Sunlight on My Shadow (25 page)

It was one of the wettest Aprils on record in Salt Lake City. Thunderstorms built daily and dumped buckets of rain. After the rivers were full to the brim, the temperature rose to an unseasonably warm 90 degrees. The snow on the high peaks melted all at once and ran from the mountains to the valleys, gaining speed and force.

When the water hit the Salt Lake Valley, the rivers couldn’t bear the burden and overflowed into basements and roads. State Street turned into a river. Million-dollar homes that sat on the East Bench, overlooking the city, had their yards destroyed by mudslides. Some of them had damaged foundations, and a few slid down the bluff.

Our house, snuggled near the Wasatch Mountain Range, was on the flats and unaffected by the flood. The surrounding ground was crinkled, like a pulled-apart pleated skirt with dips and rises fanning out from the mountain range. Right near our house, where I rode my mountain bike, was a small stream that ran through the gully in the springtime and then dried up by midsummer. This year, as the rain and snow melt came down in torrents, the little gully overflowed with silt, sand, and mud and turned the twenty acres into a lake. At one point, the water was running so fast that you couldn’t walk across the gulley—the force would knock you down. When it was all over, the weedy sand fields were just a sea of mud.

Several years later, after the flood was long forgotten, some fancy developer built high-priced luxury homes in that gully. When I walked through the new neighborhood, I noticed that the areas that were once rivers and gooey mud were now lush green lawns with little footbridges nestled among flower gardens and tomato patches. I remembered the destruction and chaos that once ravaged the area. I wondered if the people who bought those homes knew that they were built on a gully that was once a mud river.

Perhaps it was just a freak of nature, the perfect combination that year of early warm temperatures and heavy thunderstorms in April. Perhaps it would never happen again. But then again, perhaps it would. It reminds me of all the things we try to control, even though the forces of nature are beyond our control. We go on living after a hurricane, tornado, mudslide, or fire, trying to find a sense of safety by forgetting that it ever happened: but deep down we know it could happen again. Our capacity to weather the unimaginable astounds us.

Nature follows its course, regardless of how we try to control it. The best we can do when disaster strikes is go with the flow, forget about wishing it wasn’t so, and take note of the blessings brought by wind, rain, fire, or death. Even though I prayed hundreds of rosaries, there was no way to change the course of nature. I asked God to give me a break, make it untrue, make the unwanted pregnancy go away when I was just sixteen. But, of course, once the baby was conceived, the outcome was inevitable and nature took over.

Now, after forty-five years, once in a while I wake and have the awful feeling that disaster is looming, but I take inventory and realize that all is well and I sigh back into peace. But the nagging feeling persists, and perhaps it is the reason I am writing this story. The unease has lessened at an accelerated pace in the past years. I suppose that is because of the writing and listening to the feelings that are asking to be heard and felt. I never will forget the chaos and fright that colored the nine months of my junior year of high school, yet facing those memories directly as an adult has reduced the threat that these strong emotions will knock me flat.

Now that I had Karen’s name and address and was done with the search, I could turn the corner—but how to approach her?

“Uh, hi, I’m your mother. No, not your mother, but I gave birth to you. Wanna meet me?” Oh, geez. How could I? What would I say? I decided to find someone to help me with this, a consultant. I found an ad posted by Charlene in the publication for MANA: Midwives Alliance of North America.

The rain of that wet spring kept coming until it gave way to the white daffodils and yellow hyacinths in our back yard. I called Charlene.

“Charlene, I have the contact information for my adopted child,” I said. “I wondered if you could coach me on how to make contact?”

“Oh, how exciting for you!” said Charlene. “You know, I do searches myself and often make the first phone call on behalf of the client. Would you like me to do that?”

“That’d be a godsend,” I said. “I don’t think I could do it myself.”

“I’ve done this many times and would be honored to help out.”

Charlene’s voice was deliberate and sweet. I didn’t meet her in person, but I loved her soft demeanor. I needed her. I wished I could reach through the telephone wire and hug her.

“What will you say when you call?” I asked.

“I’ll say something like this, ‘I’m calling on behalf of someone you don’t know, but she has been thinking about you since the day you were born.’”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” I said. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“I’ll say that you wanted to make contact so that you could know she was okay and ask if she is willing to meet sometime.”

“Ah, that’s good,” I said. “Will you call and let me know as soon as you reach her?”

“Of course. I’ll call you right after I make contact.”

The targeted date was set. I couldn’t believe that I might soon hear what Baby Helen’s life had been like. Karen, her name was Karen. I wanted to hear that her life was good. It could go either way. I knew nothing, but soon I would have some answers. I hoped she was receptive to hearing from me.

