Table of Contents
___________________
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Acknowledgments
About Lauren J. Sharkey
Copyright & Credits
About Kaylie Jones Books
About Akashic Books
For my mother, Katherine, who showed me what it means to be loved, and how to love, without limits.
For my father, Patrick, who taught me how to laugh with my whole body.
For my brother, Taylor, who helped me understand what it means to be family.
For my mentor, Kaylie, who believed in me.
And finally, for the love of my life, Bryan, who made me believe in second chances.
Chapter one
* * *
If you've never hated yourself and want to, do not correct them when they assume you've been raped. Accept kindness from the hardest nurse ever to work the ER as she hands you a clipboard and asks for identification. Hope no one will recognize you, for this wouldn't be the first time you were found somewhere other than where you said you'd be. Pray the answer is in your blood and it isn't too late.
"Rowan," the nurse reads, closing the curtain behind her, "you believe you were sexually assaulted?"
"No," I whimper as she wraps the nylon cuff around my right arm, "I was. I was fine and then he . . . I wanted to stop, but I couldn't—"
"Easy, easy," she says, finally looking up from the clipboard and placing a hand on my shoulder. "Take a deep breath for me, okay, Rowan?"
"Okay."
As the Velcro cracks against the silence, I try to calm myself.
"130 over 90."
"Is that bad?"
"It's a little high, but not too bad. Do you smoke?"
"No."
"Cigarettes, marijuana?"
"No."
"Do you drink?"
"No."
"But you drank last night?"
"Yeah, but I don't drink a lot, like, normally."
"And how old are you, Rowan?"
"Twenty-four."
"It says here you're on birth control."
"Yeah."
"Any other medication?"
"No."
"Any family history of cancer, diabetes, heart disease?"
"I'm adopted. No family history."
* * *
It was my first day at big-girl school, and we were late because my hair would not curl. Mom hit the brake of our tan Chevy Astro so hard I lurched forward in my car seat.
The night before, Mom had asked how I'd like to wear my hair for my first day. I remembered my fingers getting stuck in her dark brown curls, and asked for curls of my own. When she took the curlers out the next morning, I cried when I saw my hair was still straight.
"Don't cry, Rowan. You have beautiful hair. People would give anything to have thick, straight hair like yours."
She wiped my tears and separated my hair into two braids, promising if I kept them in all day and slept on them at night, my hair would be wavy the next day.
In the years to come, Mom would try different ways to give me the curls I wanted so desperately—Wash 'N Curl shampoo, ion curlers, and curling irons—but it always ended the same way: curly before I caught the bus, deflated by lunch, and straight by the time I walked up the driveway of our house on Elderberry. We didn't realize all I wanted was physical proof we belonged to one another—something tangible, an undeniable link.
* * *
I heard Mom breathing hard as she slid the door open, attempting to undo the seat belt. When I was finally undone, my Cinderella lunch box got caught in the straps, and I whined as Mom struggled to free me.
"Damn it," she said through clenched teeth.
"Mommy! You're not supposed to say that!"
"Shhh, Rowan! Come on, come on."
I saw boys and girls, in jumpers exactly like mine, going through two double doors and into a large building—their mommies alternating between waving goodbye and wiping their tears. Mom began to walk faster, dragging me behind.
"Mommy, slow down!"
Once inside, a wrinkled lady pointed down the hallway and said Mrs. Matthei's classroom was on the left. We sprinted down the hallway, and headed toward a room where we heard laughter.
"Hi," said a round woman with blond hair, freckles, and a smile, "you must be Rowan."
"Yes," Mom replied, "this is Rowan."
"It's very nice to meet you, Rowan. My name is Patty—I'm Mrs. Matthei's helper."
"Hi, Patty," I said, slightly cowering behind Mom.
"We're going to get started soon. Why don't you have a seat at the table with the green chairs—do you know which one that is?"
I nodded and pointed to the round table with lime-green chairs.
"Very good! Do you want to say goodbye to Mommy before she goes?"
Mom crouched down to meet me at eye level and hugged me tight.
"You're coming back, right?" I asked.
"Yes, I'll be back later, and I want to hear about all the fun things you do today."
"Mom?"
"What, sweetie?"
"I don't want to go here."
"Rowan, we talked about this," Mom sighed.
"I want to come home with you."
"Tell you what—you be a good girl for Mrs. Matthei and Patty, and there will be chocolate chip cookies when you get home, okay?"
"Okay," I said, squeezing her one more time. "Bye, Mommy!"
I ran past tables with blue, red, yellow, and purple chairs before sitting in the last available green chair, quietly taking in the room. The blackboard at the front of the classroom was blank, while the one on the far wall had a chart with each student's name, accompanied by small boxes to the right. I saw some boys and girls placing their backpacks into the cubbies beneath it but was too afraid to take off my backpack without permission.
I rested my head on the Cinderella lunch box Mom bought at the Disney Store especially for my first day, inhaling the scent of crayons and pencil shavings. The boys across from me were giggling and one asked, "Who is that lady?"
I followed his finger and noticed Mom was still at the front of the classroom talking to Patty and Mrs. Matthei.
