Not Exactly As Planned

by Linda Rosenbaum

  “Would you like me to see if any court records exist? I might be able to help,” Steve offered.

  I was shocked by the question. “My grandmother’s records? I’ve never given them any thought,” I answered.

  A few days before this phone conversation, I had been rummaging around on the Internet, looking for information about the hospital where my grandmother had lived. While rummaging, I happened on a website about Eloise that also included a discussion forum where people talked about their own relatives who had lived there.

  On the site’s discussion group, a man named Steve Luxenberg had shared a few comments. He seemed informed, thoughtful and helpful. I went to other Eloise sites. Steve Luxenberg’s name popped up again and again. I soon realized Steve had recently written a book, Annie’s Ghosts: A Journey into a Family Secret, an exploration of his own family’s secret about an aunt, who, like my grandmother, had also been hidden away in Eloise.

  Steve was an editor with the Washington Post, an ex-Detroiter, born in 1952, Jewish. He went to Henry Ford High School. Henry Ford High School? That’s where I went, too. Our paths must have crossed. He was only one year behind me.

  I then found Steve’s blog, along with his email address. Considering we had so many common threads, I decided to drop him a quick note. As a former Henry Fordite, perhaps he’d be interested in knowing I had a hidden relative in Eloise, too, since I assumed we were the only ones. I emailed Steve, doubting I’d hear back.

  Within hours, I received a remarkably generous note. He told me we weren’t alone; there were hundreds of people looking for information about hidden relatives. Steve suggested we speak on the phone the following day.

  That’s when he said, “If you’re interested in finding out more about your grandmother, it’s possible you might find something in court records.” That was a big if though. Most of the hospital records from Eloise had been destroyed after the hospital closed down in 1984. The records Steve was referring to would only exist if my grandmother was committed through a court proceeding.

  “I have to think about it,” I said.

  I was sitting with Sarah at our dining-room table. We were “negotiating,” the word we used to describe arguing about homework. Finally, after enough prodding from me, Sarah agreed to let me help her with math, a subject she was having trouble with. Sarah showed me a story problem from her Grade 8 textbook, Math That Matters. I was dumbstruck. The story really did matter.

  We had to analyze statistics on a spreadsheet relating to the variation in calorie consumption of rich and poor populations in Brazil, India and Cuba. It led to an interesting conversation about the distribution of wealth, including food, among different social classes. Sarah seemed to honestly care about the issues, and I couldn’t be more thrilled that Math That Matters mattered to her.

  “Oh, Sarah. I forgot. A letter came today from Denise. It’s addressed to Daddy and me but of course it’s for you too, so I waited to open it. I figured you’d want to.”

  It was a letter we had been waiting for. Every December, we sent Sarah’s birth mother new pictures of Sarah. We always tried to arrange for the photographs to arrive in Denise’s hands in time for Christmas, the anniversary day she gave birth to Sarah.

  In the last two years, Sarah had asked Denise to send pictures of herself as well. And now, for the first time, Sarah asked Denise to send her a picture of her birth father too. We had never seen a picture of him.

  Denise had had no contact with the birth father for the last eleven years. Therefore, she didn’t have a recent photograph. She would, however, look for an old picture of Mike to send to us. She would also look for a photo of Dylan, Sarah’s full-blood brother. Dylan was born to Denise and Mike one year after Sarah was born. After Denise and Mike split, Dylan went to live with his father.

  For some reason, both Denise at her end, and I at ours, were late sending pictures that year. Christmas came and went. Neither of us received anything. A few days after Christmas, Denise gave me a call.

  For the past thirteen years, since Sarah was born, Denise and I had stayed faithfully in contact. At least once a month we spoke on the phone. It was a remarkable relationship considering that we still had never met. It was all the more remarkable considering how difficult it was to manage the relationship with Kira, who we theoretically weren’t having contact with.

  During the conversation with Denise that day, we both bemoaned our mutual slothfulness and promised to mail our photos.

