Mom

by Dave Isay

  My social worker was very upset. “You said you didn’t want to see the baby beforehand. What’s changed?” I said, “I delivered him, and now I want to see him. I’ve changed my mind.” I actually thought, “I’m going to keep him somehow—I just can’t imagine giving a child away.”

  Dave: You told me that you left the hospital with me, which is not normally done.

  Hilory: My mother came up to Massachusetts, picked us up, and drove us back to Connecticut.You were handed off to a social worker at a stop on the Merritt Parkway, with your pink bunny and your layette. My mother was split and torn. If it wasn’t for my father, you would probably have been with us, but my dad was the one who didn’t even want to see your picture. I know it was difficult for him, but this was the decision he had made.

  I thought of you every birthday and more often than that. It’s funny, because I used to think, I wonder if he’s wondering today about the person that didn’t want him. I always worried, I hope he doesn’t think that I didn’t love him. I was hoping you would look for me. I was hoping, but I also thought if a person grows up happy with a family, I don’t know if he would look for someone who gave him away.

  I made the decision when I turned sixty that I was going to do a search—I needed to know before I died what happened to this child.

  Dave: When I was a child growing up in a family with siblings that were all adopted, the fact that I was adopted was explained to me as early as I could understand it. I thought everybody was adopted—I thought that when parents have kids, they go to a building and pick them up. I can still remember, I was probably six or seven years old, and my friend was telling me how his mom was going to have a baby. My response was, “You mean she’s going to keep him?” I thought that everybody just ended up going to somebody else’s family.

  Hilory: Isn’t that a great thing to think that you’re there by someone’s choice—someone wanted a child so much that there you are—I want you, you’re mine.

  Dave: At least consciously, I never felt rejection over it. The reason I made the first steps to look for you was mostly curiosity. It wasn’t something I was preoccupied with or stayed awake at night losing sleep over, but I just had this curiosity.

  I’d been living in Ontario almost half a year. This letter came in the mail that had been forwarded from my last address. It came originally from Northport, New York. Pardon the expression, but I thought to myself, Who the hell do I know in New York? Which was nobody. I opened that envelope and read the first few lines, and my chin hit my lap. I never had a moment in my life where I was so stunned, where I physically couldn’t read beyond that. This might sound melodramatic, but it changed my life.

  Hilory: I had written that letter so long ago and it had been returned twice. The lady at the agency hadn’t been able to find you, so we thought, Well, that’s that.

  Then you left me a voice mail message, and I was like, Oh my God, I have to sit down! It was just amazing when I called you and you answered! It was just like, Hello, where have you been all my life? Like we just picked up where we left off.

  Dave: If you could have said anything to me as a five-year-old child, what would you have said?

  Hilory: I would have said, “I hope that you’re very happy. I hope your dad is good to you, and I hope your mom is a lady you love very much. I hope she’s making chocolate chip cookies for you and playing in the snow with you. I hope she bakes you a cake on your birthday, and you blow out candles and sing!” Because that’s what I was hoping would happen for you. And in fact, I think that’s how it was.

  Recorded in New York, New York, on August 15, 2007.

  MYRA DEAN, 61 talks to her boyfriend, GARY JAMISON, 58

  Myra Dean: My son was Richard Damon Stark. People used to ask him what he wanted to be when he grew up, and he used to tell people he wanted to be a marine biologist or a garbage man. He wanted to be ten. He didn’t make it. He was nine years and four months old when he died.

  He and I had moved to a little house in Kansas City after I separated from his dad. I bought it because when I was looking at apartments, Rich kept getting more and more upset. I said, “Rich, why are you so upset?” He just kept saying, “Momma, I don’t want to move to an apartment, I don’t want to move to an apartment.” And I said, “Why?” Finally he said it was because his little friend told him his mom got a divorce and they moved to an apartment and she got mean. So I took every apartment off the list and I thought, I will find a house I can afford to buy.

