Theoretically, the logical thing would be to ask Michael if he felt capable or was interested in any of this. But we didn’t. He would automatically say “No.” Michael said “No” to everything we asked him to do. It didn’t matter whether it was something he honestly wanted to say no to or not. Dr. Roberts called this “oppositionally wired.” His default position when something was asked of him was to say no. Full stop. He was often sorry afterward.
“You must know adults like that,” Dr. Roberts said. “They say no to everything.”
With Dr. Greenberg at our side, we decided to go ahead with the bar mitzvah idea without Michael’s consent or agreement. We eventually said to him, “You, Mommy and Daddy are going to work with Dr. Greenberg so you can become a bar mitzvah in two years.”
He knew what a bar mitzvah was, and had been to several. Before we explained what specifically was required of him, Michael looked at us and said, “If it involves me doing any work, forget it.”
We pretended not to hear.
I was standing in the dining room, cleaning up from our Sunday breakfast. I had almost finished clearing the table when a ratty old tennis ball came soaring through the air from the living room, bouncing with loud thuds in front of me. Along with nine scattered lemons, my beautiful hand-painted china fruit bowl now lay in a dozen pieces. Robin and I had recently spent days scouring antique stores until I found it — the perfect centrepiece for our dining-room table.
I wanted to kill Michael and Andrew. Their hands were covering their mouths, but it didn’t successfully muffle the sound. They were giggling uproariously. Though they may have felt a modicum of shame, the boys thought the minor debacle was very, very funny.
Michael and Andrew had become inseparable sidekicks. Andrew was virtually the only child Michael related to other than Sarah. Their attraction to one another, usually based on what would kindly be referred to as kinetic hoodlum energy, was uncanny. They each displayed a remarkable overdose of energy and lack of judgment, whether it was vigorously waving sledgehammers and pickaxes found in nearby sheds or slashing live branches off trees in full sight of environmentally rigorous neighbours.
Not only did the boys act alike, they looked alike. Though Andrew had brown hair and Michael remained blond, they both were wiry, small, very pale and had flat features. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out they were brothers if you were looking.
It bothered me terribly that the boys had become so close, yet remained totally in the dark about their blood relationship. We were hiding a part of their identity from them — who they were and their place in the universe. Still, it remained just too complicated to tell them.
The main reason, of course, was Kira. She was even more of a concern now than when the kids were little. Andrew was older, now into double digits, he could talk, had opinions, asked questions. If Andrew knew that Michael was his brother, he had the capacity to talk to his mum about it. He was spending more and more time at Kira’s since she had entered into a new relationship, so it wouldn’t be a stretch for Andrew to say, “Let’s have Michael over for dinner.” Or, more to the point, “Why did you keep me but not him?”
Whatever the question or conversation would really be, it would mean that the jig was up. Kira would now know that Robin and I were raising her son. That was not part of the deal we made with her, but Andrew was not part of the deal either.
Because he was now part of the deal, we had to watch out more than ever. Robin and I remained steadfast. We had to keep the secret going for as long as possible.
When Michael was twelve and Andrew ten, we knew we couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer.
Neighbours were getting suspicious. “It’s remarkable how much Andrew and Michael look alike. Are they related?” several asked. It meant others must be thinking the same but not asking. I went first to the Island’s daycare worker, Yolanda. I had always felt guilty not telling her about the boys because she was so much part of their lives, having taken care of both when they were small.
“It’s been hard keeping this from you, Yolanda, but we did it to protect the boys.”
She laughed. “I knew it the second I laid eyes on Andrew,” she said. “They were just too much alike, the way they looked and how they acted. It was obvious. I knew you wanted to keep it secret.”
I was dumbstruck. “Do you think other people on the Island put it together, too?”
“I know they have.”
That was all I needed to hear. Better the boys learn from us than on the boat one morning from some neighbour they barely knew.
We were all clueless as to how to go about it. We knew the boys would be furious with us for hiding their kinship, so wanted to do everything we could to make it easier on both them and us. We knew full well though, that they couldn’t possibly understand the intricacies of adoption disclosures or the peculiarity of their particular situation. Sure, we adults had all been playing it all by ear, desperately trying to do the right thing. Who among us knew for sure what that was?
We sensed the time had come. The four of us met at our house to work out details. It became evident that we had only questions. Tell them together or separately? What do we say when the boys ask why we didn’t tell them earlier? How do we deal with their anger? How do we avoid saying anything disparaging about Kira? How do we explain to Michael why Kira kept Andrew but gave him away? And, what about Sarah, who also had a close relationship with Andrew? Since Michael’s her brother, does that mean Andrew was her brother, too? Guess so.
And the biggest question of all: How do we then tell Kira?
Straight to a counsellor who specializes in adoption issues we did go. After several sessions, we had a plan, steadfastly maintained, until the appointed day.
We would break the news to each boy in the confines of his own home at a coordinated hour. We’d gather Michael and Sarah together and tell them at the same time. I’d spill the beans here; Lynn would do the talking there. We all synchronized watches. Lynn and I repeatedly rehearsed our scripts.
