Birch cabinets lined the left aisle—a foot of exposed brick between them and the ceiling—affixed with cast-iron handles, loose from years of yanking, on each side of the oven and the microwave above it. A window made up the middle run of the U-shaped layout, adorned with Heritage Lace Victorian Rose curtains Mom and Dad bought in Cape May.
The sink, however, was installed on the right aisle, and not below the window, as is typically recommended. Dad installed two shelves above the sink for extra storage, and removed the backsplash so Mom could have a clear view of the table, and the children eating there, while she washed dishes.
"Where do you want the milk?"
"Just set it down there and get the cheese out."
"Can I ask you a question later?"
"What question? Is it about school?"
Rookie mistake. I thought prepping her for it now would make it easier, and now she wasn't going to let it go until she figured out exactly what I wanted.
"I don't want to ask now."
"Rowan, I'm extremely busy. I've got dinner on, I need to do the meatballs—what do you want?"
"It's nothing. Forget it."
"No, not 'forget it,' just—"
"I want to know about my real mother!" I blurted out.
Mom stood frozen—holding a wooden spoon in her left hand, and a pot holder in her right. Her blue eyes began to well, putting her flaked mascara in peril. At fourteen, I was officially eye to eye with her, but her dark-brown curls and low heels usually put her an inch or two above me. Even though she was making meatballs, she hadn't thought to put an apron over her white cable-knit sweater.
I watched my words work their way through her face—the wrinkles of her forehead fading from the sheer shock of it all. Mom always complained about having a hollow face—cursing her genes for not giving her fuller cheeks. As the tears escaped her eyes, they dropped off the edges of her cheekbones, instead of rolling downward.
The pasta water began to bubble over and sizzle against the stovetop as I searched for a way to take it back. I hadn't meant for it to come out that way. I knew she was my real mother—I don't know why I said it like that.
"I just," I whispered, sneaking past her trembling body to turn the flame down, "I just want to know if she—"
I couldn't find the words, so I went to get Emma.
The den was the last room Dad worked on before he called the house on Elderberry home. After it had been gutted, he let Aidan and me draw on the sheetrock before he installed the insulation and did the drywall. I used to wonder what the new owners would think when they found Aidan's and my scribbles lining the walls of their new home. Sometimes, I'd imagine taking a hammer to those walls, terrified I'd accidentally left a piece of myself there.
Emma, Julianna, and Olivia were lined up against the windows on the far wall. Each had her left hand on the window sill, and her right arm extended outward. Emma was first in line, wearing a black leotard and pink tights—her wavy brown hair twisted and pinned into a perfect bun.
"You stick your heel out, point your toes, and then slide your heel back in—like this," Emma demonstrated. "It's called a tendu."
Julianna and Olivia kicked their feet outward, lacking Emma's grace and precision. In my baby photo album, Mom has a picture of me in pigtails, wearing a Minnie Mouse leotard and white tights with red hearts. I'm picking at a wedgie and have a smile on my face—I am three years old.
Mom said Emma and I were twins because we were both born at the beginning of November, but I didn't see it. Emma was seven, and already perfect.
"Emma," I called out.
"Hi, Rowan!" the girls cooed.
"My mom's ready for you to help her with the meatballs," I said flatly.
"Yay." Emma grinned, clapping her hands together and running past me into the kitchen.
* * *
Mom didn't say a word from the time she set the table to when she finished drying the dishes. Dad and Aidan must have thought we were having another fight since she wouldn't look at or speak to me when I asked if she could pass the Parmesan.
I ran upstairs to my room after doing my chores, and dropped my backpack before closing the door behind me. Turning to my desk, I shuffled college-ruled, loose-leaf paper, issues of Cosmo Girl, and CDs around—as if the way to undo it were underneath the clutter.
I pulled open the drawers of my dresser, shaking my bottles of CK One and Tommy Girl on their sides, and began shifting around my socks and underwear. When I didn't find anything, I riffled through my pajama drawer, my T-shirts, my keepsake drawer at the bottom.