Charlene called me at about 9:30 on Wednesday night. She said that she was able to talk to my birth daughter. My heart flitted with the news.

Charlene said that Karen was shocked and totally stunned to hear that her birth mother had found her. She had been curious about me, but didn’t know how to go about finding anything out. She wanted to know about our family’s medical history, and she asked how I was able to locate her. She wanted to know what I looked like and how old I was.

Karen, now twenty-six years old, told Charlene that she couldn’t have asked for better parents. She was a nurse living in Madison, Wisconsin, and had been married for a year and a half. She was a cheerleader during school and played many sports. Karen had always known she was adopted and has an adopted brother and sister. At the end of the twenty-minute conversation, Charlene asked Karen how she would like to proceed.

“Can Judy contact you, or would you like to make the first move?” said Charlene.

Karen said she would contact me. Charlene then gave her my name, address, and phone number.

I breathed out all the tension and fear I held inside worrying about this child as I listened to Charlene’s summary of the call. What a blessing and rush of good fortune. I now had a vague but real picture of my birth child. I felt at peace and that the fruits of my labor were not in vain. My child was healthy, alive, and had gone to good parents. My insides sparkled like fireflies. I hoped she would contact me soon. I was dying to talk to her and meet her.

But Karen was in no hurry to contact me. With every ring of the telephone, I hoped it might be her. I checked the mailbox daily, hoping for a letter or a picture. I waited three months, until I didn’t think I would ever hear from her. So in June, I wrote her this letter:

June 21, 1994

Dear Karen,

I recently wrote this story about my teenage pregnancy twenty-seven years ago. I wanted you to read it so you could understand why I gave you up for adoption and what it was like being pregnant and single in the 60s. I wanted to wait until I heard from you because you had asked to make the first move in contacting me. As time goes on, I wonder if perhaps it is difficult for you to write a letter to a total stranger. Our relationship is strictly genetic at this point. I can imagine that you may have some apprehension about contacting me.

My reasons for searching for you are many. I wanted to know if you’d had good parents. I was elated to hear that you couldn’t have asked for better parents and that your life has been full and good. Please know that I do not need to or want to be a parent to you. I would like to get to know you, though. I would like to meet you. I am curious to see who you look like and to see how genetics has influenced you. I am sure that my needs are different from yours. As my story tells, there was a great loss at giving you up to adoption in 1967. I have healed from that loss through the years. My search for you and finding the answers to some of my questions have helped me along.

Now should our relationship be the start of a friendship—or a mere exchange of information—that is up to you. I do hope I hear from you soon, but I entirely respect your feelings and wishes. My family will be going to Wisconsin over the 4th of July. If you’d like to meet a bunch of relatives, we’d love to have you come visit. It is in the Spooner-Hayward area. Until I hear from you, kind wishes, and happy 27th birthday on Thursday.

Judy

Still, there was no word from Karen. Three months later, I called her home. I talked to her husband, Brian, and said that I was sorry to be calling, but I had written a letter and hadn’t heard from Karen and wondered if she had received it.

“Yes,” he said. “Karen was happy to get your letter and read your story.”

Relief gushed through me. “But why hadn’t she contacted me?” I wondered.

“Brian, I know she must be apprehensive to meet me, but we’re going to my nephew’s wedding next month and will be in the Madison area. I was wondering if we could possibly meet, if she is willing.”

“I think that would be a great idea,” Brian said. “I have been encouraging Karen to follow up on the contact. I think it’ll be good for you two to meet. I’ll ask her. I’ll have her call you.”

The next day, I got a call from someone who sounded like Mick’s sister. It was Karen.

“Brian told me you called, and I think it would be okay to meet,” she said.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “Where should we meet?”

“You could come to my house.”

Karen’s voice sounded sweet and kind, yet skeptical. I hung up the phone and couldn’t believe I finally talked to her and would meet her soon. I was jumpy with delight, anticipation, and fright.

Since we were all going to the wedding in Madison, it was planned that Kiona, Tessie, Dave, and I would go together to meet Karen and Brian at their home.

As we drove through the neighborhood, I asked Dave to pull over so I could comb my hair, put on some lipstick. My heart was thumping in my throat. We were equipped with photos of our family and the extended family. Karen and Brian lived in a newer subdivision with modest homes. The yard was spiffy clean and the grass green. I walked up to the house with my family and pressed the bell. I heard the Ding-aling ring through the house, then barking. Brian answered the door.

I was warmed and relieved when Karen walked up to me and opened her arms for a welcoming hug.

“Hi, Karen,” I said. “I’m so happy to meet you finally.”

“Me too. Come in,” she said.