  I found this little house, and it was perfect. Three weeks to the day after we moved in was May 13, 1977 and I was going to go out with my girlfriend. Rich had a new friend named Steve, and they were riding bikes. When I went to get the babysitter, I went down the street and said, “Come on, we’ve got to go.” And he didn’t want to go; he just wanted to stay and ride bikes with Steve. I thought to myself, I don’t want to tie him to his momma’s apron strings. Steve’s mom was standing there, and she said, “We’re going to go ride bikes. Just leave him here with me.” I didn’t have far to go, and so I said, “Watch for cars.” And I left. When I came back, I pulled up in front of the little house, and I saw this crowd of people at the end of the street and ambulance lights.

  I got out of the car, and I knew the minute I opened the car door and put my feet on the ground that it was Rich. I guess some people don’t believe that you can know that, but I knew. I got out of the car and I just started running, and when I got there, there were people all around him. They wouldn’t let me up to him. They were working on him, and they just sat me down. I had an out-of-body experience: I went up in the air, and I looked down, and I could see me sitting on the ground. I could see them working on Rich. They put him in the back of the ambulance, and they put me in a police car and we followed the ambulance. I just started screaming. I can still remember the face on the policeman—I think it about killed him. I remember him turning to me and saying, “Ma’am, I’ve got kids, too.” I kept saying, “Even if my family comes, don’t leave me, don’t leave me!” And he didn’t—he stayed right there with me. My ex-husband came. They took us in a hallway, and they just said, “There was nothing we could do. He’s gone.” I can remember having my back to the wall, and I just slid down, leaning against that wall.

  Later I found out that a guy had been hot-rodding through our neighborhood. The car went airborne and over a six-foot hedge, and it landed on Rich and Steve. The car flipped over. Steve was caught where the hood and the windshield made like a little tent, but the car landed on Rich. They had pulled the driver out, and he kept saying, “Oh my God, what have I done? What have I done?” Steve’s mom was a nurse, and even with her own son lying there, she tried to give Rich CPR.

  The ambulance driver came to me at the hospital, and he said, “Ma’am, I’m not supposed to tell you this—but he was dead at the scene.” He’ll never know what that meant to me, because one of the things that was the hardest for me was, What if he was suffering and I wasn’t there for him?

  Steve’s mother said the last thing that he said to her was, “My momma told me to watch for cars.” He wasn’t even in the street—they’d gone up into the yard. Steve’s mom walked in the garage to get her bike to take them riding, and Richie wanted to go to that yard and sit and watch the sunset. So it’s a bittersweet thing that he died watching the sunset.

  I always try to find ways to explain to people about the pain: It’s as if you’ve had an invisible amputation, you know? When you lose your child it’s like somebody has just amputated a huge chunk of your heart. The difference is people can’t see the amputation.

  When Rich died, I thought I wouldn’t live ten minutes. I was astonished when I’d lived ten days and mortified when I’d lived ten months, and not even grateful yet when I had lived ten years. I was mostly surprised; there was no one more astonished that I’d survived it than myself. God, in his mercy, does not give you all of the impact at one time.You’re just so numb for so long, and then it starts to seep in. After a ye
ar or two people think you should be getting better, but that’s really when the shock is wearing off and you start to feel again. And oh my God, it’s so bad. But fortunately, I found other people who had been through it, and they said, “It won’t be like this forever,” and it hasn’t been.

  I needed to be with other people that knew what was happening to me. I’d meet with other bereaved parents, and we’d talk about how you’d be at the grocery store with your cart, you’d come around the corner, and somebody at the other end would look up and see you, and you could see it on their faces—it was like they had rockets on the carts—they would just go and hit the next aisle. People would avoid even passing you in the grocery store, because God forbid they should say, “How are you doing?” and upset you. Seriously, people think after you lose a child if they don’t mention it maybe you won’t think about it. It’s just insane.

