I went to my follow-up appointment with Dr. Pierce a month after...after it had happened, as scheduled. He cleared me for physical activity and sexual intercourse. He gave me a prescription for birth control and encouraged me to take it, even if I felt like I didn’t need it right then. He also encouraged me to take advantage of the free counseling that the agency offered. Apparently it was normal for any woman to feel depressed after giving birth because of our hormones. I didn’t need a medical degree to know that what I felt was not from my hormones.
He said that he would like to continue to be my doctor for my annual checkups, and I agreed. The office switched the medical insurance on file to my own insurance that my mother paid for. I was comfortable with this decision, only for the sheer fact I didn’t want to have to explain what I had been through with a new doctor. Dr. Pierce knew my medical history, and hopefully we would never have to discuss it.
I started to run again. I found the reprieve that I needed from the crushing pain in my heart when I ran. I ran fast and hard, lengthening my distance each day. There were days when I wanted desperately to keep running, to leave it all behind. But even I wasn’t naive enough to believe that I wouldn’t still see her face in my dreams or search for her each time I heard a baby cry.
The return of my busy schedule once summer quarter started felt familiar, and I was able to throw myself back into my studies, taking advantage of the distraction as I pushed my memories and emotions from that day deeper and deeper into the dark abyss of my soul.
By fall I had caught up on my course work, as if I had never missed a beat. And I had registered for five classes again, even though I knew how much work was required to pass all five courses. I was standing in the admissions office, checkbook in hand, ready to pay for my room and board and expensive tuition. An older woman with short auburn-colored hair and heavy makeup punched the keys rapidly on her computer as I waited.
“It looks like your tuition and housing have already been paid for this quarter, Miss Brooks,” she said, glancing up at me from her computer screen.
“There must be some kind of mistake. I haven’t paid it yet.” I handed her my student ID card so that she could check the spelling of my name and my student ID number.
“Let me see,” she mumbled as she continued to type on her keyboard. “No mistake. It has been paid in full, and it looks like it was paid anonymously through a Seattle law firm. I don’t know what else to tell you, but you don’t owe anything at this time.”
“Huh, that’s strange,” I said completely puzzled. “And my meal plan?” I asked.
“Yep, paid. The same amount that you bought last year. Lucky girl. Is there anything else that I can help you with?” She waited for my response, obviously anxious to help the next person in line.
“No. Thank you for your time.” I stuffed my wallet back into my handbag and slowly made my way to the bus stop. Maybe Marie had paid for my tuition. She was doing really well at her company, but why would she use a law firm? I knew that my mother couldn’t afford the tuition herself, but I couldn’t think of anyone else that would do this.
While we ate dinner that night, I brought it up to Marie. “You didn’t happen to pay my tuition this quarter did you?” I asked, searching her eyes for an honest response.
“No, why would you ask? Do you need help paying for school? You said that you had enough money saved for this quarter.”
“I do, but, when I went to pay, they told me that everything had already been covered. Tuition, housing and my meal plan. Everything. I just assumed that it was you.”
She shot me a dubious look. “That’s crazy. Who would’ve done that? You know that it can’t be Mom.”
“I know. It was paid anonymously through a Seattle law firm.”
“Kendi.” Marie set down her fork and reached out to touch my hands that were resting on the table. Her eyes filled with empathy as she looked at me intently. “It could be the Petersens.”
Her hesitation as she said their name stopped my heart in my chest. My breath seized and I couldn’t respond to her revelation.
“Think about it. Their lawyer was from that fancy firm downtown.”
“But...but why would they do that?” I stammered. “I don’t want their money,” I followed up with more resolve in my voice.
“I’m sure that it’s only a nice gesture on their part, Kendi. You gave them the greatest gift of their life. They feel indebted to you.”
She tried to calm the storm that was brewing in my heart. I couldn’t stop the pain from cutting through my numb existence as the memories of the Petersens and the role that they had played in my life blew into my mind like dark, ominous clouds. I didn’t want them to feel like they owed me anything for her. No amount of money could ever fill the void that I felt inside, the hole inside me, empty because I had given them the most significant piece of me. I didn’t want this. I wasn’t sure what I felt, but grateful was not on the top of the list.
I tried to return the gift and pay for things my own way, but apparently that was not an option, and very strict instructions were noted with the anonymous payment. I thought about contacting them to say, “Thank you, but it was not necessary,” but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t ready to reach out to them. I had received a few letters from them; they were thick with the feel of pictures inside. I couldn’t bring myself to open them.
I placed each one in a wooden box that my grandfather had made for me—a treasure box from the days when I was a child and obsessed with pirates and Tinker Bell. Maybe someday I would be able to read them, and I would be able to respond. I was sure that eventually she would want to know who her birth mother was. Hopefully by then I would be stronger, and I could embrace my limited role in her life. For now I placed these letters in my treasure box, my box full of hopes.
