sequined cardigan off the rack and tells her it’s her turn.
As I watch Marian slip it on over her white blouse, snapping the buttons with as much strategic care as Agnes zipped my cardigan, I think to myself that it’s really not that long of a story.
* * *
“Are those your parents?” I ask Marian, pointing at the framed photo in her living room and breaking a long spell of silence that seemed to descend upon us on the way out of Barneys. I consider this a warm-up to the question I really want to ask—and the topic she is clearly trying to avoid: Who is my father?
“Yes,” she says, glancing in its direction, nodding, distracted.
“What are their names?” I ask, determined to make her talk.
“Pamela and James. Jim,” she says, then looks away, as if I’ve just asked her a random question about two random people—rather than the identity of my blood relatives.
“What do they do for a living?” I demand.
“He’s a trial lawyer. She’s a homemaker.”
I wait patiently, but she gives me nothing more. Frustration wells inside me as I clear my throat and say, “So what are they like?”
Marian shrugs then yawns. “Oh—I don’t know. It’s always hard to say what your own parents are like, isn’t it? They’re just—your parents.”
I narrow my eyes and stare her down, hoping that my expression conveys what I’m thinking: that this is a totally lame and completely unacceptable answer. She seems to get the hint because she clears her throat and says, “My mom’s very social and outgoing … She loves to throw parties and entertain. She has a ton of friends and lots of hobbies. She can never sit still.” She smiles without showing her teeth, then continues. “My father is more quiet. Serious. He’s a thinker. An introvert.”
“Who are you more like?” I fire back at her.
“My dad. Definitely,” she says. “I mean, I can do the party thing. I have to in the business I’m in. Just like my dad can turn on the charm for the jury and clients. But it’s not really him. My mom has to drag him to all her parties and charity functions. He’d always rather stay home, read, play solitaire, watch old movies and television. He even bird-watches,” she says, finally smiling a real smile. “He’s nothing like the guy you see in the courtroom.”
“Is he a criminal lawyer?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. He practices corporate litigation. He has big clients like GE, Abbott Labs, Dell. Even Oprah.”
I don’t want to be impressed but I am. “Oprah?”
“Yeah. He’s pretty big-time.”
“Is he … famous?” I say, thinking that it usually works the other way around—the adopted kids get to be famous, not the family who gives them up. I feel the bitterness starting to return as I wait for her answer.
“As famous as a lawyer can be, I guess. He was in politics for a while … when I was a kid … Mayor of Glencoe … And he was going to run for Congress, but decided not to…” Her voice trails off as I wonder when this happened, whether the end of his political career had anything to do with the scandal of his pregnant teenage daughter.
“Is he a Republican?” I ask.
She nods. “Both my parents are.” She seems to anticipate my next question and says, “I’m an Independent.”
“My parents are Democrats,” I volunteer. “Even though they’re very pro-life.”
She doesn’t take the hint. I feel my frustration growing, but tell myself to be patient. I’ve waited this long. What’s another few hours? The answers will come—even if I have to pry them out of her. Besides, if we don’t talk about anything serious, I can just sip Perrier and imagine what my life would have been like if she hadn’t given me away. But then it occurs to me that even if she had kept me, I probably wouldn’t fit in here any more than I do at home. And that maybe I’m doomed to never belong anywhere.
6
marian
Kirby has been here nearly twenty-four hours, and she
As I watch Marian slip it on over her white blouse, snapping the buttons with as much strategic care as Agnes zipped my cardigan, I think to myself that it’s really not that long of a story.
* * *
“Are those your parents?” I ask Marian, pointing at the framed photo in her living room and breaking a long spell of silence that seemed to descend upon us on the way out of Barneys. I consider this a warm-up to the question I really want to ask—and the topic she is clearly trying to avoid: Who is my father?
“Yes,” she says, glancing in its direction, nodding, distracted.
“What are their names?” I ask, determined to make her talk.
“Pamela and James. Jim,” she says, then looks away, as if I’ve just asked her a random question about two random people—rather than the identity of my blood relatives.
“What do they do for a living?” I demand.
“He’s a trial lawyer. She’s a homemaker.”
I wait patiently, but she gives me nothing more. Frustration wells inside me as I clear my throat and say, “So what are they like?”
Marian shrugs then yawns. “Oh—I don’t know. It’s always hard to say what your own parents are like, isn’t it? They’re just—your parents.”
I narrow my eyes and stare her down, hoping that my expression conveys what I’m thinking: that this is a totally lame and completely unacceptable answer. She seems to get the hint because she clears her throat and says, “My mom’s very social and outgoing … She loves to throw parties and entertain. She has a ton of friends and lots of hobbies. She can never sit still.” She smiles without showing her teeth, then continues. “My father is more quiet. Serious. He’s a thinker. An introvert.”
“Who are you more like?” I fire back at her.
“My dad. Definitely,” she says. “I mean, I can do the party thing. I have to in the business I’m in. Just like my dad can turn on the charm for the jury and clients. But it’s not really him. My mom has to drag him to all her parties and charity functions. He’d always rather stay home, read, play solitaire, watch old movies and television. He even bird-watches,” she says, finally smiling a real smile. “He’s nothing like the guy you see in the courtroom.”
“Is he a criminal lawyer?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. He practices corporate litigation. He has big clients like GE, Abbott Labs, Dell. Even Oprah.”
I don’t want to be impressed but I am. “Oprah?”
“Yeah. He’s pretty big-time.”
“Is he … famous?” I say, thinking that it usually works the other way around—the adopted kids get to be famous, not the family who gives them up. I feel the bitterness starting to return as I wait for her answer.
“As famous as a lawyer can be, I guess. He was in politics for a while … when I was a kid … Mayor of Glencoe … And he was going to run for Congress, but decided not to…” Her voice trails off as I wonder when this happened, whether the end of his political career had anything to do with the scandal of his pregnant teenage daughter.
“Is he a Republican?” I ask.
She nods. “Both my parents are.” She seems to anticipate my next question and says, “I’m an Independent.”
“My parents are Democrats,” I volunteer. “Even though they’re very pro-life.”
She doesn’t take the hint. I feel my frustration growing, but tell myself to be patient. I’ve waited this long. What’s another few hours? The answers will come—even if I have to pry them out of her. Besides, if we don’t talk about anything serious, I can just sip Perrier and imagine what my life would have been like if she hadn’t given me away. But then it occurs to me that even if she had kept me, I probably wouldn’t fit in here any more than I do at home. And that maybe I’m doomed to never belong anywhere.
6
marian
Kirby has been here nearly twenty-four hours, and she
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