Where We Belong (4 page)

“Right,” I said, thinking that he must also be aware that I had been voted “most likely to succeed”—just as I was aware that he had won “best eyes.”

“And what are your plans?” I asked, something telling me that he had left the yearbook questionnaire blank, until I remembered his three-word reply:
Color me gone.

I asked him what he meant by this and he told me, “Just get the hell out of here. That’s all.”

“So nothing … more specific?” I asked, meaning of course, college. Which in my mind, and among my circle of friends, was simply a given.

“Nope,” he said, draining his Dr Pepper. He crushed the can with one hand and tossed it into a nearby wastebasket. “Except to kiss you tonight. And probably tomorrow night, too. And if you’re not careful … maybe even the one after that.”

I felt myself shiver, even as perspiration trickled down my back, and decided that I would let him. Or more accurately, I acknowledged to myself that I wouldn’t be able to say no. But I pretended to be in complete control, reaching up to adjust my long, blond ponytail, the humidity having the reverse effect on my straight, now limp hair. “Now why would you do such a thing?” I asked, my heart pounding as I gave him a coy look.

“Because I
like
you.”

The word was juvenile, but he made it sound otherwise.

“Since when?” I said, my voice stronger than my knees.

“Since always. Since day one.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were telling me a trivial piece of information like the time of day or the temperature—which was likely still in triple digits, nightfall providing no relief from the stifling heat. He then rattled off a catalogue of memories, dispelling any lingering doubt about his sincerity, if not his motives: the location of my locker over the last four years; the scar on my left knee that he had studied whenever I wore skirts to school; the purple dress I wore to the homecoming dance, silk pumps dyed to match.

“I don’t remember you ever going to a dance,” I said, breathless.

“I didn’t,” he said, holding my gaze. “I saw the snapshot in what’s his name’s locker.”

I stared back at him, remembering how I had taped it in my boyfriend’s locker, right over an annoying photo of Rebecca Romijn and Angie Everhart lounging on the beach in the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue. “Todd,” I said.

“Yeah. Him,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“We broke up,” I said.

“I know. About time.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“We broke up, too,” he said. “What a coincidence.”

He took another step toward me and we began to slow dance to Sade, his hand on my back, and his breath in my ear, the distinct smell of pot wafting toward us. A few minutes later, amid many stares, we made our way inside, nestling into the corner of the tweed sectional in Janie’s family room, sweaty bodies gyrating all around us. For over an hour, we sat together, making light conversation that still felt heavy. There was an electricity between us, a sense of fresh discovery, but also a profound familiarity—the kind that comes when you grow up with someone, passing each other in the same halls, day after day. I found myself wondering why we had never talked like this before—and yet I knew exactly why.

“Let’s find somewhere more quiet,” he said at one point, after the first lull in our conversation.

I nodded, leading him to the foyer, then up the stairs, then down the hall to Janie’s parents’ bedroom, past the sign she had posted that said
DO NOT ENTER
!!! We no longer spoke, both of us nervous yet intent, as we locked the door, kissing, peeling off our clothes, then crawling under the covers of the four-poster king bed. At some point, he reached down on the floor, finding his jeans, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket. I knew what he was doing even before he produced the square, foil package, fumbling in the dark. I closed my eyes, letting it all unfold, waiting for him, wanting him.

What happened next is predictable, except that it is never entirely predictable when it is happening to you, for the first time, after you’ve said no a hundred times before. I thought of all the times I had come close with Todd, trying to pinpoint what the difference was now, deciding that it all came down to a desire I had never felt before. A desire so intense that it felt like need.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even though we were nearly past the point of no return. I looked into his eyes, then up toward the ceiling, dizzy from my feelings and the fan whirring above us, trying to make a final decision as Conrad held himself steadily over me, breathing, waiting.