College was passing by quickly. Tabatha and I were inseparable. She kept me in check, setting me up on dates, dragging me to parties, trying to breathe life back into my young soul. I usually drank way too much, in an attempt to dull the continuous ache, and I dated way too many boys, trying to fill the empty void inside with another’s touch. In the end I would still wake up in the morning the same incomplete mess that I was the night before. It was fun though, and that is what I had wanted all along. To have a fun college experience. To live in a big city and meet new people. To work my way into med school. So that is what I did, one day at a time. I stuck to the plan with my chin up and eyes focused on the road ahead of me.
Regrets
It was fall. My first year of med school. I had finished my undergraduate degree in three years, the sweat and blood of an enormous course load had paid off. I had studied for months for my MCATS and walked away with an honorable score, not bad for a less-than-brilliant college coed. The University of Washington had offered me a spot in their prestigious medical program, bringing me so close to my dream. My tuition had been magically and anonymously paid for each quarter.
I had never contacted the Petersens until after graduation. I had sent them a simple card with a picture of me in my graduation cap and gown. I had written a simple “Thank you” and signed my name. I couldn’t find any other words to express the new feelings of gratitude that I felt toward them. They had changed my life. I was starting med school without the heavy debt of student loans.
The small wages that I had earned and managed to save over the past few years, coupled with the money that my grandfather had given me, was enough to pay for the first few years of med school. I pushed myself hard to succeed but I knew that my true motivation came from somewhere else. A place inside me that desperately wanted to forget, a place inside me that longed to feel whole again, a place that fought like hell to make it all worth it.
Tabatha and I had decided to rent a two-bedroom apartment in the U District that year. We could still walk to class and crawl home from most of the bars. It was small and old, but it was clean and had a limited view of Lake Union. My mother had given us a comfortable couch and
table with four chairs. We had a small television that rested on an old end table, and, after an expensive shopping trip to Target, we now had dishes and other kitchen necessities. I was unpacking the remainder of my boxes, hanging up clothes in my new and improved closet, when the phone rang. It took me a minute to locate the cordless handset that Tab and I had just purchased.
“Hello.”
“Is this Kendall?” a familiar female voice asked.
“Yes, it is,” I answered trying hard to place the caller’s voice.
“This is Lynn McCoy, Adam’s mom.”
My heart sunk in my chest at the sound of his name. My mind started to race with the reasons behind her call. Did something happen to him? Does she know about the baby?
“Hi, Lynn,” I managed to say through the chaos playing out in my thoughts.
“Hi. I hope that you don’t mind my calling you. Your mother was kind enough to give me your phone number. I have a favor to ask you.”
“Oh, what kind of favor?” I asked, curiosity replacing my dark thoughts.
“Adam is flying home this Friday. He’s arriving at Sea-Tac airport at eleven o’clock in the morning. I was hoping that you could join us in welcoming him home.”
Of course he was coming home. Three years. It had been three years. I felt tears sting my eyes as I tried to compose myself to respond to her request. “I don’t know, Lynn. We haven’t exactly kept in touch.”
“I know, but it would really mean a lot to him to have you there. Just think about it, Kendall. South African Airlines flight number 7410 arriving at 11:03 from Dulles airport.”
I quickly grabbed a pen and wrote his flight information on a cardboard box that sat half empty beside me. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Thank you, Lynn.”
“I hope that we see you there. Take care.”
“You too.” I hit the End button on the phone and let out a sigh. Adam. He was coming home. His face filled my mind. I missed him, but what would I say? What could I say? I had never responded to his letters. They had started to arrive in rapid succession to Marie’s address that summer, and, when I moved back to the dorms that fall, I had asked Marie to start marking them Return to Sender. I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.
The letters had continued to come for months, and then they just stopped. I still had seven months of unopened letters packed away somewhere. Although I had never read them, I still could not bring myself to throw them out. I frantically started to rip open random boxes, searching for those letters. I felt a sudden need to read his words, to know what he was thinking and feeling, to have some small piece of him. I found the old worn shoebox that held a thick stack of letters bound together by a large rubber band.
The first one was a letter that I had already read, the letter telling me that he was going to study to be a minister and was staying an extra year. The ink was smeared in places—either from the rain or my tears, I wasn’t sure. I read his words, reliving the hurt from that day, the day that had set things in motion. The next several letters were full of questions, the desperation building in each letter: Did I get his letter? What was I feeling? Why hadn’t I written? Was I okay?
His letters eventually became declarations of his love and what he felt for me. He wanted to know if I had moved on. Letting me know that, if I still wanted him, he would come home; he needed me, and he didn’t want to lose me. This shocked me, his willingness to give it all up in an attempt to keep me in his life. Would things have turned out differently if I had received this letter that winter? If I had known that he was willing to come home on his own accord, that he would own the regrets that resulted from that decision rather than direct them at me or the baby.
