When You Never Said Goodbye Read online

  When You Never

  Said Goodbye

  An Adoptee’s Search for Her Birth Mother

  A NOVEL IN POEMS AND JOURNAL ENTRIES

  Meg Kearney

  For Elizabeth Ann Smith,

  one last time

  (1938–1983)

  Contents

  Prologue: Song of My 18th Year

  _______

  Poems and Journal Entries

  _______

  The Story Behind the Novel

  Notes

  Lyrics to the Song “When You Never Said Goodbye”

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Adjusting type size may change line breaks. Landscape mode may help to preserve line breaks.

  When You Never Said Goodbye

  Prologue: Song of My 18th Year

  Back when my heart was a little red jewel—

  before my longings or long limbs were formed—

  my mother, just nineteen, was fated to choose:

  should she keep me, or give me away.

  Now people say I’m a fact-blind fool. She did

  what she did—why search for her now? I have

  a blessed life. I’m still young, still in school.

  She’s a secret, and should stay that way.

  But I’m a seeker of the past—sometimes

  a breaker of rules. Maybe, just maybe

  I am like her: brown curls and brown eyes

  now two of the clues. And maybe, I say,

  she’s a seeker, too.

  Now Two Haunt My Holidays

  It’s Christmas Eve. Already into the gin,

  my brother Bob attempts to make us all

  laugh while the turkey bakes. “What

  comes before Christmas Eve?” Kate,

  my chef-sister, makes gravy, rolls

  her eyes. I don’t. At least Bob’s trying.

  “Okay, what?” I ask. Mom sips tea,

  focused on my father’s ghost. He lingers

  in this kitchen like bright, ethereal

  moonlight. It takes away our appetites.

  As if Mom isn’t thin enough. “Christmas

  Adam!” Bob says. I hear Kate groan but

  I just want to cry. Dad was the king

  of corny jokes. It is our first Christmas

  without him. It used to be just my birth

  mother who hovered over holidays,

  silent and faceless. Like an outcast

  no one would name. But not a ghost.

  Not dead. Not like Dad. I might meet

  her, someday. But Dad? Never again.

  “Let’s be thankful,” Mom finally says,

  “that we had him at all.” We nod. Amen.

  Journal Entry #2162: Day After Christmas

  I thought my birth mother might be my Christmas present. That turned out to be like waiting for the real Santa Claus to show.

  It’s been 121 days since I registered. All three sites—International Soundex, the Adoptees’ Liberty Movement Association, and the one in NY State—said it could take days, or it could take months before a match is made with my birth mother. That is IF, if she’s registered, too. But with each passing day, I doubt more and more that she is.

  How did I go from being a kid who loves Christmas to being a college student who almost dreads it? Even seeing Tim yesterday soothed but didn’t cheer me. He gave me a silver bracelet and a kiss that tasted like hot chocolate, and all I could do was weep on his new blue button-down.

  We all went to morning Mass—Mom, Kate, Bob, and I—and tried to sing “Silent Night” and “Come Let Us Adore Him”—Dad’s favorite hymns. Back home again, carols just annoyed us. We stared at the blinking tree, hesitated to open gifts as if each one was a toy we knew was broken. That’s when the idea came to me. Over dinner I said, “We don’t need a tree or carols or a Yule log. What we need is a dog.”

  Everyone agreed. We do need furry, four-legged joy. We need wet, sloppy kisses and excuses to take long walks along our snowy road. Today we climbed in Mom’s car, drove to our local shelter, and came home with a boy named Butter. So another adoptee with a mystery for a past has joined this fatherless family.

  It’s good timing, getting Butter. Kate took the 3:42 train back to the city, and Bob flies to CA tomorrow. Mom and I leave for NYU on Sunday, then she’ll head back home to New Hook to what would have been an empty house—but won’t be, thanks to the puppy. And I’ll be in New York. THE place to be a poet. The last place I saw my birth mother. Okay, I was only five months old when she gave me up. But the poet Stanley Kunitz said “the blood remembers” such things. My blood remembers. That will help me find her. It must.

  Lucky

  Dog breath—that’s what I wake to—Butter

  thumping his paws on the edge of my bed,

  licking me to death.Where am I?

  Right. I’m home.And the time?

  After nine! Tim is coming at ten so we can

  spend the day. (He goes away again

  tomorrow—some golf thing.) Swinging

  my legs out of bed, I thank Butter with a kiss

  on his head, then run for the shower.

  Florida sun has deepened Tim’s half-

  Mexican skin to the dark copper of an old

  penny. Plenty of girls must be after you,

  I think as Butter and I greet him at the door.