  I miss Rich terribly and I wonder what he would be like. He was just a happy kid, and he died watching the sunset. I used to have such terrible guilt about that, because I always used to think if I hadn’t taught him to see everything that was around him, then he would have just been off riding his bike like a normal kid. He wouldn’t have gone down to watch the sunset, and if he hadn’t been in that yard, he wouldn’t have been killed. You always think you can protect your children and you can’t—it’s such a feeling of helplessness and powerlessness.

  Today I’m in a far better place—as they say, a far, far better place. In the story of Job, Job lost everything, and he got everything back twofold. With me, I have two great stepchildren that I raised: Mike and Sara. I’m their mom. I didn’t have them, but they’re mine. I’m blessed and I’m loved, and I know that I’ve made a difference. If I was buried, I’d want my tombstone to say, “She made a difference.” That’s really the only thing that matters in this world.

  Recorded in Abilene, Texas, on March 21, 2008.

  JACKIE MILLER, 73 speaks with her son, SCOTT MILLER, 39

  Jackie Miller: You are one of the finest human beings I know. I love being around you. I’ve seen you become such a bold, brave individual. That’s something I always wanted for myself. And when I’m looking at my life now, I think, Go for it, Jackie. Go for it! So I guess you learn from your kids.

  Someone told me just this week: “If you see Scott in the elevator, I don’t care what kind of a day you’re having, you feel happier.” When I hear people say stuff like that, I’m thinking, I hope I had a part to play in that. But I don’t know how much credit your father and I can really take. I’d like to say you’re so perfect because of all my efforts. [laughs] But I realize that you’re your own unique self that nobody can really take credit for.

  Scott Miller: I always grew up knowing that I was adopted, but I’ve never really understood what went into it—I guess probably because we never talked much about it. So when did you and Dad decide to adopt?

  Jackie: We always knew from the time we first married—we’re very methodical people. Our plan was: we’re gonna get married, and two years later we’re gonna have a child, and then we’re going to adopt a child. Well, the two years go by, and we didn’t have a biological child. Okay, let’s do the adoption thing. And that’s what we did.

  For all the wonderful things I said about you before, you were truly a handful. I mean, you took all that we had. We had no time for anything else or anybody else—we really didn’t. No energy. So we couldn’t even consider, could not even consider a biological child after that.You were it, and we knew it.

  Now, this is something you really don’t know, and I don’t know how you’re gonna react to this. When I was seventeen years old, I got pregnant. The light of my life is my father, but he gave me twenty-four hours to leave town. I did have a son, at seventeen, but you don’t have many resources, and I was not able to keep this child. I gave this little baby up for adoption, and I said, I don’t know how to make this right, but I will adopt a child when I’m able to take care of a child. And that’s what I did.

  I always was going to tell you at some point—I just didn’t know when. I know children tend to put their parents on pedestals, but I think I handled the situation as best I could. I wish it had never happened, but it did. . . .

  Scott: . . . Wow.

  Jackie: I know, I know. The thing is that there’s not much we haven’t talked about over the years. We love our talky sessions. So many times it would seem, Gosh, is this the time to tell him? But I’m seventy-three now. I don’t know anybody else who’s going to tell you, and I think you should know. It just seems like such a big secret, and I don’t like having that out there.

  Scott: Thank you for telling me. I just wasn’t ready for that. [laughs] I just didn’t know. And I love you for telling me. I can’t believe that you’ve walked around for so many years with that—it had to be hard for you.

  Jackie: The hardest part for me was that you bring a life into the world, and you really don’t know anything about what happened. But I always thought about him.

  Scott: Wow . . . Speaking of secrets, I remember when I came out to you. We met for dinner in Harlem. I remember still not really knowing how you were going to react and being scared, thinking, Okay, here we go! I remember saying to you, “Hey, Mom, I want to talk to you about something.” And you took your glasses off, and you put them on the table. You buckled your fingers and looked at me—almost through me. I remember thinking, Oh my God, this is awful! I stumbled just telling you I was gay. And you looked away. Then the first thing out of your mouth was “I love you, and I’m your mother.” I just remember everything kind of melting away.

