Читать книгу If You Could See Me Now - Michael Mewshaw - Страница 3

One crystalline spring evening in London a long-distance call interrupted our dinner. My wife, Linda, and younger son, Marc, then sixteen, looked on as I answered the portable phone we kept near the table. Although my end of the conversation consisted mostly of monosyllables, they sensed something was wrong. They must have seen it on my face and heard the tightness in my voice. They both stopped eating and stared at me so strangely that I had to turn away from their inquiring eyes.

The call came from my sister Karen, who lives in Maryland, not far from where we grew up. My mother, now in her eighties, has a house a few blocks away from Karen, so in recent years, whenever my sister phones, I've found myself bracing for bad news. But what she had to tell me this time didn't fall neatly into the category of bad or good news, and although it caught me off guard, it had about it the sort of inevitability that attaches itself to events that you realize you've been waiting for, half in dread, half in hope, for decades.

Karen explained that she had just spoken to a woman who had called from California. "She had a very nice manner, so calm and reassuring, I assumed she was a telemarketer. She gave me her name and spelled it out for me. Then she asked me to write down her number in case we got cut off. Probably she was afraid I'd faint. That's what I felt like doing when she said, 'I have reason to believe you're my biological mother. ' "

Karen's immediate reaction had been that the poor woman had the wrong number. "It was the oddest thing, though," Karen told me. "I almost wanted to say I was her mother. She sounded so sweet and lovely, and she had such a small child-like voice, I wanted to help her. But I told her I had two kids, a girl in college, a boy in high school, and the year she said she was born in Los Angeles, I was a senior in high school right here in Maryland. "

Calmly the caller had thanked Karen and asked her to hold on to her telephone number "just in case. "

"After we hung up," Karen said, "I thought of you, Mike. "

Unnerved to have Linda and Marc looking on—even with my eyes averted I felt the weight of their gaze—I pushed away from the dinner table and retreated to the living room with the portable phone crackling static in my ear. Seen through the front windows of our fourth-floor apartment, the rooftops of Hampstead, all tiled in red, sloped toward downtown London. Amid the horizon's hard-edged geometry, the dome of St. Paul's and the British Telephone Tower were the only landmarks I recognized by name in this latest in the long line of my temporary adopted homes. For the past thirty-five years I have lived for the most part in Europe, yet have never settled down anywhere and have continued to feel connected to people and places halfway around the world.

"Weren't you in California in 1964?" Karen prompted me. "I remember something about a girl you followed there. "

My sister and I aren't usually reticent with each other. To the contrary, we have reputations in the family for speaking our minds, sometimes too bluntly. But Karen's obliqueness was meant to spare my feelings. We had never before spoken about the months I had lived in LA.

"I hope it doesn't upset you," she said," but I called this girl back. Her name's Amy. And I told her maybe she needed to talk to you. I didn't give her your name or number because I don't know what you want to do. But like I said, she sounds like such a sweet person. "

"How did she get your name?"

"I have no idea. It must have been a mistake. Maybe this has nothing to do with us. "

"Well, it certainly doesn't have anything to do with you. "

"I wish you'd tell her that, Mike, because the terrible thing is, I think she's afraid that I'm her mother and you're her father. "

I apologized for the distress this had caused her and promised to call Amy and correct any misapprehensions. Then I stayed on the line to Maryland a few minutes longer while Karen and I tried to piece together how Amy's search for her biological parents had led to my sister. Or, to be precise, to my half-sister. Even as kids we hadn't had the same last name, and now that Karen was married for the second time, the path to her should have been triply difficult to follow.

After I hung up I remained in the living room, looking out at the city. Lights were flickering on across the vast sprawl of London. I left them off in the apartment and sat in the dark, attempting to sort through a chaos of long-buried memories. Before we married, my wife had heard the story and accepted the situation. Now I wondered whether it was time to tell Marc. Or was that an excuse to postpone calling Amy?

I decided to contact her first, then speak to my son. Although neither conversation figured to be easy, I felt a curious sense of relief. Confession, Catholics believe, is healing. It's a chance to examine your conscience, review the past, and right old wrongs. In my case, it was also an opportunity to try to understand the past and to weigh honestly my responsibility for those rights and wrongs.

In California, where it was midmorning,Amy answered the phone at work. I had hoped to reach her at a home number. It wasn't just that I preferred to speak to her in privacy. I liked to imagine her as a mother in a domestic setting, fulfilled, secure. Yet even in an office, with colleagues nearby, she sounded friendly and relaxed, and assured me that this was a good time to talk. After a bit of preliminary throat clearing— profuse thanks for my calling, apologies for probing—she got down to her questions.

"Have you ever lived in LA?" she asked.

"Yes. A long time ago. "

"In 1964? I was born on Christmas Eve that year. "

"Yes, I was in California then. "

"I know this is awfully sudden and may come as a shock, but I have reason to believe you're my biological father. "

"An hour ago you told my half-sister you believed she was your mother. "

"I'm not so sure about that. "

"How sure are you about me?"

Amy didn't answer directly. Perhaps my question struck her as aggressive, and she wanted to avoid any hint of confrontation. Sounding every bit as sweet and lovely as Karen had described her, she volunteered information about herself. She told me she had been born at California Lutheran Hospital. She specified the time of her delivery and her birth weight. The Children's Home Society of California, she said, had handled her adoption, and she had grown up in the Valley. Now in her early thirties, she had had a first marriage that didn't last. It looked likely she would marry again soon, and since she hoped to have kids, she needed to learn about her family and their medical history.

