and musk. I wanted to ask her if she ever tried the Avon fragrances, but I bit my tongue.
“Sit down, Birdie. I know we spoke on the phone, but I want to hear the story again in person.” I sat perfectly still, as if any movement might cause a windy gust that would push me back out the door.
“There are tissues on the table if you need them.” I sat, my back perfectly straight, my hands tightly grasping a wrinkled manila envelope containing the Catholic Charities release of information forms that came in the morning mail. I opened my mouth to speak but no words fell into the space between us. I handed her the package. It was damp from my palms. She set the papers on the table and gave me an encouraging smile. My pulse raced. I took a deep breath.
“That call put a spell on me. It threw me into the memories of the past and into some unknown path ahead of me. I don’t know what to do or what to say.”
I continued, told her the story once more, how I hadn’t figured out how to tell my birth daughter about her paternity if I decided to meet her, how I kept thinking of my own father. At the age of eighteen, he flunked out of college. Smoking and drinking and gambling took the place of studying and classes, and my father left school in disgrace. The first in his family to make it through high school, my father couldn’t tell my custodian grandfather and shoe factory worker grandmother that he failed. He ran away and joined the Army, and romanced and married my mother while he was stationed at Fort Knox.
He never touched a cigarette, never picked up a beer while we were growing up. When my father first told me this story my first thought was “so what.” He had made something of himself, had worked hard in the Army, worked his way through school, and had a Ph.D. in education by the time I found out. None of those months so long ago had any bearing on where he was at that moment. But as I watched my father tell the story, I saw the shame in his eyes, and behind the sparse words I knew there was much more I would never hear.
We have only this moment. I know this now; know this because of long nights lying awake in emotional pain. I know this because of long days walking railroads and dropping brochures. I know this. But like my dad, I keep thinking of the past and the ways I wish it were different. I have to tell myself “so what” now. So what. It was a long time ago. It happened. I grew past it, through it, because of it. My daughter will understand.
The counselor cleared her throat.
“Birdie, every minute you spend in the future or the past is a minute you subtract from your life here and now. Let’s take this one day at a time. You don’t need to notarize those papers today. Give it a week or two. You may decide to change your mind.”
She leaned back and placed her hands behind her head. Her expensive knit brown sweater rose, exposing a sliver of firm, tanned belly. I subconsciously yanked the hem of my purple t-shirt as far down as it would go.
“And Birdie, it really is true – you gave this young woman life. You didn’t have to, but you did. What happened to you wasn’t your fault or your decision. But you can control what happens next. Don’t allow Catholic Charities to pressure you. I’ll call the social worker if you like. I want you to be gentle with yourself. Take your time, Birdie. Give it at least a week or two.”
A week or two. A week or two . I repeated the counselor’s mantra while the sun and the whisper of waves and murmur of a hundred families lulled me to sleep, the sort of sixth sense rest a mom at the beach allows, one ear and telepathic eye on patrol, ready to sound the trumpet should a child be in danger. I think I rested an hour, maybe a little longer, until I finally opened my eyes to survey the continued castle creation.
What a sight! The castle and moat had doubled in size, and an airport addition was underway, both boys busy sculpting jet fighters from pebbles and wet
“Sit down, Birdie. I know we spoke on the phone, but I want to hear the story again in person.” I sat perfectly still, as if any movement might cause a windy gust that would push me back out the door.
“There are tissues on the table if you need them.” I sat, my back perfectly straight, my hands tightly grasping a wrinkled manila envelope containing the Catholic Charities release of information forms that came in the morning mail. I opened my mouth to speak but no words fell into the space between us. I handed her the package. It was damp from my palms. She set the papers on the table and gave me an encouraging smile. My pulse raced. I took a deep breath.
“That call put a spell on me. It threw me into the memories of the past and into some unknown path ahead of me. I don’t know what to do or what to say.”
I continued, told her the story once more, how I hadn’t figured out how to tell my birth daughter about her paternity if I decided to meet her, how I kept thinking of my own father. At the age of eighteen, he flunked out of college. Smoking and drinking and gambling took the place of studying and classes, and my father left school in disgrace. The first in his family to make it through high school, my father couldn’t tell my custodian grandfather and shoe factory worker grandmother that he failed. He ran away and joined the Army, and romanced and married my mother while he was stationed at Fort Knox.
He never touched a cigarette, never picked up a beer while we were growing up. When my father first told me this story my first thought was “so what.” He had made something of himself, had worked hard in the Army, worked his way through school, and had a Ph.D. in education by the time I found out. None of those months so long ago had any bearing on where he was at that moment. But as I watched my father tell the story, I saw the shame in his eyes, and behind the sparse words I knew there was much more I would never hear.
We have only this moment. I know this now; know this because of long nights lying awake in emotional pain. I know this because of long days walking railroads and dropping brochures. I know this. But like my dad, I keep thinking of the past and the ways I wish it were different. I have to tell myself “so what” now. So what. It was a long time ago. It happened. I grew past it, through it, because of it. My daughter will understand.
The counselor cleared her throat.
“Birdie, every minute you spend in the future or the past is a minute you subtract from your life here and now. Let’s take this one day at a time. You don’t need to notarize those papers today. Give it a week or two. You may decide to change your mind.”
She leaned back and placed her hands behind her head. Her expensive knit brown sweater rose, exposing a sliver of firm, tanned belly. I subconsciously yanked the hem of my purple t-shirt as far down as it would go.
“And Birdie, it really is true – you gave this young woman life. You didn’t have to, but you did. What happened to you wasn’t your fault or your decision. But you can control what happens next. Don’t allow Catholic Charities to pressure you. I’ll call the social worker if you like. I want you to be gentle with yourself. Take your time, Birdie. Give it at least a week or two.”
A week or two. A week or two . I repeated the counselor’s mantra while the sun and the whisper of waves and murmur of a hundred families lulled me to sleep, the sort of sixth sense rest a mom at the beach allows, one ear and telepathic eye on patrol, ready to sound the trumpet should a child be in danger. I think I rested an hour, maybe a little longer, until I finally opened my eyes to survey the continued castle creation.
What a sight! The castle and moat had doubled in size, and an airport addition was underway, both boys busy sculpting jet fighters from pebbles and wet
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