The Circle Game

by Tanya Nichols

  “And how was your grandmother?”

  “Oh, she’s been a little down. I think my visit was good for her. I’m bringing her home next week for a few days, for Thanksgiving.”

  “Great. Will you have other family here?”

  “No, it’s just us. It’s always just us as far as family goes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Since my folks died, and that was more than twenty years ago.” She leaned against the counter and realized how sad that must seem to others, two women alone in the house on holidays. “But it was rarely just us when I was younger. Noni always had some neighbor or friends join us. She liked to cook for crowds of people, big plates of pasta, fat meatballs.”

  “My family’s pretty typical, I guess, kids and cousins, too much food.”

  “Are you the only one that’s adopted?” The water began to sizzle, and Bernie watched for the steam.

  “Yes, but I have a brother and a sister. They’re both married; my sister has a couple of kids, Josh and Lindsay. Josh is six, and Lindsay’s nine.”

  “Do they live here?”

  “My brother’s in San Jose, works for Apple, but my sister lives here. She teaches fourth grade over at Wilson School.”

  The kettle whistled softly as Bernie lifted it off the burner. She slowly poured the hot water over the tea bags, then lifted a couple of spoons from the silverware drawer and paper napkins from the pantry. “Do you want sugar, or I might have some honey?”

  “Sugar is fine.”

  Bernie watched him slowly stir his tea. This was the second time they had shared a cup of hot tea, she thought. She held her cup close to her face and blew gently, feeling the warmth of the steam drift over her. The rain continued to fall outside, a steady rhythm, soothing and tranquil after the earlier downpour. “This is nice,” she said. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  “Me too.”

  “I have a strange question for you,” she said, lifting her cup to her lips. She took a small sip, allowed the warmth to spread through her.

  “What’s that?”

  “If you had a chance to meet your real mother, I mean your birth mother, would you?” she asked, now cupping the warm mug in both hands.

  He looked at her for a minute before answering. “Sure, but I have met her. I don’t really remember her, but I lived with her for five years. Why do you ask? Did your birth mother contact you?” Don took a small sip of tea, but his eyes never shifted their gaze away from her.

  An odd weight she’d been feeling below her ribs seemed to spread up through her chest and down her arms, making her fingers feel heavy, almost numb. “I guess that was a pretty obvious clue, huh,” she said, amused at her own transparency.

  He nodded. “How do you feel about that?” he asked, his voice measured and calm.

  “How do I feel? It depends on the minute. I kind of hated her for a long time for not wanting me. I wanted to meet her just to tell her so, but then, when I actually got word that she was really out there, I became . . .I don’t know . . . curious, I guess.” She paused to take another sip and allow herself time to compose her thoughts before saying more. “I even sent her a letter, well I sent a letter to the social worker that called me. And then I got a letter back.”

  Don sat quietly, his thin legs crossed, stirring his tea, never taking his eyes off her. He simply listened.

  “Anyway, I was thinking about meeting her, but now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I know enough just from the letter. I don’t really need to know why she gave me up. Clearly, it’s bothered her over the years, but now she knows I’m okay, and I know she’s okay, and that’s really all that’s necessary. And I don’t really hate her so much anymore, so the letter was a good thing. No one should live with that kind of bitterness in them; it rots you from the inside out. Anyway, I’m not sure I want to open old wounds at this point in my life.”

  After a long moment of comfortable silence, the patter of rain on glass, the soft sound of the spoon lifting from his cup then resting on the saucer, he spoke. “Only you can make that decision, Bernie. No one can figure all that mother-child stuff out for someone else, and I’m certainly not the one to give you advice. I mean, I was adopted, but it’s different. I know where I came from. I know why I was sent away, what my story is. None of that is a mystery for me, and I was raised by good people who wanted me to understand who I am, where I came from. That was not the case for all of those kids taken out of Vietnam, not at all. I was fortunate to be placed with my family. And I don’t think my birth mother is still alive, or I would have probably heard from someone by now.”