Robin and I were anxious on the appointed day. We were counselled to just give the basics, without too much commentary. Let them absorb it and ask questions as they arose.
Robin asked the kids to come join us on the living-room couch. I lit a fire and made peanut butter cookies to entice. There was a good chance they wouldn’t want to come to what was suspiciously looking like a meeting. Once they sat down, I spat it out as fast as I could.
“We have something important to tell you. You know Andrew’s mother, Kira? Well, she’s your birth mother, Michael. She gave birth to you, too. That means Andrew’s your half-brother.” Complete silence. Both kids just stared at us, expecting more to come.
“You mean we’re brothers?” Michael said, eventually. His eyes were becoming glassy with tears.
“Yes, brothers. Kira is your mum and Andrew’s mum.” Michael began grinning from ear to ear, though still with tears.
“Why didn’t you tell us before?” he asked.
“We thought it best to wait until you were older.”
“That means Andrew’s my brother, too?” said Sarah.
“Yes, he’s your brother, too.”
They both wanted to know. “Does Andrew know?”
“Lynn and Don are telling him right now.”
“I want to talk to Andrew,” Michael said.
“Before you call him, Michael, I want you to know there aren’t any more secrets. This was the only one. I promise you.”
Both he and Sarah seemed thrilled and shocked at the news.
Michael was also furious.
He called Andrew, then rushed over to his house, slamming the front door behind him, harder than ever. I tried talking to him again before he ran out, but he refused to listen. What could I have really said, anyway? Was there really any way to explain our good intentions or the generally accepted rules of confidentiality about adoption to a twelve-year-old? Children raised by adoptive parents seldom have anything to do with their birth
parents’ other children. Usually, each doesn’t know the other exists. Our situation was so very different from that of other families.
Andrew was equally furious with Lynn and Don. For weeks after the announcement, the boys completely avoided us. Michael wouldn’t come to the table for meals, and stopped making eye contact. Michael and Andrew were together every moment when not in school. They’d hide in each other’s bedrooms, slamming the door, one time so hard the doorjamb came loose. They plotted how Michael was going to meet Kira. They were obnoxious, rude, turned the heavy metal music up full throttle, and defied everything we asked of them. A hole appeared in Michael’s bedroom wall. They whittled homemade spears and knives. It was pure “us and them,” David and Goliath. We were the bad guys. They were blood brothers. And they made sure everyone knew. Lots of neighbours began asking questions of us.
Andrew hurled horrible invectives at Lynn besides the usual “I hate you.” She was the prototype evil stepmother, and we had become tainted partners-in-crime. Michael saw his angelic birth mother as victim of an evil plot that we, led by ringleader Lynn, were perpetrating on her. Photographs of a smiling, pixie-like Kira began appearing in Michael’s bedroom, some stuck prominently on his bulletin board. The framed family picture with a smiling Robin, Sarah and me had been taken down.
Fortunately, Sarah didn’t feel as betrayed. It was a great comfort. Yet Michael’s and Andrew’s rejection was eating me up. Would the boys ever forgive us? Could they make up for lost time? What had the secret taken from them? Had we caused lasting harm? Did we really betray them or protect them? Should we have dealt with it earlier on? Did these young boys lose something forever, like trust in adults, specifically, us?
Somehow, we managed to get the boys to come along to see a counsellor who specialized in “adoption talk” with kids. She was superb. Michael didn’t say much in the sessions. He yawned a lot, something he often does when people talk about their feelings. Andrew spun in circles on his chair most of the time. Slowly, after months of sessions, their anger began to subside. They at least heard some explanation of why we kept the secret. Nevertheless, we had to respect, and live through, the boys’ hurt, anger and sadness, all still there. The sadness belonged to Michael, particularly. Andrew got to be with his mother. Michael didn’t.
During their invective-hurling periods, we made sure not to share unnecessarily sordid information about Kira. It was tempting, though. Kira and her partner Kenny continued to fabricate stories about the horrible Lynn, passed on to Michael via Andrew. Understandably, the boys became increasingly aligned with Kira in the war she was waging against Lynn and Don for “taking Andrew away” and “making me drink.”
It came as no surprise when Michael announced, “I want to meet Kira.” It was hurting Michael to hear Andrew announce when they were playing together, “I’m leaving to go to my mum’s.” It was Michael’s mum now, too.
We understood Michael’s desire. At the heart of it, Michael could not understand why Kira chose to give him up at birth, but not Andrew.
But Robin and I weren’t completely sure they should meet — at least not yet. Among other things, we were afraid she might promise things or make plans, as she did with Andrew, that she was not able to keep. One thing we were sure of though. If and when they met, we wouldn’t consider allowing them in a room without us.
With so many concerns, we would wait as long as we possibly could before bringing Michael and Kira together. We prayed that time would dampen the flames of Michael’s present desire.
Soon after we told the boys, Lynn and Don told Kira that Michael was our son. She was pleasantly shocked. “Cool,” she said. No obvious burning desire on her part for a “reunion.”
We were temporarily in luck.
12.