  I handed Sarah the envelope. She began to open it and looked very excited at first. Then, she slapped the letter down on the table next to the math book. She pretended to be calm and we went back to the math. I could tell something was brewing. It was still math, after all.

  “I’m too nervous to open it,” she said.

  “It’s okay, darling, we’ll open it together. It’ll be fine.”

  She slowly opened the envelope and pulled out a store-bought card, photographs and a handwritten note inside. She put the photographs face down on the table and read the card. “It’s so beautiful, Mama,” she said to me. She then read Denise’s handwritten note.

  Hello all,

  Sorry these weren’t sent earlier but it has been crazy here. I hope you all enjoyed your Christmas.

  Please tell Sarah I hope she enjoys these pictures and tell her I love her. I think of you all every day and you will always remain in my thoughts, dreams and prayers.

  Love, Denise

  Sarah then took the photographs into her hands and held them so we could look together. The first picture was of a twenty-something, solid-looking T-shirt-and-jeaned man with fairly long, dirty-blond hair. He was lying back on a big, plaid recliner. He was holding a baby face-down on his chest. He was looking away from the camera. His eyes appeared to be riveted on something in the distance.

  Both Sarah and I started to laugh at the same time.

  “What do you think he’s looking at?” I asked Sarah. I had already formed my own opinion.

  “TV, of course,” she said. “Probably a hockey game.” We were both laughing because Sarah, much to my horror, loved watching television. She especially loved watching hockey games, a game she herself played.

  Suddenly Sarah burst into heavy sobs. The revelation of seeing what her birth father looked like hit like one of her pucks. The square face. The dirty blond hair. The blue eyes and narrow lips, the strong chin and solid build. It was all her. And, as we were now seeing, all him.

  “I can’t believe he doesn’t want to know anything about me, Mom,” she blurted through her sobs. “Or who I am, or what I look like. Anything. He probably never even thinks about me.” She put her head down on the table to cover her face.

  “I’m sorry, Mama, I’m sorry.” She continued to apologize and cry.

  I asked what she was sorry for. Crying, in that situation had to be the most normal, natural and healthiest reaction anyone could possibly have. It was a picture of her birth father and brother for god’s sake. Nevertheless, why was she saying “Sorry”?

  Then I realized Sarah might possibly be saying it because she didn’t want ME to feel bad. Me, the adoptive mother. Maybe she was worried about hurting my feelings by showing she cared about this man she had never met.

  “Sarah, are you afraid of hurting me?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to feel bad, especially about Denise.”

  I had repeatedly told Sarah over the years not to feel bad about having feelings for Denise. I had feelings for Denise. How could she not?

  Sarah had recently begun some small correspondence with Denise, too. I knew we were moving towards the day we would all meet. I hoped, however, I could keep it from happening for at least a few more years, until she was more emotionally mature. Eighteen was my earliest target date.

  “Daddy and I know how connected to us you are, Sarah.” Robin and I were lucky we had never felt jealous of Denise. “Enjoy it. You don’t ever have to apologize.”

  Denise had br
ought a beautiful, healthy baby into the world. She’d planted genetic seeds we were all watching come into bloom. She was the woman who chose to pass her child into our loving hands. That the relationship we maintained with Denise all these years worked so well was for all of us a blessing.

  “Mom, when I’m older, I want to meet my birth dad and Dylan,” she said. She picked the picture up again. “Do you think you’ll be able to find them for me?”

  We had been talking on and off for years about what it would be like when Sarah finally met Denise. But meeting her birth father had never come up before. It would undoubtedly be another significant relationship for her. I just had to look at Michael and Andrew to know.

  “I’ll do everything I can, Sarah. I’m not sure why, but in my heart, I honestly believe your birth father will be happy to be found.” We didn’t bother going back to the math. It no longer mattered.

  Getting photos of Sarah’s birth dad gave us the kick we needed to get a card and send our pictures to Denise and a note from Sarah:

  Hi!