My mind raced, my thoughts disjointed and blurry—yet remarkably clear, too. I told myself that there were risks, that I might regret it in the morning, if not sooner. I told myself he might only be pretending to like me—that he was really just using me to get laid, that surely I was only one of many. I told myself that it wasn’t the kind of thing a girl like me did, especially with someone like him.

But the answer was still yes. With every beat of my heart, I heard yes. And then I said it aloud, holding his gaze, so there would be no mistake about my decision. Heat, lust, and alcohol aside, I knew exactly what I was doing—that I was making an indelible, irrevocable choice. I knew it as I felt him enter me slowly, lingering for a few seconds before he withdrew to put on the condom and begin again. I knew I was changed forever.

Yet in that still, salty aftermath, I never imagined what would follow. I never dreamed that it would be anything other than a moment in time. A story from my youth. A chapter from that summer. A heat wave with a beginning, middle, and definite end.

3

kirby

My name
is Kirby Rose, and I’m adopted.

I don’t mean to make it sound like an AA confession, although sometimes that’s how people take it, like it’s something they should be supportive about. I just mean that they are two basic facts about me. Just as you can’t pinpoint the moment you learn your name, I can’t remember the first time I heard my parents tell the story of that out-of-the-blue phone call announcing my birth and the news that I would be theirs in seventy-two hours. All they had to do was drive to Chicago (a short trip from their neighborhood in South City, St. Louis, where they both grew up and still lived), sign some papers, and pick me up at the hospital. All they had to do was say yes.

It was April Fools’ Day and for a second my mom thought it was a joke, until she reassured herself that nobody would be cruel enough to play such a trick on a couple who had been trying and wishing, waiting and praying for a baby for over ten years, from virtually the day they got married. My dad was an electrician, my mom an administrative assistant at a big law firm in town, so they made decent money, but they couldn’t afford any fancy fertility clinics. Instead, they looked into adoption—first sticking with domestic Catholic agencies, then gradually registering with any organization in any country that might have a baby to give them. China. Russia. Colombia. Shady lawyers. It didn’t matter; they just wanted a baby.

So of course my mother shouted yes into the phone before she knew a single fact about me. Then, as my dad picked up the other extension, the lady on the phone calmly reported that I was a healthy six-pound-three-ounce baby girl. Nineteen inches long, with big, blue eyes and a head covered with peach fuzz. She said I had a big appetite and a sweet disposition. She called me “perfect”—and told them that they were the lucky ones chosen by the agency from hundreds of adoptive parents.

“Congratulations,” she said. “We’ll see you soon.”

My parents hung up, wept, embraced, then laughed through more tears. Then they rushed out to Babies “R” Us the way people hit grocery stores before a blizzard. They bought tiny pink clothes and a crib and a car seat and more toys and dolls than I could ever hope to play with, then came home and transformed my mother’s sewing room into a lavender and yellow nursery.

The next day, they drove to Chicago and checked into a hotel near Northwestern Memorial Hospital. They had to wait three more days to meet me, neither of them sleeping for more than a few minutes here and there, even though they knew it was the last good rest they’d have for a while. In the meantime, they discussed baby names, my mother lobbying hard for her maiden name, Kirby. We have to see her first, my dad insisted. I had to look like a Kirby—whatever
that
was.

My dad typically picks up the story from there, telling me how he cut himself shaving, his hands shaking so much that he almost let my mother drive to the hospital, something he never does because she sucks so badly at it. Then he skips ahead to the papers they hurriedly signed, and the moment the lady from the agency returned with a baby—
me
—swaddled in a pink fleece blanket.

“Meet your daughter,” the lady said as she handed me to my parents. “Dear one, meet Lynn and Art Rose. Your parents.”

It has always been my favorite part of the story. The first time they held me, gazed down at my face, felt the warmth of my body against their chests.

“She has your nose,” my dad joked, and then declared me a Kirby.

It was the moment, they said, when we became a family. They said it felt like an absolute miracle, not unlike the moment they met Charlotte, my little sister who was conceived by complete surprise shortly after they adopted me. The only difference, my mother was fond of saying, was that she wasn’t in any pain when she met me. That came later.

