Where We Belong (18 page)

But it didn’t feel like a procedure. And it didn’t feel like the “contents of my uterus.” It felt like a baby, and as I closed my eyes, I was filled with an intense need to know whether it was a boy or girl. In those few seconds, I knew I was done—and what I wanted or believed I wanted was immaterial. It was almost as if my head and heart were in a war, and my heart won. I jerked my feet out of the stirrups and sat upright on that table, the stiff white paper under me making a loud, crinkling sound as all those people, including my mother, watched with surprise and concern, and even, I think, disappointment.

“I can’t,” I said aloud to them, but mostly to myself. “I can’t do this.”

And that was that. I got dressed, and my mother and I reentered the bright, August morning and drove back home.

11

kirby

The following
morning, Marian knocks on my door just as the sun is coming up. I’m already awake. In fact, I probably only slept two hours the whole night, the rest of the time spent thinking about what she told me, trying to process it all, and even doing a few searches on my phone for Conrad Knights.

“Sorry to get you up so early. But I have to get to work,” she says through the door, sounding all bright-eyed and cheerful—probably because she knows I’ll soon be out of her hair. “I made you an oatmeal-whey-protein smoothie!”

“Okay. Be out in a second,” I shout back at her.

Minutes later, after I’ve brushed my teeth and hair, I find her in the kitchen. She is fully dressed in a plain navy dress, high heels, and lots of gold jewelry.

“Good morning,” she says, handing me a glass.

“Good morning,” I say, taking the smoothie from her. It is an unappetizing gray color, but I take a sip, and it’s not too bad.

We sit at the island, in our hundredth spell of awkward silence, before she acts as if she suddenly thought of something.

“Oh. Here. I got you this,” she says, sliding a boarding pass across the counter. “An upgrade from the bus.”

“I was going to take Amtrak,” I say, thinking of the last e-mail exchange I had with my parents—and my promise that I would take the train.

“Oh. That will take you forever … Travel by train is only nice in theory. Unless you’re on the Orient Express.”

“Right,” I say.
’Cause that happens all the time in my family.

“So I got you a direct flight back to St. Louis. It leaves at ten.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“Oh. It’s okay. I have so many frequent-flyer miles…”

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” she says, then glances at her watch. “So we have about an hour before you need to leave for the airport. Is that enough time for you to get ready?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Plenty.” I look down at the ticket and thank her again.

“It’s nothing,” she says.

I stare into her eyes, resisting the strong urge to agree with that sentiment.

*   *   *

An hour later, Marian and I are standing on the corner of Madison and Eighty-seventh. She has just handed me fifty bucks for cab fare which I reluctantly take, feeling guilty on the heels of the clothes and shoes and flight, but worried that I don’t have enough to cover it. I watch her, staring intently down the block for a taxi, then pointing to a woman across the street and telling me she is our competition, we have to beat her to the punch. “You snooze, you lose in this town,” she jokes. Seconds later, she steps out in the street, boldly flagging one, and in another deft, fluid motion, she is behind the car, stowing my bag in the trunk, then opening the side door and instructing my driver to deliver me to the Delta terminal at LaGuardia. The whole thing happens as fast as one of Charlotte’s underwater flip turns.

When the logistics are handled, we stare at each other for a few painful seconds before she crosses her arms and says, “As you probably gathered from my story last night, I’m not the best with good-byes.”

“Yeah. I kinda got that,” I say.

She gives me a hug, slightly longer than the one last night. Her hair is silky on my cheek and smells like vanilla.

“Will you let me know when you’re home safe and sound?” she asks, as I wonder if she feels that she has to say this—if it’s just standard fare when a guest leaves your home. Or at least something you need to say to the child you gave up for adoption.

I nod, a knot in my stomach.

“You have my number,” she says. “Call or text me if you need me.”

And what if I don’t need you? What if I just want to talk?

I thank her and she says, “No. Thank
you
for coming. For finding me.”