  Tim’s hug feels better than I’d hoped for;

  his kiss, more welcome than a woodstove

  in winter. He offers a hand to Butter, who

  sits down to shake it. “Let me know if you

  want me to take this dog to Miami,” Tim

  teases Mom, who’s come from the kitchen

  to say hello. She’s wearing the new scarf

  I gave her for Christmas, all greens and blues

  to accent her auburn hair. “Apparently

  he’s already earned his degree,” Mom says,

  then asks about Tim’s father and brother

  George. Tim tells her about George’s new

  wheelchair, a special kind that rolls on sand

  so they can bring him to the beach. I sneak

  a stare at Tim while he speaks—his jeans,

  his cream fisherman’s net sweater that shows

  off his tan. Is this man really with me?

  We head out to snowshoe at the State Park,

  and I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror

  by the door. My new black sweater doesn’t

  help—I’m white as paper. Church-white

  with monk-brown curls. You, I silently tell

  my reflection, are one lucky girl.

  Haiku for Tim: Snowshoeing,

  Catskill Mountain State Park

  Pine scent, cardinal

  on a birch branch. Remember?

  Your lips, blue as snow.

  Off to College, Take 2

  Once again my Subaru’s jammed with stuff

  I’m bringing to college, only this time we had

  to leave enough room for Butter on the back-

  seat. Once again my friend Jan is here to see

  me off, laughing as Mom bugs me about

  the back window being blocked by pillows

  and bags, only this time our friend Jade is

  here, too, wishing me luck at NYU. Once

  again I climb into the driver’s seat, Mom

  beside me with her tea. Once again friends

  wave as I beep and drive away, then lightly

  touch my charm necklace to make sure it’s

  still there—only this time neither Mom nor

  I say we wish Dad were here, too. He is.

  And so am I, pants Butter, plant
ing kisses

  in my ear.

  The Other Me (Or, Why I’m Going to New York Instead of Back to Syracuse University)

  The Other Me was at SU three weeks when she realized

  my mistake. Instead of following my head as she always

  does, she should’ve followed my heart’s ache, as the other

  Other Me would make me do. At SU I thought I’d become

  a reporter—make a living by being a writer for a newspaper

  or TV. It took Journalism 101 to discover (make that, whack

  me over the head with) Rule Number One: “stick to the facts.”

  In poems, you can make things up as long as what you say

  is true. I’m an aspiring poet—what could I do? Transfer

  to NYU. What better place to grow in my art than

  Manhattan? And what better place to learn where I came

  from than the city where I was born? So here I am, following

  my heart. (And yes, birth mother, following you.)

  Doesn’t It Figure

  Doesn’t it figure—

  we’re already on

  the West Side

  Highway—Mom’s

  driving now—we’re

  in Manhattan, nearly

  there when somehow

  she decides to say,

  “I suppose you haven’t

  heard from any

  registries? It’s been

  a while since I’ve

  asked.” Three weeks,

  I think, but just say

  “No,” gaze at the bleak

  morning haze. “Didn’t

  think so,” Mom says,

  but she doesn’t let it

  go. “I wonder—after

  the fall you’ve had—”

  (All I need is a lecture,

  I think, watching

  the streets plus her

  from the corner of one

  eye.) “Maybe you

  should just focus

  on your studies? Forget

  about registries for

  a while?” She tries

  to smile. “Forty-second

  Street,” I say, as in

  someone’s watching

  where we’re going.

  I try to keep calm.

  “Right—we’ll go left

  on Fourteenth,” she

  responds with a mock

  kind of brightness, like

  a nightlight in a dungeon.

  “So, what do you think?”

  That you need to see

  a shrink? I want to say. . .

  Don’t go there. I swear

  I try to stop myself, even

  wave one hand as if to

  clear the air, but still I

  blurt, “You don’t get it.

  You say you do, but you

  don’t. Kate didn’t at first.

  Only Dad. He would have

  totally supported me, this

  search!” Mom’s face

  looks wooden and red

  as if I’d slapped it.

  Which I kind of did,

  mentioning Dad like that.

  But what did she expect?

  Now we’re both wrecks.

  A kind of sadness fills

  my veins like poison sap.

  Butter whimper-groans

  from the back seat. “Good

  Butter,” Mom soothes, but

  won’t look at me. We turn

  left on Fourteenth Street,

  right on Hudson, Bleecker—

  I should be psyched, about

  to meet my roommate Rhett,

  about to start my dream.

  Instead my cheeks are wet;

  my heart feels like a sun about

  to set. “Left,” I instruct, my

  voice tinged with regret. “I’m

  sorry, Lizzie—this isn’t how

  I want to leave you, and I only

  meant—” “I know,” I say,

  determined not to pout, spirits

  slightly rising as we turn

  right on Washington Square

  South, then left and here we

  are with a zillion other cars

  at Goddard Hall. Mom stops

  the car; Butter’s panting—he

  sees trees. Mom turns to look

  at me. “I do understand,

  Lizzie, and I love you. Only—

  I worry.” Her voice is shaky.

  As we hug I whisper that

  I love her, too, and now Butter

  tries to join us, head popping

  between our seats. Mom

  slips him a treat as we laugh,

  relieved we haven’t totally

  destroyed this day. Now

  I can’t believe we’re here.