Growing up, I heard the story a million times, along with all the sentimental quotes about adoption, like the one framed in my bedroom for years: “Not flesh of my flesh, nor bone of my bone, but somehow miraculously still my own. Never forget for a single minute, you didn’t grow under my heart but in it.” I knew which celebrities had adopted babies, and more important, who had been adopted themselves: Steve Jobs, two presidents, including Bill Clinton (who was in the White House when I was born), two first ladies, Faith Hill
and
Tim McGraw (who happened to also be married—how cool is
that
?), Darryl McDaniels from Run-DMC and, as my mother sometimes pointed out, Moses and Jesus.

Yet despite my full understanding of my adoption, I didn’t give much thought to my birth mother, and even less to my birth father. It was as if they were both bit players in the whole drama, completely beside the point but for their necessary contribution of a little DNA. And I
certainly
never felt rejected because they had given me up. My parents knew nothing about my birth mother, yet always explained with certainty that she didn’t “give me up” or “give me away”—she made a
plan
for me, the best one she could make under her circumstances, whatever those were. Looking back, I think they were probably just following the advice of some adoption book, but at the time I bought it, hook, line, and sinker. If anything, I felt sorry for her, believing that I was
her
loss; she wasn’t mine.

In fact, the first time I really wondered about her with anything more than a passing curiosity was in the fifth grade when we researched our family ancestry in social studies. I did my report on Ireland, like many of the kids in my class, explaining that my father’s people came from Galway, my mother’s from Cork. Of course, I understood that they weren’t really
my
bloodlines or my ancestors—and I made no bones about that fact in my report. Most everyone knew I was adopted, as I’d been in the same school since kindergarten, and it was no big deal, simply one of those bits of trivia, like being double-jointed or having an identical twin.

So I matter-of-factly informed the class that I knew nothing about my birth mother except that she was from Chicago. I didn’t know her name, and we had never seen a photo of her, but based on my blond hair and blue eyes, I guessed that she was Scandinavian—then narrowed it to Danish, maybe because I have a sweet tooth and liked the sound of it. My classmates seemed satisfied with this theory, except for annoying Gary Rusk who raised his hand, and without waiting to be called on, asked whether I was mad at my mother and if I ever planned on tracking her down. Envisioning a bounty hunter with a rifle and a couple of bloodhounds, I exchanged a look with my best friend, Belinda Greene. Then I cleared my throat and calmly replied, “I already have a mother. And no, I’m not mad at anyone.”

The seed was planted. Maybe I
should
be mad; clearly others
would
be—at least Gary would. He pressed on with his nosy line of questioning. “Could you find her if you wanted to? Like with a private investigator?”

“No. I don’t even, like, know her
name
. So how would I find her?” I said, thinking of all the many women who must have given birth at my hospital in Chicago on April Fools’ Day 1996.

Finished with my report, I sat down, and we went on to hear about Debbie Talierco’s Italian heritage. But for the rest of the class, and all that day in school, I couldn’t shake the thought of my birth mother. I didn’t yet
want
to find her, but I kept wondering if there was even a chance that I
could
.

So that night at the dinner table, during a tedious conversation about the Gallaghers’ newly adopted Yorkie puppy and how he kept nipping their toddler, and that they really needed to show that dog who was boss, I silently rehearsed the question that Gary had posed to me, somehow anticipating that it wasn’t something my parents, particularly my mother, wanted to discuss. It was one thing when they brought it up in the context of
their
prayers being answered; I knew it would be another thing altogether for me to focus on
her.

“Why’d they get a Yorkie anyway? They should have
rescued
a dog,” Charlotte said, a tenderhearted animal lover. “I mean, it
saves
a life.”

I suddenly felt like a rescue dog myself, a total
mutt,
as I casually shook A.1. onto my pork chops, a habit I had picked up from my dad, who puts it on everything, including scrambled eggs.