Exhausted and slightly nauseated, I fell face-first onto my bed. I lay there for what seemed like a long time, before rolling onto my back. It was a little past six thirty p.m., and if I was going to watch Dawson's Creek, I needed to start my homework.
After sitting up, I caught sight of the crucifix Mom had hung above my half bath. I didn't believe in God, but I figured if He was truly out there, He'd help me. And so I closed my eyes and prepared to pray, when there was a knock at my door.
"Rowan," Mom called from behind the door. "Rowan, can I come in?"
"Yeah, Mom."
Mom entered slowly and quietly, walking across the pink carpet cautiously, as if she were afraid. Stopping at the foot of my bed, she looked to me for an invitation. I crossed my legs and folded them under, scooting to the head of the bed so she'd have room to sit.
"About what you asked me earlier . . ." She was speaking so low. "What is it you want to know?"
"Nothing," I lied.
"Rowan, it's okay for you to ask me things." She sniffled. "I just want you to know I love you very much," she said, holding her arms out.
"I love you too, Mom." I cried, falling into her.
"You're my daughter," she told me, stroking my hair and pulling me in close. "No matter what anyone else says, you're my daughter and I love you."
"I'm sorry," I wept.
She told me not to be sorry. She told me it was okay to be curious. She told me she was fine, but I knew I'd fucked up.
By acknowledging the existence of the woman who brought me into this world, I'd betrayed Mom. Asking about this woman I never knew somehow made her more real than the woman who kissed my boo-boos, packed my lunches, and did my makeup when I asked. As if wanting to know about her meant I loved Mom less—made Mom less.
I never asked about her again.
Chapter Two
* * *
The examination table feels cold beneath me. I can't tell if it's actually cold or if the nurse is just shit at making people feel comfortable. It seems the entire staff's default setting is annoyed. Yet the melody of the ringtone that comes standard with every office multiline telephone, paired with the secretaries' robotic recitation of, "Winthrop Emergency, how can I help?" is strangely soothing.
"You're adopted?" the nurse repeats. It's the second time she's looked up from her clipboard.
"Yup."
"Where are you adopted from?"
"Korea . . . South Korea. You know, the only Korea that lets people out."
She laughs hard, and begins fanning herself with the clipboard. "Oh Lord, forgive me, but that was funny! You're too much, girl. Hop off that table and step onto the scale for me."
At twenty-four, I still can't step on a scale without trepidation and shame. As the nurse pushes the small weight farther and farther to the right, I wait for more questions. Nonadopted people always have more questions. They're fascinated and intrigued and curious and, as much as they'll never admit it, they're goddamn thankful. Thankful because people don't adopt unless they have to.
* * *
Aidan was scheduled to take the Catholic High School Entrance Examination one year after I asked Mom about my biological mother, or BioMom. I started calling her BioMom because I thought it would be funny to give her a name befitting a villain.
Three weeks before the exam, my parents planned to take Aidan to Saint Mary's open house after Mass, to see if he'd want to list i
t as one of the schools to receive his scores.
I convinced Mom not to make me go to Mass, under the guise of having to study for the PSATs, which seemed to be the sole topic of conversation for the entirety of my sophomore year. I was actually planning to call Valentina, who would then call Journey's—the shoe store where my cousin Chris and his friend Cole worked. This way, only Valentina's number would show up on the phone bill.
As I watched the car pull out of the driveway, I felt relieved I didn't have to spend an hour listening to the Gospel according to Luke and trying not to gag on stale Eucharist. Mom was starting to realize dragging me to church was more irritating than letting me stay home, and decided not to fight me on the atheism thing.
I tried to figure out when the last time we went to church as a family was, and realized it had to have been the previous Mother's Day. Even though it was Mom's special day, I kept asking why we needed to go to church. In a fit of aggravation, she had said, "Because we promised Aidan's biological parents we would raise him Catholic."
"What? Did you meet them?"