  “End of the road for me,”

  I tell Butter, scratching his ears.

  Hello, New York; Hello, Rhett Gilbert Driskell

  I.

  Parking lot. Tail-gate party. Traffic-

  jam. Flea market. Washington Square

  East could be any of these. Cars line up

  on both sides of the street, purple

  and white balloons flounce in the breeze

  above matching fabric signs that read

  “GODDARD HALL:

  NYU WELCOMES YOU.”

  Dressed in jeans, heels, and NYU

  sweatshirts (even though it’s freezing),

  three girls go by rolling huge plastic

  buckets filled with duffel bags and boxes;

  two more carry big shopping bags

  decorated with reindeer and elves.

  Beyond them, a boy in a Stoned Crows

  T-shirt pulls a suitcase while nearby

  a man hugs a girl goodbye. I stare

  amazed as a guy with purple spiked

  hair glides by playing something

  classical on a violin. While Mom takes

  Butter to the park for a “break” (Butter

  sniffing every bit of ground, every

  mound of dirty snow), I try to shake

  off our little tiff—how weird things

  get when we talk about my search—

  and again take in the fact that I’m here.

  II.

  “You should have seen it last fall,”

  a voice with a tiny drawl says. “You

  never would’ve scored a spot this fast.”

  Twirling around, I see a girl with stylish

  red glasses, dark hair as straight and short

  as mine is curly and long. “Rhett?”

  I’m sure she is but—I try to decide

  whether she’s five feet one or two.

  (My Tall Girl Syndrome means I always

  try to take a mental measure.) “You

  didn’t guess I’m so vertically challenged,”

  she says, smiling. An Indian man walks by,

  a suitcase in each hand. “You look just like

  your picture, Liz.” She offers her hand to

  shake, but we hug instead. She smells

  expensive, like Chanel. “I know your

  voice from all our calls,” I say, “and saw

  your picture on Facebook—” I hesitate,

  unsure. “It’s the glasses,” Rhett explains,

  touching one finger to the scarlet frame.

  “I was too tired to put in my eyes.” That’s

  what Kate calls her contacts, so I’m not

  confused. Walking full around my car

  she asks no one in particular, “Where

  to begin?” “It doesn’t matter,” I answer,

  glancing toward the park, “but first you

  need to meet Mom. And Butter.”

  Journal Entry #2163:

  From Handwritten Notes Taken During

  Rhett’s Unofficial Tour of Goddard Hall

  It’s like being one of a few bees left in a hive, knowing more than half my fellow bees are some
where warm, doing their flower thing. But they’ll be back for spring . . . the rest of us are here for January Term.

  About 200 Freshmen (and women!) live here, mostly English/Liberal Studies majors.

  Rhett claims: “Nice people, tight community!” “City excursions!” “Theater, museums, poetry readings!” Most people hang out in the hallways of each floor @ night . . . which floor depends on your mood/interests.

  7th Floor (where we live):

  Quiet, most private. Window in hall: can see Washington Square Park, kind of. Walls are a happy-face yellow. Smell of burned popcorn.

  6th Floor:

  Intellectuals congregate here, talk politics (political science minors), world history, food/cooking, comic books & graphic novels. Avoid talk of sports, especially if you’re from New England (Red Sox, Patriots + Yankees, Giants = fights worse than ones about religion). Odor of antiseptic? Poster of Michelle Obama on somebody’s door.

  5th Floor:

  Only quiet because it’s noon on Saturday & January Term. Come here for arts & crafts (origami—at least 1,000 paper swans taped to a bulletin board). Pictionary, concerts (violins, guitars, African drums, mandolins).

  Smell of oranges, antiseptic. Floors just cleaned? Someone burning (unauthorized) candles?

  4th Floor: “Still discovering its raison d’être.*”—Rhett

  * Looked this up: means “reason for existence.”

  Fashion shows (something Japanese?), séances, hip-hop/rap, chess, cheese doodles, face painting, thumb wrestling. Rumor: ballroom dancing this spring.

  That antiseptic smell covering up sweat. Note on someone’s door: “BEWARE OF ZOMBIES ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.”

  3rd Floor:

  “Party Central,” by vote last October, post-11 p.m. nightly except Mondays. Alcohol not allowed but “we make do.” Lots of music here, too. “And cute guys.”

  Two doors show off Mind of Snow posters, one signed by the band. A mop leans against the wall. I think I smell pot, but the smell of coffee overpowers everything else.

  2nd Floor:

  “Study hall.” “Study buddies.” Serious students—usually lots here. If you need quiet/solo focus, go to library or 7th floor. Guy named Calvin hangs here a lot but lives on 3 and I should meet him (!?). Lots of doors have posters: Einstein; bottom half of a head with daisies growing out of the top; Charlie Chaplin; some guy with a cello; B.G. Parker, lead singer of Boston Cure.