  Bernie gave him a puzzled look, touched her hair lightly, but didn’t say anything. He had, Bernie believed, a very old soul, ripe with tenderness. It was there in his voice, gentle and clear, in his eyes, honest and true.

  “There are many, many people from Vietnam living here now, and they frequently have word about relatives and family still living back home. But you, your situation isn’t like that. There was no one to tell you anything. Do you mind telling me why you’re not interested in meeting her? Why were you so upset about being given up for what I’m sure she believed was a better life?”

  Bernie considered lying, just making up some poppycock story about having second thoughts, but it was raining, and the house was warm, and they were sitting at her kitchen table having tea and good conversation. Such a time called for truth, at least some measure of truth for this man.

  “I told you I went to see my grandmother, Noni, tonight. Well, I told Noni about the social worker, about the call, the day I first heard from her. I’ve pretty much avoided visiting her since I shared that news. I didn’t want her to know that I’d sent a letter to my mother, and I’ve never been very good at keeping things from her, so I’ve been distant. For some reason, it seemed like a betrayal to everything she’s been to me. And a betrayal to my real mom who raised me. When I showed up at Nazareth tonight, they let me know what a sorry state she’s been in. Sad, angry, unhappy, you name it.” It felt good to finally share some of this burden, as if the words themselves took a heavy weight from her thin shoulders.

  “And you think it’s all because you told her about your mother looking for you?”

  “I know it is. I’m all she has now. I think she’s afraid that this other woman will come in and I’ll forget all about Mom. You see, my mother was her only child. It nearly killed her when she lost her, but she had me. It would be like losing another part of her if someone else came in and took Mom’s place as my mother. I know that seems strange, but I know that’s what it is. I can’t ever do anything that would hurt Noni. She’s given up everything for me, and well, I just can’t.” She shook her head no, convincing her own self as she spoke, and gazed down into her cup, half empty.

  Don reached over and rested his hand on her forearm. “You don’t have to do anything, Bernie. But I think you should give everything a little time. Don’t close the door just yet. Put everything on hold for a little while; let it all be for a few weeks. Wait until after the holidays.” He gave her arm a light squeeze.

  “That’s what the social worker said in the very beginning.” Bernie slowly moved her arm away and sat back in her chair, holding her cup by the fingertips of both hands, as if she were praying.

  “It’s good advice.”

  “Yeah, I know it is.” She tilted her head back to gaze at the ceiling, another blank page. “I know it is.”

  “If your parents hadn’t died, how do you think they would feel about you meeting your biological mother? It’s pretty common these days, adopted children and parents finding each other, especially with all the internet searches. Would they have cared?”

  “Gosh, I never thought about that. My dad would have been okay with it; I think he might have even tried to help me find her if I wanted to. He was really a great guy, most of the time.” She wanted to cry at the sound of those words. A great guy. No one ever considered him a nice guy. He would always be remembered as some
sort of monster, the monster who killed her mother. “My mom, I don’t know. She was very beautiful, but not a terribly warm person. She might have seen it as some kind of insult or threat to her place in my life, in some way. My dad always complained that she was spoiled because Noni did everything for her. And Noni always bought my mom anything she wanted if she could afford it. I guess it was the same way with me and Noni. I was spoiled, too. But I don’t think my mom would have liked sharing me, if that makes any sense. She used to tell me that they loved me more than parents who had their own babies, because they chose me, that I was a gift.”

  Don smiled and slowly shook his head. “Funny,” he said, “my mother said something like that, too. I guess they give a bit of instruction with the adoption kit.”

  “Adoption kit?”

  “Yeah, the kids’ version and the adults’ version.” He grinned so wide his eyes nearly closed. “What did your dad do for a living?”

  “He was a cop, a deputy sheriff, actually. My mom used to be a secretary, worked for a lawyer.” She paused to look at him, raising one eyebrow to acknowledge the similarity with her own life. “She quit after I came along, but I think she might have been thinking of going back to work. Her old boss, I can’t remember his name, had called a couple of times right before they died. Funny, I’d forgotten that until just now.”