"That's my mommy."
"Why don't you look like your mommy?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "My mommy says I'm special."
"My brother is 'special.' He can't go to school with normal kids 'cause he's retarded. Are you a retard?"
"No!" I did not know what a retard was.
"She's adopted," the girl next to me explained. "My mom said your real mommy is in China but she didn't want you, so she gave you to a lady in America who can't make babies."
"Gross," the boy said, pushing his chair away from the table. "That's worse than cooties!"
The rest of the children pushed their chairs back—no one cared about my Cinderella lunch box with its matching thermos.
I looked at my mother. While I couldn't remember what color my eyes were, I knew they were not blue. They were not round. They were not hers.
I began to panic and attempted to fix myself by taking a deep breath and lifting up my eyelids as far as they'd go.
* * *
I simply didn't notice. Mom and Dad looked as they did, and Aidan and I looked as we did.
I'm not sure how Mom and Dad explained what it meant to be adopted. Even if I knew their exact words, at five you're too young to understand that fertil
ity either strengthens or destroys a marriage, a dream . . . a person. You don't get that adoption isn't just a solution to a problem—it's arguments that last days and forms asking the same questions and home inspections. It's interviews and your call is very important to us. It's hormone injections and low sperm counts and old wives' tales and nonresponsive to treatment. It's what seems like yet another defeat in a long line of shit that isn't working.
It starts coming together when kids begin using their middle and index fingers to pull the corners of their eyes and laugh, "Me Chinese, me play joke—me put peepee in your Coke." It gets clearer when your classmates ask why you brought Irish soda bread in for Culture Day instead of fortune cookies. You are Asian to the people around you, but not to yourself.
I didn't know what it meant to be Asian, but it seemed everyone else did. They expected me to know karate, be good at math, and be able to use chopsticks, but I could do none of these things. As I moved through grade school, the novelty of my having slanted eyes and a permanent tan seemed to wear off.
I forgot the first time I met Mom was in an airport, and not in the delivery room of a hospital. I forgot the stick never turned blue for her, and instead, motherhood was delivered via phone call during my grandfather's wake—Rowan James, my father's father, after whom I was named. I forgot there was another woman out there I could call "mother."
* * *
Valentina and I gave each other knowing smiles as Sister Joan wheeled in the trolley. Despite the Panasonic being held in place by tension straps, Sister Joan still needed assistance to force the structure over the threshold that could not have measured more than half an inch in height. I found myself thankful Jessica Kautzman had transferred from Sacred Heart Academy, bumping me out of the first row, and sparing me the responsibility of helping Sister Joan work the VCR.
Unlike Mrs. Matthei's classroom, Sister Joan's was devoid of color and personality. Her desk, meticulously organized and questionably uncluttered, was at the far end, by the windows. It would later migrate to the center of the room, allowing Sister Joan a better vantage point to observe whether Valentina and I were passing notes.
Six rows of six desks each faced the blackboard, and the bookcase that shelved enough copies of the New American Bible, St. Joseph Medium Size Edition, for each Mercy girl.
Sister Joan looked as though she had been born cranky. I surmised she earned her wrinkles by perfecting the perpetual frown that sat between her nose and chin.
"Ladies, ladies!" she said, clapping her hands together. "No talking. While Miss Kautzman sets up the television, who can tell me who founded Our Lady of Mercy Academy? Yes, Miss Finelli?"
If there's one girl I hated at OLMA, it was Gianna Finelli. She got on at the last stop on the bus to Mercy, and always managed to hit me with her Jansport just as I had fallen asleep for the last half hour of the morning commute. I had this fantasy of yanking her black ponytail and hurling her onto the floor before using a Sharpie to connect her freckles.
"The Sisters of Mercy," Gianna answered, giving me the finger as my eyes followed Sister Joan down the middle row.
"That is correct! But who founded the Sisters of Mercy? Miss Aiken?"
"Catherine McAuley."
"Yes, Sister Catherine McAuley opened the first House of Mercy in Ireland in 1827. She wanted to use her inheritance to build a place where women could be sheltered and educated. Some of these women were unwed mothers whose families had disowned them, which is why it's always important to practice abstinence."
Giggles.
"Ladies," Sister Joan said sternly, "there is nothing funny about abstinence and there is most certainly nothing funny about the consequences of premarital . . . relations."
Even at her age, the good sister couldn't bring herself to say the word.
"Many of the girls were no older than you are now—forced to live on the street, starving. Some of them with wee babes in their arms against the bitter cold. Yes, Randi, I see your hand—what is it?"
The class shared a collective groan. If there was one girl all of us hated, it was Randi. In fact, the amount of irritation she evoked incited us to begin calling her "Fuckin' Randi."
I guess our hatred had something to do with the fact that she didn't roll her skirt up like the rest of us, and her hair looked as though she'd only had enough time to run a brush through it once. Even though she was never tardy for class, she gave the appearance—and, unfortunately, the odor—of someone running late. Perhaps it was because she wore a rosary—not Sarah-Michelle-Gellar-wore-a-rosary, but like actually wore a rosary.