  Well, I’ll just tell you what’s up in my life. Well my best friend is Molly and we both go to a great school. I love sports and I am very physical. I have just noticed how much I look like you and my birth dad. I’m into baggy jeans and tight shirts. See the necklaces in the pictures? I never take them off. My room is always a mess (like a normal teenager’s room!). On my wall I have pictures of hockey players, music people and art work.

  That letter really touched me. I cried and cried. I have a dog and love him so so much. Yeah, I have zits but I’m proud and try to look my best every day. With books I like mysteries or sometimes historical fiction. With music I like PennyWise, NOET, Offspring, Rancid, Bob Marley and more. I am not “popular” but I have my own group of friends and that’s what’s important. Eye heart (love) U.

  P.S.: My grades in school are just fine.

  Love, Sarah

  There is a belief in Judaism that at the moment of birth you are touched by an angel on your philtrum, the indented area above your lip. At that moment, you forget everything there is to know in the world, knowledge you possessed while still in the womb. Your mission in life thereafter is to reaccumulate the knowledge and wisdom you forgot at that moment. You do this by being part of the world, forming relationships and learning from your experiences.

  Sarah was fulfilling her mission. She took in everything going on around her. She could size up both people and situations, knowing if either one meant trouble. It gave her a natural wariness. For all her protective shielding, Sarah was tender, vulnerable and kind. During her early teens, Sarah wrote a poem that included the lines:

  I’m strong as a bull,

  Tender as my mother’s heart.

  She was all of that, and more.

  13.

  Michael’s Song

  Toronto, 2000

  IT WAS MAY 2000. Robin and I woke with the same uncertainty as every morning, but the stakes were much higher. It was the day of our son’s bar mitzvah. Would we get Michael out of bed, dressed, pilled, breakfasted, out the door and onto the ferry without turning the house into a war zone, damaging everyone’s spirit along the way?

  Michael had spent the previous evening at our friend Barbara’s house baking two beautiful braided challahs. He went to bed knowing that when we woke him in the morning, it would be B-Day, the day he would become a bar mitzvah. All he had to do after breakfast was put on his new white shirt, navy blue pants and matching jacket. Daddy would do his tie up. Michael didn’t know, but before we left the house, I would present him with my father’s velvet and embroidered bag. In it was the silk tallit I had been saving for him since my dad’s death six years before.

  I ached thinking about my father, wishing he were with us. What pleasure and pride he would have had seeing his baby daughter pass on his tallit to her son in a gesture of d’or v’dor, from generation to generation. I knew on this, his grandson’s bar mitzvah day, he would say to me, through his tears and gentle smile, “You’ve done a beautiful thing, Linda.”

  When Michael got home from Barbara’s the previous night, he came upstairs to our bedroom as he had done every other night for the past year. I’d devised a half-hour routine to help him learn his maftir, the week’s parsha (passage) reading from the Torah that he would sing using melodic chants. Not only did he have to read Hebrew, he had to read a special liturgical Hebrew in which the usual vowel sounds were removed and letters were written in a unique script.

  Once Michael came out of his extended angry period with us over Kira, he regained his desire for cuddling. We were lucky. It was the last and only hold we had on him. Knowing this, I incorporated good doses of physical affection as a component in his nightly practice, something I learned from reading about rebbes of yore. When teaching Torah to young pupils for the first time, they slathered honey on each child’s slate board. They wanted to make sure the boys enjoyed the moment and developed a sensory connection to the sweetness of Torah study.

  In our version of this yeshiva practice, Michael came upstairs to our bedroom every night and climbed onto the bed with us. We smothered him with constant physical attention, including back rubs and hugs while he went over and over his lines. To our amazement, he had been remarkably agreeable about the study. So much so, we tried adding an extra dose of affection when we asked him to do a chore, look after his hygiene or clean up his room. It never worked. Michael still would not do anything he did not want to do.

  On some level, Michael wanted to do his studying. He wanted to become a bar mitzvah. He couldn’t tell us why, nor could we figure out why. His desire could have been anything from spiritual to financial. If the latter, we told ourselves, Michael wouldn’t be the first bar mitzvah boy to do it for the money he’d receive from family to celebrate his accomplishments.