  Don only nodded, not asking anything further, not offering any comments about law being a family trait, not asking if that background influenced her decision to go into law. She appreciated his silence.

  “In the end, it doesn’t really matter what they would have thought; they’re not around.”

  “I’m sorry. I bet this is a hard time for you; the holidays and all.”

  “I’m used to quiet holidays.”

  “Look, I don’t want to presume to tell you what to do; you have a lot to consider with your Noni and everything, but, like I said, it’s probably not a bad idea to wait until after the holidays to do anything. All those Christmas lights and carols can make people overly emotional and sentimental. Then you wake up and it’s February.”

  “All true.”

  There had been more than enough personal discussion for one day, for both of them. Sensing it was best to move to nonthreatening banter to end the evening, Bernie swallowed the last of her tea and shifted the conversation to favorite bands. Of course, they both loved the Beatles—who didn’t? When Bernie asked him his favorite song, Don was embarrassed to admit that one of his all-time favorites really was “Stairway to Heaven,” and he confessed to going to the music store every day after school to play it on the expensive guitars. She admitted to being a folky, loving nothing better than turning up the volume for Simon and Garfunkel or Mamas and Papas in the car, singing loudly while she drove, even harmonizing. Yes, she could harmonize, too. And no, she wasn’t ready to try a duet with him, so don’t bring a guitar to the office and expect to share a round of Kumbaya. They filled the kitchen with a sound that had been missing for too many years -- laughter.

  Don finally rose to his feet, carried his cup to the sink and announced it was time for him to swim home. Bernie walked him to the door and watched him jog to the curb where he turned and tossed a final wave. After locking the door, she peeked through the rain-splattered window to watch his red taillights slowly disappear around the corner. It had been a long day; she was happily exhausted.

  The rain stopped sometime after midnight. Bernie had finally drifted into a deep sleep, her mind and body escaping to a pleasant void. She had tried to go to bed early, as soon as Don left, but sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed and turned, went through her relaxation mantra, but her wild imagination was racing on, refusing to rest. After only an hour or so of sleep, she was wide awake again.

  It was actually his idea, indirectly. Internet searches. She gave up on trying to sleep, pulled on her tattered chenille robe and staggered to her desk in the spare bedroom. The light of the computer screen cast an eerie glow in the dark room. First, she googled the name Julie Randall. One point three million hits, even a movie star with that name. She would have to narrow the search, maybe by location, but first she googled the name Don Fielding. Over one point seven million hits. Better than Julie’s, she thought. She modified his name search to only images. A page of thumbnail photographs appeared. She scanned the images then clicked over to page two, then page three, and there, on the third row down, was the Don Fielding she knew.

  It was a headshot from his university faculty page, and he looked very intelligent in his sport coat and collared shirt. She looked on, and there was a picture of him sitting at a dinner table, his arm around a pretty blonde woman. That must be Mrs. Fielding. Again, she wondered why the two people who smiled so openly at the camera would have ended their marriage, and again assumed it be the wife’s fault. Don was so nice, so compassionate and pure, almost too good to be true; it had to be the pretty wife. Still, she had learned to question everything, and this divorce of his nagged at her, especially now that the ex-wife had a face. She didn’t want to be caught off guard again, caring for someone only to have the rug yanked out from under her. She had had enough of that. She knew how to get the scoop on some things, especially if there was a court file involved. Public records, she reminded herself. And she was the public.

  The next search was not for Julie Randall; that quest was forgotten. Bernie looked for paralegal services in Seattle and quickly picked one with a catchy name, A Legal Connection. In two minutes she had crafted a short email to the agency. Please obtain a copy of the dissolution file of Don Fielding from the Seattle Superior Court, she wrote. The wife’s name is unknown, but the matter would have been resolved in the last twelve months. She gave her phone number and asked that they call with any questions and to let her know the fee. Bernie ended the memo with a reminder that the request was to be confidential and asked that the file be sent via overnight mail; she would gladly pay the extra expense. She hit the send button before she could change her mind, and it was done. Suddenly, she felt like she might be able to sleep.