I try to respond, but can’t find the right words, and decide that saying nothing is better than saying the wrong thing. So I just nod and slip into the backseat, watching as she closes the door and waves. I wave back until she is gone from view. Then I sit back in my seat, wondering when or if I’ll ever see her again. Something tells me I won’t—that this is the way she wants it. That she met her birth daughter, gave her some nice shoes and a plane ticket, and now she can cross that off her list and get on with her life.

A few short minutes later, we are crossing a large bridge. Signs tell me it is the RFK. I look out my window at the sun rising in a pink sky, a backdrop to smokestacks and buildings and billboards, feeling unsatisfied and sad, like I’ve just been given away, again.

*   *   *

Five and a half hours later, I walk in the front door of my house. I’ve only been gone for three days, but everything looks and smells different, sort of the way I feel on the inside. I hear laughter coming from the kitchen and turn the corner to find my sister with Noah Smith, one of the cutest boys in school, also a star swimmer, her male counterpart. They are drinking root beer floats and making eyes at each other, like it’s nineteen-
freaking
-fifty-five and they’re about to head out to a sock hop.

Charlotte leaps up from the table when she sees me and throws her arms around me so sincerely and pure-heartedly that I hug her back, something I haven’t done in ages. In fact, this makes three hugs in twenty-four hours, which has to be a record for me since I was about eight.

“Dad told me where you were,” she breathlessly whispers. Her eyes are shining the same way they do after she wins a first-place ribbon in a swim meet and I feel fleetingly guilty for not being happier for her at such moments. For not sharing in them at all.

I glance at Noah, noticing the stubble on his jawline, impressive for a teenager, as Charlotte says, “Do you know each other?”

We both shake our heads, even though I know exactly who he is, as she introduces us. He does a chivalrous half stand that makes Charlotte beam with pride while I mumble hello.

“’Scuse me one sec,” she says to Noah, then pulls me around the corner into the dining room. “Omigod! So how was it? How was she? Dad said she’s a producer!”

“Yeah. And the head writer on the show.”

“Wow. That’s
crrra
zy! So did you, like, meet anyone famous?”

I tell her I didn’t meet any actors, explaining that the show is in preproduction, but that I saw the television studio where she works and met all the writers for the show. “They were all so smart and funny … It was really cool.”

“Wow,” she says. “You’re
so
lucky.”

It is the word that Belinda kept texting this weekend—but it carries more weight coming from my charmed sister. I consider the cute boy in the next room with his sexy five o’clock shadow and varsity letter jacket thrown over the back of his chair, and try to convince myself that she is right. That even though the weekend wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped it’d be, maybe I am the lucky one for a change. After all, I’m related to someone kind of important. Which might make me a little bit important, too, at least in the eyes of my friends and sister.

“So?” she says. “More details!”

I take a deep breath, knowing that I can’t possibly explain the complexity of my feelings about meeting my birth mother, but wishing I could at least convey the feeling I had as we sat in the writers’ room watching the storyboard slowly fill with ideas, or stood at the top of the Guggenheim gazing down at tiers of masterpieces. “New York—her world—is so glamorous and interesting,” I say.

“And she’s cool?”

“Very,” I say. “So sophisticated. Like … nobody else I know…”

“Wow. That’s so great, Kirby!… And what about your father?” she asks.

For a second, I feel the familiar tinge of resentment, thinking that my father is
her
father, but I know what she means and decide to cut her a break.

“He’s a musician,” I tell her.

“Omigod, that is so freakin’ badass,” she squeals. “You’re like, the daughter of two artists. A writer and a singer. This explains a lot.”

I smile, a warm feeling spreading inside me.

“Is he famous, too?” she asks.

I shake my head and say, “I don’t think so. His name is Conrad Knight. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“But maybe he changed it. Like a stage name?”

“Maybe. I guess it’s possible,” I say, not wanting to tell her the truth—that Marian has no idea where he is. That he doesn’t even know I
exist
.

“
Anything
is possible,” she says. “This proves that.”

“Yeah. I guess so,” I say, then return the attention to her, where it has belonged for so long. “So Noah Smith, huh?” I say, pointing toward the kitchen.

