continue, I will explain it all to you. We administered an electroencephalogram this morning—”
“What is that?” Auntie D. is the one to interrupt this time.
Niptau loses patience. He snaps, “Please let me finish.” He sighs and continues, “Electroencephalography is the recording of electrical activity along the scalp produced by the firing of neurons within the brain. In clinical contexts, EEG refers to the recording of the brain’s spontaneous electrical activity over a short period of time, usually twenty to forty minutes, as recorded from multiple electrodes placed on the scalp.” He looks directly at me.
“In your mother’s case, it is determined to be a flat electroencephalogram.” Before we can interrupt again, he quickly adds, “This means that the electroencephalogram indicated an absence of electric potentials of cerebral origin. We plan to give her another one tomorrow morning to ascertain any change. If there is no change, with the two tests results and all the clinical testing, this will indicate cerebral death.” He closes her chart.
Tommy’s face turns red and he stammers, “Daisy is brain dead?” He chokes on the last word, and tears welled up in his eyes. Dr. Niptau seems relieved that what he came to say has finally been said.
The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) Page 19