The dates on his letters began to reflect his attempt to write to me daily. These letters contained highlights of his everyday life, and each one ended with a poem—poems from the collection that I had gifted to him when he had left for college. He was reciting the poems that I had written for him. I was tortured by his love for me and his pain that I felt in his words. I had hurt him by letting him go, trying to save him from the pain of what I had done. My overwhelming guilt reared its ugly head once again.
He could never know what had happened, what I had kept from him for the past few years; it would kill him. As much as I longed to see him, I knew that I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t answer his questions without hurting him more than I already had.
I finished unpacking and broke down all the boxes, setting them in a stack in the corner of the living room. Tabatha would be home any minute. We were having dinner at Marie’s tonight.
This morning had been my last day of work at the coffeehouse. I couldn’t keep up my hours there during med school. Tabatha had spent the summer in Seattle fulfilling her internship that she had landed as an event planner for some upscale company on the east side. Today was her last day of work too, and we were celebrating.
I was anxious to discuss the phone call I had received today and the contents of Adam’s letters. Tabatha and Marie were the only two people in the world that I could talk to about this, and I needed to tell somebody.
Dinner was fun as it usually was when the three of us got together. When the wine was poured, Marie made a toast. “To the end of summer and to the year to come and...” She dangled her left hand in front of us. “And to me becoming Mrs. Reid Bennet.”
Tab and I both gasped at her news. “Oh, my God, Marie. Congratulations.” I beamed at her. “Let me see that thing.” I took her hand in mine and examined the beautiful sparkle of the large carat attached to her finger. “Nice work, Reid. How did he ask you?”
“Last night he took me up to the top of the new building that he’s working on downtown. It’s still under construction, so we were wearing hard hats and everything. Anyway he said that he had something to show me and took me to the roof. The sun was setting, and the view was amazing. He got down on his knee and asked me to marry him. Of course I said yes.”
“Marie, I am so happy for you,” I said, rising from my seat to give her a hug. Tab threw her arms around us both, pulling us into a group hug. And I was happy for Marie. She deserved someone like Reid. In light of Marie’s exciting news and the glow that radiated from her happiness, I kept my news to myself. Tonight was about Marie.
~
Tabatha and I had finally finished organizing the apartment; everything was in its place. The aroma of coffee radiated from the kitchen from our new coffeemaker, and we were enjoying the luxury of a lazy morning before our new crazy schedule began the following week.
“We have to go out tonight, Kendi. It’s our last Friday night before you become a lowly med student slave. Come on,” Tabatha begged me for the hundredth time, trying to convince me to take the town by storm. “We can go to that new club in Belmont. It’ll be fun.” She flashed me her sadistic smile, the one that she used when she needed to remind me that she wasn’t giving up and that she would eventually get her way.
“Fine,” I conceded. “But you have to help me get rid of all these boxes today, and we have to call the cable company. I’ll die if we don’t get the cable hooked up soon. I’m missing all my shows.”
“I’ll take the boxes down to the recycle bin while you call the cable company, and then we’re going to get a pedicure for tonight, my treat.”
“Okay. Deal,” I agreed.
Tabatha slipped on her sandals and began bundling up the dozens of cardboard boxes that were lying flat in the corner, while I picked up the phone and dialed the cable company.
“Be right back. I’ll have to make two trips,” she called out to me from the doorway.
I waved her off as I listened carefully to the automated message listing the menu options for my call.
Ten minutes later, I was lying on the couch still clutching the phone to my ear, waiting out the eternal hold that I was placed on, when Tab appeared back in the doorway, breathing heavily from the trek up the stairs. “I think that you got the better end of this deal,” she said, huffing, wiping
the sweat from her brow.
“I don’t know. You should hear the awful music that’s blaring in my ear.”
She picked up the remainder of the boxes and disappeared once again. I heard a voice on the other end of the phone. Finally. As soon as I ended the call, Tabatha strolled back into the apartment, slamming the door behind her. She was carrying one of the cardboard boxes in her hand. “Forget one?” I asked, gulping down the lukewarm coffee left in my cup.
“What is this, Kendi?” she asked holding out the box to me.
I saw my handwriting on one of the flat panels of the box, and I immediately knew what had her so worked up. I just stared at her, not sure what to say.
“South African Airlines?” she said in a questioning tone. “Tell me this is not flight information for Adam.”
“The one and only,” I deadpanned, trying to hide the pain in my voice. I had thought about him all week. I had woken up that morning, sick with the idea of him being so close to me. The truth was, I wanted to see him more than anything, but I had made my choice the day that I had told that first lie, and now I had to live with it.
“Why didn’t you tell me that he was coming home?” The hurt in her voice was evident.
“I was going to tell you the other night at Marie’s, but I didn’t want to burst her bubble. His mom called me the other day and asked me to come to the airport to welcome him home.”
“I take it that you’re not going, since his plane lands in about”—she glanced at her watch—“sixty-five minutes.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I admitted.
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