She grins and raises her eyebrows. “I know, right?! Isn’t he freakin’
hottt
?”

“Yeah. He’s really cute,” I say. “Are you dating?”

“Not yet,” she says, raising her crossed fingers in the air. Her nails are long and painted lavender. Last week I would have thought they looked pretty, but now I think of Marian saying she only likes neutral colors on her hands, and think I agree with her. “But give me a week.”

I smile, admiring her confidence, but for once, not begrudging her for it. If anything, her quest to date Noah seems simple and dull in comparison to what I’ve just experienced.

“So how upset is Mom?” I say.

She winces and says, “Um. Yeah. Very.”

“She told you that?” I say, thinking that it would be par for the course if my mom had confided in her about me.

But Charlotte shakes her head and says, “Nope. Dad did, though. He sat me down and got all serious and told me everything that was going on … Said Mom’s feelings were hurt that you hadn’t talked to her about it.” She shrugs and says, “I told him that’s just the way you are. You do things
your
way. I mean, I’m not pissed that you didn’t tell me—and I’m your sister.”

I nod, wishing I had.

“You’re independent and strong and you know exactly who you are and what you want.”

“Thanks,” I say, thinking that it is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. And it’d be even nicer if it were actually true.

*   *   *

“I want to start by saying we’re glad you’re home safe,” my father says later that evening in what is clearly scripted dialogue. We are seated in the family room, my mother and I on the couch, my father in his La-Z-Boy recliner.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I mumble.

“And we understand why you wanted to meet your birth mother,” he continues. “We even understand why you’d want to do it alone.
But,
we don’t appreciate being lied to.”

“Not at all,” my mother chimes in. “Lying is the one thing in this house that we do not—
cannot
—tolerate.”

“The
one
thing?” I say, giving in to a smirk that I know will infuriate her.

Sure enough, she looks chafed as she says, “It’s a
big
one.”

“We’ve always tried to keep the lines of communication open,” my dad says.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“So why didn’t you come to us?” he says, still calm, although I notice his clothing is even more wrinkled and disheveled than usual, as if he’s been pacing and sleepless for days. Then again, maybe it’s just how he seems in contrast to Marian and Peter, all pressed and perfect.

“Um. I guess because I didn’t
want
to?” I say.

He ignores my flippant reply and says, “Why not?”

“Well. For starters, I heard what you guys said about me,” I say, staring them both down as they pretend to be confused, and I prepare to drop my bomb. “I overheard you talking in the kitchen that night. About my birth mom and stuff.”

My mother asks what in the world I’m talking about so I keep going. “About how you don’t really know the true story of where I came from. Or who I am. And that my birth parents might be to blame for my problems. The root of all evil.”

My parents exchange a guilty look and my mom says, “Nobody
ever
used the word ‘evil,’ Kirby.”

“Whatever. I got the gist of it. So I thought I’d go find her. See if you were right about your little theories.”

“Kirby. You misunderstood us,” my dad says, running his hands along his bald spot.

“No. I think you were pretty clear, Dad. You basically accused them of being junkies and criminals.”

“We said nothing of the sort!” my dad says, now officially shouting.

I win,
I think, feeling smug. “And instead of her being the loser you think I take after, I meet this amazing, successful, smart producer,” I say, knowing that I’m twisting the knife. “So I guess we can scratch that theory off the list. Gotta come up with another reason I’m such a screwup.”

“Kirby!” my dad says. “Nobody thinks you’re a screwup.”

“Oh, no?”

“We just think you’re an underachiever.”

“Compared to who? You and Mom? Charlotte? Or my amazingly successful producer birth mother?” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I know that I’m being mean but can’t stop myself. After all, they compare me to their biological child every day; what’s the difference?

“Hey! I don’t appreciate your tone, young lady!” my dad says.

I stare at him. “Well, Dad. I don’t appreciate the way I always feel like an outsider around here.”

“You try to
make
yourself an outsider,” my dad says, pointing his finger at me.