When I walked into her living room, I had to control myself. I wanted to hug her and swallow her up in my arms. I wanted to say, “Karen, oh, Karen is it really you?” If I had let my heart go, I would have made a bubbling, idiotic fool of myself. But I couldn’t. I had to respect her feelings. And besides, I couldn’t feel any of that coming from her. She looked at me with guarded reserve. She wasn’t elated, like I had hoped. She hadn’t missed me. She hadn’t loved me the way I loved her. Perhaps she even resented me. After all, I was this woman who didn’t want her. I was this birth mother who handed her over and never came back into her life until now. I was but the oven that carried her until she was done. I hadn’t even held her. She had her mother. She had her family.

I was like an extra digit. A little freaky, not really needed, yet a part of her.

She could have been my niece. She looked just like Jackie’s daughters, so familiar, yet strange, too, and unknown. She had a family resemblance about her that was warm and attractive. My heart sparkled with joy at the sight of her. Oh, how I wanted to squeeze her in my arms and say, “Oh, baby, my lost baby, you live! You are here! You are real! It feels like heaven here with you. I want to be close to you and know all about you. What is your life like? Please let me hold you close.”

But I couldn’t do any of this. I swallowed my elation and held it tight within. I followed her lead and acted unnaturally reserved. She was stunning. Her smile, all teeth. A true Liautaud. Her eyes—I had seen them before. She still had Mick’s square jaw and his Italian lush eyelashes. She was so pretty. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, but I forced my eyes away, so as not to stare. Her body was well formed and in perfect shape.

After the introductions, we sat down and we talked, my family and hers. She showed me pictures of her mom and dad, of her brother and sister, pictures of their lake place that they shared as they grew up. She didn’t ask too much about me. I was expecting her to ask what genetic diseases might run in our family, or what talents we had. She talked about her career as a nurse and showed us pictures of her high school cheer-leading days. I imagined her popular and athletic. Our visit was a bit clinical and matter-of-fact. I should not have expected anything different; she did not know me, after all.

Still, my insides were vibrating with joy, and I took what I could get. But a few hours after we had left, a wall of sadness hit me. I was able to grasp the reality of all that I had missed that was hers: the years of her growing up, her first tooth, her first step, her first date, her wedding. I was sad that Karen did not seem to want me to be a bigger part of her life. “But I must give her time,” I thought. “Maybe some time and distance under our belts will change that.”

Much later, Karen told me that her mom always worried that I would come back into her life and steal her away. Her mom was not happy that I had contacted Karen. She was skeptical of my advances and asked, “How do you know this person who contacted you is really your birth mother?” I really was an imposter: I had been gone from the scene and came back into Karen’s life when she was a full adult. It is understandable that Karen might have felt disloyal giving me the attention I craved. Then again, maybe she just had no need or desire to do this. I understood that. I so wanted to see her again and get to know her, but I didn’t think that is what she wanted, so I doubted it would happen like that. The gap between my desires and reality made me very sad.

My meeting with Karen was bittersweet. Bitter to realize she lived “fine” without me. Sweet to know she lived “fine” without me. What was it? Bitter or sweet? Adoption is a painful choice for a birth mother and quite unnatural. Abortion is not a good choice for a birth mother: it is brutal and inhuman. Keeping the baby is not a good choice for a birth mother who is only seventeen and has no husband or baby-raising skills or financial security. There are no good choices for a teen birth mother. So would it have been better that the prophylactic did not split in two? Would it have been better that the conception not occur within my young body, which was unready for the consequences? If I could have made the choice when I was sixteen, I would have said, “Please! Let none of this be happening to me.”

Now that I am sixty-one and I see the young, beautiful, bright, intelligent wife and mother of two who is Karen, I can only know in my heart that the choice was made for me and bigger than my little body or mind could fathom. The lesson is in letting go, giving up, and giving thanks for what is. Life unfolds in mysterious and beautiful ways; I have very little say in this process. I am continuously learning to let go, let live, and let love wash over the beauty that has taken me on this journey of sorrow, joy, and life.

Today I feel that of the options open to me at the time, adoption was the best choice. Could it have been less painful if it had been an open adoption and I knew during her growing years that she was well cared for? And could my pain have been lessened if I had followed my motherly call to hold her when she was born and then be conscious in my love and choice to give her away? I will never know the answers to these questions, but I have often looked back and been thankful that the pregnancy was not terminated by my halfhearted punches or my father’s wishes. The pain of giving her away was a fair trade for a child who was able to flourish in the arms of a loving couple.

Over the years I have met with Karen and her family several times, and I always enjoy spending time with them. I continue to wish that Karen and I had a closer relationship, but I am honored by whatever it is that she is able to give at this time.

Photo by Jonathan Chapman