  Jackie: By that time, I knew—it wasn’t even a question in my mind. Just as you were this wonderful little kid with all the curiosity, you were gay—that was as much a part of you as any of the other things. It’s just you. It was certainly never a choice you had.

  Your gayness has brought such dimension to my life. I’m just on the fringes of it, but I see such a community of care and concern and love and closeness—I guess because you have to band together. I don’t think I would’ve known of that or been exposed to that had it not been for your being gay. It’s been a richness beyond measure. It’s wonderful. There’s no downside for me at all.

  Scott: Are there any big disappointments in me?

  Jackie:Well, you know, if I could’ve made you any different, you would’ve been toilet trained a lot sooner. [laughs] I’m sorry, Scott, but that was awful! That went on forever. . . . Honestly, I’d have to think hard to come up with something else.

  Scott: It’s kind of funny. I think of myself as an emotional person about lots of things—like at the drop of a hat I can start crying at a movie or something like that—but for some reason, where you’re concerned, I try not to be very emotional. I worry sometimes that you’ll never know just how deeply I love you. And sometimes it’s scary for me to imagine life without you.

  Jackie: You don’t let me get away with stuff—I always know that you are watching with a critical eye. But it’s good that you don’t let me be lazy—you don’t let me give you easy answers for when I don’t go to the gym. At some point, the tables turned, and now you sort of watch over and instruct me, and that’s okay.

  Scott: It’s so funny, I don’t tell you this, but I have conversations with friends about you and Dad all the time—little things that I notice, changes in you. And it’s like I want to deny the fact that time is passing on. On some level I think that if I push you or if I make you work harder at things, then it’ll make you stronger and you won’t be able to just drift into whatever long good-night it is that people talk about—it’ll be something that has to claim you. And I guess I see it as my way of making sure you’re around. . . . I don’t know what life will be like. It really scares me.

  Jackie: That’s something I can’t make better for you. You’re a strong guy; you’ve got all kinds of resources. I don’t doubt it’ll be tough, but you’ll be okay. No question—you’ll be just fine. You always have been. You and I have
n’t missed much. We spend a lot of time together, we really do. I treasure it—and you’ll have those memories.

  Scott: I love you.

  Jackie: I love you, too. You’re my life.

  Recorded in New York, New York, on May 30, 2008.

  YVETTE SALIBA, 30 interviews her father, SY SALIBA, 66 about her mother, Pat Saliba.

  Yvette Saliba: How did you meet Mom?

  Sy Saliba: We met in Trinidad when she was twelve years old. I was fifteen. There was a flood, and several of us from different churches went together to help people who were in distress—help them clean their houses and salvage things. I saw this cute thing, and I said to myself, She’s nice. I just kind of watched her from a distance, because I was always a very shy person.

  We kind of knew each other on and off, and we didn’t date for a long time. We really started to see each other seriously in the States just after I finished my sophomore year in college. So I was twenty-three then, and she was twenty.

  Yvette: Do you remember your first date with her? Sy: Yes—I didn’t know what to do with her, so I just invited her to go to the zoo. She was very gracious. She said, “Okay.” But then, once we got in the car, she kind of gently said, “Do we really have to go to the zoo?” [laughs] So we never went to the zoo. We just drove around and talked, and then I took her back home. On the way—it was probably about eight o’clock—she said, “Oh, my word, I’m hungry.” And then I realized I never offered to take her to eat or anything! I was really a clumsy clod in those days.

  When I first said, “I love you,” she asked, “Why?” I said, “I like your legs, and I like your hair, and I like your eyes.” She looked at me and said, “Are you buying a car?” It was kind of like, Go take a hike, you know? I kind of learned later about all those things that women like.