  ****

  When Bernie arrived to work the next morning, Crystal’s raised eyebrows and chastising glare told her she had done something wrong.

  “What?” Bernie asked. She stood by her secretary’s desk, empty cup in her hand, eager for a cup of hot coffee on a chilly morning. “Am I late for something? I thought my calendar was clear this morning, so I took my time.” She took two more steps toward the small kitchen before Crystal rolled her chair back to follow her, pulling earphones from her head, rising from her seat.

  “You’re not late for anything, Bernie, but you left every light in the place on and forgot to set the alarm again. You’re just lucky . . .”

  “Ach,” Bernie interrupted, holding her hand up, smiling, ready to end the lecture. “The power went out on me. I was sitting in the dark, so I grabbed my purse and left. I could barely find the door, let alone mess with the stupid alarm.”

  “Oh.” Crystal sat back down, took the dangling earphones in her hand and shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry.”

  “So, good morning, Crystal.” Bernie dipped her chin slightly in a formal nod to a fresh beginning.

  “Good morning, Ms. Sheridan.” Crystal smiled and returned the bowed head greeting.

  “Coffee ready?”

  “Of course.”

  “And are you chomping at the bit to hear about that letter from my real,” she paused a moment to consider the meaning of real mother and changed her choice of words, “my biological mother?”

  Crystal’s eyes opened wide. “Absolutely. But only if you’re ready to share. I don’t want to seem nosey.”

  “Get your cup.” This was a much better beginning to a day. She would tell Crystal what was going on with Julie Randall, even her decision to forestall any further contact. The relentless assistant, who would spend two hours searching for a thirty-seven-cent error in the checkbook would figure it out eventually, or waste countless hours snooping through Bernie’s briefcas
e, drawers, and personal files searching for the “confidential” letter or some hint about the content of that correspondence.

  Opening a closed door to allow a peek into your tidy entryway and living room can often satisfy the hunger of a curious neighbor. Bernie had learned that long ago. A nicely painted wall, complete with a gold-framed mirror and a beautiful painting, separates the polite visitor from the spare room, the space no one is allowed to enter, where twenty years of junk lays hidden from view, surrounded by deep layers of angry mold and black dust.

  Fourteen

  1968

  Juicy sat on the edge of her bed, motionless, numb with fear. The social worker had been standing outside the nursery door when she’d left there, and she wasn’t alone. She was talking to a cop and some other woman, probably a cop, too. Oh God, she’d never get Ginny away from here, not now. Like a fool, she’d given into that pushy woman, signed the papers, and now she would take the money, too. They were right; she didn’t deserve to be a mother. She was the one to blame for this nightmare. Ginny should be with real parents, a mother and father who wouldn’t hurt her. She deserved a better life than Juicy could ever provide.

  “Julie, are you ready?” Mrs. Fierro entered her hospital room with a proud smile across her round face. She had won this battle, and the spoils were hers for the taking. Her hair was swept back into a stylish French twist, a strand of pearls around her neck to compliment her fitted emerald green suit. All she needed was a pillbox hat and she could be on the cover of Life magazine, the professional woman of modern times.

  Julie had never known anyone like her, so smart, the kind of woman who can look you in the eye, smile sweetly, tell you how much she cares about you, drape a loving arm around your shoulder while using her free hand to slice open your belly and deftly remove a kidney, leaving a poor soul weak and bleeding, a vital organ suddenly missing, a pool of red blood spreading at her feet. It would hurt, probably for a really long time, but it wouldn’t kill you—at least not right away. You can learn to live with only one kidney, adjust to the loss, but you never forget about it. The scar remains, a constant reminder of the susceptible nature of living without a part of you, a piece of your very being, gone forever. Julie prayed it wouldn’t be forever.