"A girl from my church got pregnant and she's only fifteen and I think it's absolutely disgusting." Randi smiled triumphantly, as if never having kissed a boy was something to be proud of.
"Were you there when she got pregnant?" I muttered to Valentina.
Sister Joan's lips formed a tight line as laughter rippled through the rows.
I watched Randi smile and blink blankly, confused as to why my comment was so humorous. "What?" she laughed nervously.
It was then I realized we didn't hate Randi—we envied her. Despite her frizzy black hair forever being out of style, and the visible sweat stains of her white polo, Randi was completely secure in who she was. She didn't give a shit what we thought, and we wished we could be as confident as she.
"Do you have something to add, Miss Kelly?"
"Nope, nothing to add," I said, trying to suppress a smile.
"Getting back to you, Randi. Tell us more about this young woman at your church."
"Well," Randi began, clearing her throat, sitting up straight, basking in having the room's attention. She told us about how the girl tried to hide the pregnancy from her parents, how she still loved "the boy who did it to her," and how she was being sent away someplace upstate and would be back in a few months . . . without the baby.
Murmurs.
"Ladies, please—ladies, that's enough! Thank you for sharing with us, Randi. Understand this, girls—intercourse is meant to be an act of love. Genesis tells us, A man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh. Intercourse symbolizes two people becoming one in the hopes of having a child they may raise in God's image and likeness. This is why it is sinful to have relations before marriage. Not only is it sinful, but when young, unwed mothers find themselves with child—" Sister Joan inhaled deeply, clutching her rosary. "There is no greater sin than taking the life of another, except taking the life of a child. Abortion is never the answer, which brings us to today's presentation." She pushed the cassette into the VCR, which had God Bless the Child scribbled in blue pen across a piece of masking tape.
On the screen, I watched Theresa and her daughter Hilary move from shelter to shelter, sleeping on the streets when there were no beds, or when they didn't make it back to the shelter on time. After Hilary contracted lead poisoning, a social worker at the hospital told Theresa the only way Hilary could lead a normal life was if Theresa abandoned her.
Before they left the hospital, Theresa presented Hilary with a necklace.
"You know what that heart means?" she asked. "It means your mommy loves you. And whenever you look at it, that's what I want you to remember—your mommy loves you."
Theresa took Hilary to the park and placed her on the swings, promising to return with sandwiches. Then, hiding behind a tree, she watched social workers take Hilary, who called out for her mother.
I'd never given much thought to my biological mother since the first day of kindergarten. Yet here I was, nine years and one Cinderella lunch box later, shedding tears for a woman I'd never met.
Sister Joan tapped me on the shoulder and escorted me outside, leaving the door ajar so as to listen for mischief and unwittingly aid eavesdroppers. Her classroom was the last on the right, but there was still another on the left, plus three yards, before the end of the hall.
As we strolled past Sister Pat's geology lecture, I could feel the class's gaze follow us until
we disappeared from view, though whispers and speculation still lingered.
I'd been in high school exactly two months, and already had a reputation. I rolled my skirt above the knee, chewed gum in class, and painted my nails black in the hope of getting expelled and being banished to Mineola High School and the boys who smoked Newports outside.
"What's the matter, Rowan?" Sister Joan asked.
Sister Joan knew she was my least favorite teacher, and that she was my least favorite teacher because she taught my least favorite class—theology. She'd written me more demerits than any other nun at Mercy—mostly for uniform violations. Two weeks prior to this conversation, she'd sent me home with a sealed envelope, which Mom was to sign and return. Enclosed was a copy of the dress code, with the following passage highlighted in orange: Skirts are to be worn at the knee or slightly above the knee. Skirts are never to be rolled at the waist. There was also a brochure on the relationship between modesty and abstinence. I'm not sure I confided in Sister Joan because I wanted to, or because fourteen years was too long to hold it in.
I told her I hoped this was how I came to be here—that my biological mother loved me and wanted the best for me, even if that meant we couldn't be together. That she knew it was better to give me to another family than have us suffer together. That she was willing to break her own heart so I'd never know the hardship she'd endured alone.
The bell rang and I watched the sea of navy and maroon sweaters funneling out of the classrooms and down the hall as Sister Joan took me in her arms and said, "Rowan, God sought fit to bless you with two mothers—your adoptive mother, and your biological mother, who loved you so much that she chose life, not death. She placed you in the hands of God, in the hope that He would provide a better life for you. You would not be here had she made a different choice, so you should rejoice that she was guided by faith, and that faith brought you here."
Sister Joan patted me on the back, and I followed her into the empty classroom to get my backpack while she wrote me a pass to see Guidance. By the time I got into the hallway, class change had ended, and I was alone.
The squeaking of my rubber soles echoed as I made my way to the stairs. Guidance was two flights up, but the answers weren't up there. The only person who could make this okay was in the house on Elderberry—Mom. I looked over my shoulder, and ran to press my cheek up to the door leading to the stairwell to make sure Sister Pat wasn't lurking in the halls, before heading to the basement.
Inconvenient Daughter Page 1