"No, we didn't meet them. They had specified it on his paperwork that they wanted him to go to a Catholic family."
"What about me?"
"Rowan, we're going to be late. Now please follow your brother and get in the car."
* * *
People liked to tell me it must have been a hard decision, that BioMom just wanted me to have a better life—that her sacrifice was the ultimate gesture of love. The box of important documents in my parents' bedroom could prove this for Aidan, but were there wishes for me in that box? I needed to know.
Despite being alone in the house, I checked over my shoulder before entering Mom and Dad's room. Stepping inside, I made sure to take note of every detail, knowing Mom would be able to tell if something were out of place. I found the key beneath her jewelry box, and unlocked the cabinet their TV rested on.
There were papers, envelopes, and folders crammed into every available space. I decided to grab from the top and place everything in a pile, one on top of the other, so I'd know how to reassemble them.
I flipped through tax returns, passport applications, old report cards, and then I saw a manila envelope—R. Kelly in Sharpie in Mom's handwriting. I fanned out its contents on the floor and began scanning the documents before finding a phone number. I dialed and waited.
The woman from New Beginnings Family and Children's Services told me her name was Liz, and asked how she could help me. I assumed she was used to the long pause that came after.
The silence continued longer than I expected, and she told me it was okay, to take my time—that she was here. I decided I was ready to speak, and rose to my feet.
"Tell me how I can help you," she repeated.
I explained I was adopted from her agency, that my brother's—"well, he's my brother but not like my biological brother"—biological parents gave instructions to my parents—"I mean, my adoptive parents"—about how they wanted him to be raised. "I just want to know if there's anything in my file . . . I just want to know . . . why?"
I provided what she asked for—date of birth, country of origin, last name. "So, from what I can see here, your birth mother surrendered you to Eastern. It's a very good orphanage—they provide excellent care. Truly, I can vouch for that—you got very good care."
This made no difference to me. It wasn't the answer I was looking for. "Yeah, but that doesn't explain why this happened to me."
"Honestly, a lot of these decisions are poverty-driven. Rich people don't give up their children for adoption. Most of these women are young, unwed mothers who want to avoid the social stigma of being a single parent and who simply cannot afford a child. Are you looking for a reunion? Because we can—"
"No. I don't want to meet her."
"Okay, that's fine—that's totally up to you. If you like, what some adoptees choose to do is write a letter to their birth mothers that we can place in your file. Just maybe telling her a little bit about yourself and that you're okay. This way, if she ever does reach out, it will be there for her."
"And what about me? Where's my letter? Is there one of those in my file?" I didn't wait for her to answer. "No, there isn't, because she's never come back for me. She didn't so much as leave a Post-it behind. She doesn't care what happened to me—she's not looking for me!"
Liz let me cry. I calmed down. It was almost over.
"Listen, before you go," she said, "I just want you to know that she knows your birthday."
"What?"
"Your birth mother—she knows your birthday. Every mother knows and, in some way, acknowledges that day, whether they give their child up for adoption or not. It's not something you forget. So, know that at least one day a year, she's thinking of you."
Without a kid, BioMom gets her life back. She can cut back on her shifts at the textile factory, go back to school, find a better job. On her lunch break, she can tap a stranger on the shoulder, let him know he's next in line. He can ask her out on two years' worth of dates before they move in together. Maybe they'll take one of those cheesy photos of themselves painting a wall for their We've Moved announcement card. She can say yes when he gets down on one knee, and not be plagued by sheer fucking panic when the stick turns blue a year from them. She gets a do-over. She gets a life.
And all I get is one fucking day.
Chapter Three
* * *
"How old were you when you were adopted?"
"Three months."
"Oh, so you were just a baby." She smiles to herself—it's more of an observation than a question.
"Yeah."
"Have you ever tried to find your real mom?"