"That's my primary motivation," Amy said. "I'm not looking for somebody to be my parent. I had a wonderful mother and father and a happy childhood. I don't want to barge into anybody else's life or upset you and your family. I'm not expecting a public acknowledgment of paternity. I'd just like to meet you and find my mother, but if that's not possible, I'll be satisfied with some background information and a medical history. "

When I asked Amy what she looked like, she said,"I'm five feet seven and weigh a hundred and twenty-eight pounds. My hair's straight and dark brown, and my eyes are brown too. "

"Tell him you resemble Sandra Bullock,"someone at her end shouted.

Amy laughed. "That's on a good day and in good light. But you get the picture. "

Indeed, it was a picture deeply familiar to me. Still, I hesitated to admit this or anything else. It puzzled me that she had contacted Karen. When I pressed her for an explanation, she said that new developments in adoption law had allowed her to gain limited access to data about her biological parents and the circumstances surrounding her birth. Once she received her files and what she referred to as the "nonidentifying information" from the Children's Home Society, she had hired a private investigator who turned up Karen's name.

"What about my name?" I interrupted. "Had you ever heard it before?"

She conceded that she had. During the final phase of the adoption, her adoptive mother had caught a fleeting glance of my last name on a stray document and had scribbled it down. Years later, when Amy expressed interest in finding her biological parents, her mother passed the name along. "I've known it for a long, long time," Amy said. "I've had Karen's name in my purse for over six years. It took me that long to work up the courage to call her. "

"She's not your mother," I said. "I want to stress that from the start. "

"But you are my father, aren't you? That part's true?"

I evaded the question and asked Amy to send me a photograph and a copy of the adoption files. Then I said I'd like to talk to her adoptive parents.

"My father's dead,"Amy said. "But my mother'll speak to you. I'll call and tell her she'll be hearing from you. In the meantime, won't you please let me know something about you and my biological mother? You can't imagine how hard it is not to know anything about yourself. "

Like Karen, I had a powerful urge, an almost irrational impulse, to tell Amy whatever she wanted to hear. It would be a coldhearted person who could resist helping her. Still, I held back. Hard experience had taught me caution. While as a writer I've been accused of grubbing around in people's lives, tweezing up details for my fiction or violating the privacy of friends and strangers alike for my nonfiction. I, like every author no matter how minor, have suffered intrusions and trespasses that were frightening when not downright dangerous. Nutty readers of fiction often accuse novelists of stealing their life stories and vow revenge. Sources in nonfiction sometimes believe they've been libeled and threaten legal action and physical mayhem.

In a career where the personal and professional have often overlapped, the subjects of paternity, identity and adoption have cropped up in all my books, so much so that I can no longer say whether I seek out the stories or they pursue me. Since my parents divorced when I was an infant, I suppose a psychiatrist might claim I come by my obsessions naturally. Yet there have been an amazing number of wild cards, like Amy, that have seemed to stack the deck. All during my adolescence, I lived with the fallout of a double murder committed by a friend who at the age of fifteen killed his adoptive parents. While he went to prison, his younger brother was taken in by my family. Twenty years later I wrote an account of the case and caught flack from every direction. My foster brother sued me for $6 million, and I started receiving hair-raising letters from death row inmates, renegade cops and deranged mental patients who demanded that I record their dictated memoirs.

When another grisly parricide occurred in the neighborhood—once again an adopted boy murdered his adoptive parents—police advised local newspapers that it was a copycat killing based on my book. At the time I happened to be covering a trial in Florida of a man who was convicted of killing his mother and his adopted brother. Intrigued by the case,I went on to publish a novel whose plot hinged on the suspicion that a child who was put out for adoption returns as an adult to hunt down his biological father, hell-bent on revenge, but kills the wrong man.

So, as sympathetic as I was to Amy, I thought I had good cause to proceed slowly. But she didn't agree. "Look," she said,"if there's something you're hiding, I mean if my mother's dead, you can tell me. Don't leave me guessing. Even if she's a drunk or a drug addict or a terrible person, I'd like to know, and I'd like to meet her if she's willing. I've been in a support group, ALMA—the Adoptees Liberation Movement Association—where some of my friends found out they were children born of rape or incest. No matter how bad this is, I can deal with it. "

"It's not that it's bad," I said. "Just very complicated. "

"You sound like you're protecting someone. Is it my birth mother or me?"

I couldn't bring myself to confess that I was protecting me. I had a family, a life, a precariously won equilibrium that I didn't care to risk.

"You know, I've seen your books,"Amy said. "In the pictures on the back, especially before your hair went gray, you look like me. Or I guess I look like you. Why won't you tell me who you are?"

"I'll be glad to once I find out who you are. "

From my travels in Eastern Europe, I remembered Russian dolls, each painted wooden figurine containing smaller and smaller ones. A caricature of Marx encased a miniature Lenin, then a Stalin, a Khrushchev, a Brezhnev, a Gorbachev and a Yeltsin. The symbolism suggested continuity, cause and effect, faith in a pattern and a prime pattern maker. I longed to believe in that notion—in a math or metaphysics that maps the course of life as unerringly as the trajectory of an arrow.

But in asking who I was and what I knew about her mother, Amy had uncorked a bottle that had been shelved so long I had no way of predicting whether she had released a genie or a wine that had turned to vinegar. Though bitter truth has its value, I wanted to leave Amy with more than a sour taste in her mouth. I wanted her to know that everything I might say about her mother was inseparable from the tangled skein of my own faults. And if she gleaned nothing else, I wanted her to understand that while I have regrets, I don't, I can't, I won't ever wish none of this had happened.