  Robin and I repeatedly told Michael how proud we were of the fine job he was doing each night. We were. As Michael’s memory was so poor, he often forgot his lines from one practice to the next. It left us worried about how he would do standing in front of a crowd of possibly 200 people, a number that included our invited guests as well as members of the synagogue’s congregation there for the weekly Shabbat service. We remained unsure whether Michael would actually stand before the congregation and perform his maftir or run off the bimah instead, so we only invited family and friends who knew Michael well enough to understand if he decided to bolt. It would spare Robin and me some degree of angst, embarrassment and backstory, about what might or might not turn out to be a happy occasion.

  The morning proceeded with remarkable ease. We were able to get Michael to bathe and wash his hair. It was clear, though, getting him to brush his teeth was not going to happen without Herculean force. We let it go rather than mess with the gods.

  Sarah wore a lovely floral blue dress, bought for the day, and I a 1940’s-inspired powder-blue suit made for the service. Mother and daughter decided to wear straw hats to top off our outfits. I pinned a Carmen Miranda-style brooch of bright red cherries to my brim for a dose of sartorial whimsy. I thought of my mother as I pinned it on. She too would have dressed beautifully for the occasion.

  Both Robin and Michael looked like a million bucks in their suits and ties. We Rosenbaum-Christmases were a handsome, regular, everyday-looking family. The kind our politicians always like referring to as Average Canadians. No one would guess otherwise.

  A few minutes before walking out the door, I stood at the dining-room table and told Michael that I had something special for him, warning him it wasn’t a video game so he wouldn’t be disappointed. I then presented my dad’s tallit. He could tell by my tone it was special.

  Sarah, Robin and I were teary-eyed watching Michael remove the tallit from the bag. With encouragement from Robin and me, Michael said the blessing for putting on the tallit that Dr. Greenberg had taught him. Michael then burst into one of his ear-to-ear grins that made him so endearing. It was impossible not to love the guy.

  We were ou
t of the house! As it was Saturday morning, many of our neighbours were also on their way to the boat with bundle buggies in tow. Going to St. Lawrence Market to buy groceries for the week was a Saturday morning ritual for many Islanders. Seeing us, they stopped to chat. Our outfits signalled that something was happening in the Rosenbaum-Christmas family household.

  “You look so handsome today, Michael.”

  “I hear it’s a big day for you, Michael. What’s up?”

  “You look great in that suit, Michael.”

  And to the neighbour who asked, “What’s the special occasion?” Michael responded without skipping a beat.

  “My bar mitzvah,” he said, as if it was a regular thing for an Island boy to become a bar mitzvah. Robin and I laughed. In the community’s 150-year history, Michael was undoubtedly the first, but hopefully not the last, Island child to become a bar mitzvah.

  When we reached the dock, we hooked up with the Island friends whom we had invited to the service, including Barbara and her family as well as Lynn, Don and Andrew. We all made a beautiful, self-congratulatory sight. Seldom do our women friends wear such stylish hats, suits, dresses and heels. Seldom do our men friends wear suits and ties. But there we all were, waiting for the boat to pull in, dressed in fashionable bar mitzvah regalia. Everyone greeted us with hugs and kisses. They showered Michael with attention, praise and familial teases. Everyone gave Robin and me reassuring nods. They knew what was hiding under our snappy façades. One friend whispered, “It’s a miracle you’ve come this far, enjoy it.”

  The mood on the boat was pure cheer. Michael was lapping it up. I was beyond happy that he felt so good. He was usually reclusive and uncomfortable with people and didn’t like to be touched by anyone other than Robin, Sarah and me. He would normally retreat when in a group, preferring the quiet of his own company or the chaos of Andrew’s. He certainly didn’t tolerate being the centre of attention.

  Not so today. He was more than willing to let everyone lavish him with recognition. I couldn’t possibly explain why. Once cityside, we drove up to the synagogue at the north end of the city. Michael opened the car door and got out. I could now breathe.