Lost and Found
Florida, 1997 / Toronto, 1999
WE WERE VISITING MY PARENTS in Florida as we did every year. Because we often travelled during Christmas break, we were there on Sarah’s seventh birthday, December 25th. As usual, when we arrived at their apartment, my mother greeted us at the front door. I knew she was thrilled to see us, but when she reached out to hug each of us, she seemed awkward. As I had first noticed when Michael was born, my mother didn’t know how to show physical affection.
After Sarah’s birthday party, resplendent with the garish blue and white frosted birthday cake she begged for every year from the local Publix supermarket, Sarah and Michael were sprawled on the carpet in front of us, building a spaceship with Lego. For some reason, Sarah looked up and spontaneously said to my mother, “I love you, Grandma.” She then got up, ran over to my mother and gave her a great big hug.
I watched, spellbound. The reaction on my mother’s face when Sarah said this to her was one of pure joy. She sparkled. My mother put every ounce of her body into it, hugging her solidly back. While still in their embrace, I heard my mother say, “I … love you too … Sarah.” She almost stuttered getting it out, but she did it. She said, “I love you.”
Sarah had unlocked my mother, and with it, my heart. I could feel a lifelong anger towards my mother deflate, like air slowly let out of a balloon.
There was something so stirring about the stunned look on my mother’s face during those moments, I asked myself: Was it possible that no one, perhaps other than my father, had ever said “I love you” to my mother?
I had no memory of her ever saying it to me, or of me saying it to her. Perhaps she had never learned to say the words or even knew that this was something you said to your children. Was it possible that her mother had never said it to her? I still knew little about my grandmother or how long she had been mentally ill, but yes, it was possible. You don’t forget how to hug and kiss and dote and coo. Perhaps she never learned how. As children, my sisters and I couldn’t understand this on a cognitive level, but we were utterly and painfully aware on an emotional one.
A few days after we returned home from Florida, I was speaking to my mother during our weekly Sunday phone call. I was about to end the conversation when I heard my mother say, “Linda … I … love you.”
Within a heartbeat, I shot back “I love you too, Mom.” There was a long silent pause, then we said goodbye. I hung up and went straight to the kitchen where Robin was dicing vegetables. Seeing that I was sobbing, he asked “What’s wrong?” with a look of panic on his face. “Nothing,” I said. “You won’t believe what just happened.”
My mother died a few years later, in 1999, at the age of eighty-seven. Michael was twelve, Sarah ten. I was lucky she had lived long enough for me to make amends with her before her death. I needed to, wanted to and worked hard to make it happen. It wasn’t easy. She continued to criticize me to the end. As it was for my sisters, the barrage of criticism had chipped away at my confidence, and it had been a long haul building it back. I was well into my forties before I began to accept that yes, I was sensitive, something my mother criticized me for as a child. Probably too sensitive, as she said, but perhaps that wasn’t altogether a bad thing. But you couldn’t have told me that any earlier.
After the experience on Sarah’s birthday, I was able to forgive my mother for the lifetime of criticism and coldness. She and I had several good years together before she died. I focused on what I thought her intentions were as a mother, and decided they were undeniably good. I had no doubt when I looked at her in this way: my mother loved me, she always had.
I sat by the side of her bed, holding her hand in mine when she died. I wouldn’t let go until a nurse patted me on the shoulder and said, “It’s time.”
My dad died three years before my mother. I desperately wanted him to hold on longer so he could be with us if Michael became a bar mitzvah. It was probably a good thing he went before my mother, though. He wouldn’t have known how to take care of himself without her, and none of his children lived in the same city as he did.
My love for my father had always been so strong that I didn’t know how I was going to live in a world without him someday.
For so much of my life, I felt like he was the only person who truly knew who I was and could understand me. I always needed to know he was there, somewhere, and took comfort that he was.
As we both aged, things shifted, as they do. I eventually had Robin and the children in my life — the family I had so badly wanted, ever since childhood. Though my love for my father was everlasting, Robin, Sarah and Michael were added to the list of beloveds I couldn’t imagine living without.
Growing up made me see my father less idealistically, but more likely, the riots in Detroit thirty years before did actually change him. While my heart felt pity for his sadness and loss, I couldn’t stand his ensuing bitterness. For a long time, I fought him when he muttered something misanthropic. He couldn’t possibly mean it. Then one day I stopped. He did mean what he said.
His pessimism frightened me. I had always been so much like him. I became fearful that life’s travails might turn me sour too. It would have been easy to follow my father’s lead. I had had my share of sorrows, but something in my temperament kept me afloat. I clung to the words I said to my friend Sybil about the Detroit riots. It’s not what happens to you in your life; it’s how you play it.
My mother was dutiful and cared for my father to the end. My sister Barbara and I were with him when he died, keeping vigil, though as I’ve heard happening with other people, my father waited to pass for the one brief moment when we left the room. I knew he was ready. Even I, his beloved baby, could no longer bring him comfort.
I mourned solidly, saying Kaddish in the mornings. It took a full year of grieving for my father before I believed I could live without him.
After my mother’s death, I continued to wonder about the effect her own mother’s life must have had on her. I decided it was time to learn more about my grandmother’s history, the Eloise Mental Hospital and perhaps about my own mother.
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