relaxes. She smiles back at Dad. “I was ten,” she says. “I was furious with my mother because she wouldn’t let me do something I badly wanted to do. I don’t even remember now what it was. But I do remember how sure I was that I’d been mixed up with another baby in the hospital and had gone home with the wrong parents.”
“I was twelve,” he tells her. “We were a lot younger than Kristi is.”
They both grin at me. “Clearly, a case of arrested development,” Dad says.
“Very funny,” I tell them. But I get busy and clear the table, glad that Mom’s no longer upset with me about what I said. I shouldn’t have asked such a weird question.
I know that when I was born Mom began keeping a scrapbook with lots of photos of me and records of how much I weighed and how tall I grew—all the stuff mothers think is important. She kept it up for years and years. The scrapbook is filled with specialschool papers and greeting cards I made for Mom and Dad on holidays. I began adding to it myself about the time I started high school.
After the kitchen has been cleaned, I go upstairs to my room and pull down the scrapbook from my closet shelf. On the third page is an envelope with my birth certificate inside. I take out the certificate and study the information on it.
I was born at Houston’s Women’s Center. Mom was thirty-six when I was born, and Dad was forty-five. The attending physician was Dr. Alonzo Salinas. He’s not Mom’s doctor now, but I recognize his name. Whenever there’s a news story about some new advance in women’s health care, the TV reporters interview him. He seems to be a local authority on the subject of women’s health.
I wasn’t surprised at the ages of my parents when I was born. I knew that Dad was nine years older than Mom and that Mom had been working as a sales clerk when they met. After they’d married he tried to encourage Mom to go back to college and get a degree in accounting. It took a few years, but she finally agreed. Her grades were so good that she made the honors program. She’s sometimes talked about the good friends she made in the program and the projects they worked on to raise funds for speakers for events in the honors program. Then, near the end of her senior year, Mom found she was expecting me.
Once, when she’d been reminiscing about it, I shrugged and said, “I must have been bad timing.”
Mom laughed and hugged me. “Not at all. Your father and I had tried to have a child for six years.You’ve heard of biological clocks? Well, we got a late start and were running out of time. I was afraid we’d never be able to have a child. So we were both ecstatic when we discovered that I was pregnant.”
“You never had another child. Just me.”
Mom gave me an odd look. Then she said in a quiet voice, “It’s not that we didn’t want another child. We just couldn’t. We considered ourselves very lucky to have had
you
!”
I fold the birth certificate and tuck it back into the envelope. Mom and Dad are my birth parents. There’s no doubt about it. There’s even a signature on the certificate from the attending doctor at my birth. I trust my parents completely, so what am I trying to find? What am I hoping to prove?
I’m not going to wait until Sunday to visit Mr. Merson. He asked me to come back, so tomorrow I will.
During art club Ms. Montero stops by my desk. “Did you ever call New York and find out from the Museum of Modern Art about the Frank Kupka painting?” she asks.
“They said it wasn’t on display right now. But they didn’t tell me where it was. The woman I talked to acted suspicious of me.” I sigh. “I don’t know how to find out if I saw the real painting or not. Actually, I need to know.”
“I can help,” she says. “I know the person to talk to.”
“Thanks,” I answer. “That’s very nice of you.”
She smiles, then points out a spot where a little shading will add a third dimension to my work.
While I
“I was twelve,” he tells her. “We were a lot younger than Kristi is.”
They both grin at me. “Clearly, a case of arrested development,” Dad says.
“Very funny,” I tell them. But I get busy and clear the table, glad that Mom’s no longer upset with me about what I said. I shouldn’t have asked such a weird question.
I know that when I was born Mom began keeping a scrapbook with lots of photos of me and records of how much I weighed and how tall I grew—all the stuff mothers think is important. She kept it up for years and years. The scrapbook is filled with specialschool papers and greeting cards I made for Mom and Dad on holidays. I began adding to it myself about the time I started high school.
After the kitchen has been cleaned, I go upstairs to my room and pull down the scrapbook from my closet shelf. On the third page is an envelope with my birth certificate inside. I take out the certificate and study the information on it.
I was born at Houston’s Women’s Center. Mom was thirty-six when I was born, and Dad was forty-five. The attending physician was Dr. Alonzo Salinas. He’s not Mom’s doctor now, but I recognize his name. Whenever there’s a news story about some new advance in women’s health care, the TV reporters interview him. He seems to be a local authority on the subject of women’s health.
I wasn’t surprised at the ages of my parents when I was born. I knew that Dad was nine years older than Mom and that Mom had been working as a sales clerk when they met. After they’d married he tried to encourage Mom to go back to college and get a degree in accounting. It took a few years, but she finally agreed. Her grades were so good that she made the honors program. She’s sometimes talked about the good friends she made in the program and the projects they worked on to raise funds for speakers for events in the honors program. Then, near the end of her senior year, Mom found she was expecting me.
Once, when she’d been reminiscing about it, I shrugged and said, “I must have been bad timing.”
Mom laughed and hugged me. “Not at all. Your father and I had tried to have a child for six years.You’ve heard of biological clocks? Well, we got a late start and were running out of time. I was afraid we’d never be able to have a child. So we were both ecstatic when we discovered that I was pregnant.”
“You never had another child. Just me.”
Mom gave me an odd look. Then she said in a quiet voice, “It’s not that we didn’t want another child. We just couldn’t. We considered ourselves very lucky to have had
you
!”
I fold the birth certificate and tuck it back into the envelope. Mom and Dad are my birth parents. There’s no doubt about it. There’s even a signature on the certificate from the attending doctor at my birth. I trust my parents completely, so what am I trying to find? What am I hoping to prove?
I’m not going to wait until Sunday to visit Mr. Merson. He asked me to come back, so tomorrow I will.
During art club Ms. Montero stops by my desk. “Did you ever call New York and find out from the Museum of Modern Art about the Frank Kupka painting?” she asks.
“They said it wasn’t on display right now. But they didn’t tell me where it was. The woman I talked to acted suspicious of me.” I sigh. “I don’t know how to find out if I saw the real painting or not. Actually, I need to know.”
“I can help,” she says. “I know the person to talk to.”
“Thanks,” I answer. “That’s very nice of you.”
She smiles, then points out a spot where a little shading will add a third dimension to my work.
While I
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