I want to tell her that my real mom is ten minutes away, having a cup of tea, and thinks I'm having lunch with Valentina. I want to tell her I don't need anything from BioMom—that I never needed anything. I want to tell her that twenty-four years is long enough for BioMom to get her shit together. I want to tell her that BioMom isn't trying to find me. I want to tell her BioMom could have other children. I want to tell her I know all this pointed to one simple truth—BioMom didn't want me and that's how I wound up in this exam room.
"No, I haven't."
* * *
At some point, every adoptee asks their adoptive parents this question. It's a trick question—the adopted equivalent of, "Do these jeans make me look fat?"—and all adopted kids know the answer. I decided to ask during Sunday dinner. I was fifteen, and the need for an answer had been building within me since my conversation with Liz from New Beginnings.
Before leaving for seven o'clock Mass each Sunday morning, Mom would set the dinner meat on the counter to defrost—chicken, roast beef (Dad's favorite), turkey. That particular Sunday was chicken.
Mom started peeling the potatoes around three p.m. Once the potatoes were boiling, she skinned and chopped the carrots before transferring them into a round, clear Pyrex casserole dish. After adding a few tablespoons of water, she steamed the carrots in the microwave before preheating the oven. Dinner wouldn't be for another hour and a half, but Mom knew she couldn't use the oven and the microwave at the same time without blowing a fuse. Once the aroma of garlic and thyme wafted up the staircase, Aidan and I knew it was time to set the table. We'd race down the stairs, using the wall to steady ourselves as we rounded the corner, bypassing the hallway leading to the den, and into the kitchen.
A wooden bench sat on each side of the kitchen table, with Mom's chair at the head. Dad and Aidan sat against the wall, with me on the opposite side. Dad always groaned when Aidan inevitably asked if Dad could slide out so he could go to the bathroom just as Dad finished arranging his plate.
The Jets must have been playing that Sunday. We were relatively quiet around the table—save for Dad's random "pass it" and "come on." I decided to wait until Dad went for his second helping of mashed potatoes before making my move.
"Mom," I began.
"Yes, Rowan?"
"Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing, forget it."
"What is it, Rowan?" she asked, setting her fork and knife down.
"Would you have adopted me if you and Dad could have had your own baby?"
Dad was still holding the ladle, looking at Mom, and Mom looked at him. Aidan's eyes were on me, and I could feel Mom's begin to do the same.
"Of course we would have adopted you, Rowan," Dad laughed.
"Then why did you try to get Mom pregnant if you knew you were going to adopt?"
"Because . . ." he stalled, hoping the gravy pouring down the mountain of mashed potatoes would somehow spell the answer.
"If you and Mom could have had a baby, would you have adopted me and Aidan too?"
"Rowan!" Mom screeched, slamming her hand on the table. "We love you and your brother very much. Your father and I could not have children, so we decided to adopt. Now, hand me your plate."
In addition to setting the table, it was also Aidan's and my job to clear the table. The first time we did this, Dad laughed at our inefficiency. We took our plates in our hands, walked into the kitchen, and placed them on the counter next to the sink for cleaning, one at a time. The next day, Dad instructed us to use a fork to scoop any scraps onto one plate, then place the cleared plate beneath it. Once we were done, we could stack the silverware on the top plate, and bring the stack in one trip. Then we'd hand the silverware to Mom, and scoop all the scraps into the garbage so as not to clog the sink.
Not tonight.
Mom snatched my plate and smooshed it on top of Dad's, mashed potatoes coming off the sides. Her plate crashed on top of mine, and Aidan quickly surrendered his. She carried them into the kitchen, and began running water over them.
"Don't you have PSAT review sheets?" she asked.
I rolled my eyes and marched upstairs to my room, slamming the door behind me.
"Watch that door, Rowan!" I heard her shout.
I sat on the floor and leaned back against my bed. On the nightstand to my right was a picture of the four of us at Lake George. Aidan is about three, which means I must've been five, going on six. Dad has his arms around me; Mom is smiling, balancing Aidan on her hip—our tan skin dark from hours in the lake under the sun, theirs red from sunburn.
Inconvenient Daughter Page 3