The Sound of Hope...a Memoir
| Excerpt from The Sound of Hope: A True Story of an Adoptee's Quest for her Origins |
|
As the distance between us lessened, my pulse quickened and I backed
away from the door in a panic. I was getting more nervous by the
second. What would I say? How should I greet her? How many times I
had longed for this moment, being reunited with the person who had
been an illusion throughout most of my life! Twenty-two years might
not seem long to an adult, but to a child, it’s an epoch.
And now the moment was here. It was happening, and there was no
time to pull myself together because the door opened and she entered
like a breath of fresh air.
The figure standing in front of me was my mother. I wasn’t able to bring
myself to look at her. My eyes were welling up with tears, so I glanced
at the floor. My body turned and I motioned with my hand for her to
follow me. It was an unnatural invitation, one made without a smile or a
handshake. She accepted it anyway and walked behind me into the
restaurant.
I was mortified at my reaction and wished I had given her a hug or at
least looked into her eyes and said hello. Instead, I concentrated solely
on trying to stop the trembling that washed over me. She must think I’m
cold and calculating, I thought. She must think I hate her. She remained
behind me and I yearned to turn around and see her face.
The hostess greeted us and led us to the back of the restaurant. My
birth mother trailed behind me, out of my sight. I heard the clickety-
clack of her shoes on the ceramic floor. A spicy odor lingered in the air
and clung to my nose as I inhaled. The room was dimly lit and I saw the
familiar sombreros hanging on the wall and the brightly colored Tiffany-
style lamps hanging in each booth. A few patrons chatted over frothy
margaritas.
Finally, as we slid into a booth, I was forced to face her. I glanced at
her, quickly taking in her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, all her features at
once. She doesn’t look anything like me, I thought with gut-wrenching
disappointment. Her hair was jet black, smooth and styled in a chin-
length bob, as she had said. It was slightly crimped and pulled back in a
barrette on one side. Her eyes, dark green, were shaped differently and
much smaller than mine. She had a soft, flawless complexion and
appeared younger than her forty-three years. Her skin was slightly
darker than mine and her features were clearly Spanish.
As we sat there in momentary silence, studying each other, I fought
back my tears and wondered what to say.
“You look like your father,” she whispered, gazing at me with
amazement and smiling.
“We don’t look anything like each other,” I heard myself murmur. I bit
down on my lip. Why did I say such a dumb thing? But she didn’t appear
affected by my awkwardness. She continued to stare at me with a
broad smile.
“I think there are a few similarities, like your lips and your nose.”
She leaned forward, trying to get a better view. “They’re shaped very
much like mine,” she pointed out.
“I guess so,” I responded, not convinced. I was beginning to doubt she
was my mother at all. Maybe the adoption agency had mixed up my file.
She reached into her purse and took out an envelope. “I have pictures
of my family,” she said, opening the envelope and taking out about a
dozen pictures. She handed me the photos.
“Thank you, I also brought some,” I said taking out my pictures and
pushing them across the table.
She sighed deeply, appearing relieved. “I’m so glad you brought these.
On the phone last night, I forgot to ask you to bring pictures of yourself
growing up.”
She began slowly looking at them, tilting her head from side to side as
she looked at each one. Her eyes were intense and focused as she came
upon a photo of me at fifteen months old. It was a professional black
and white photograph taken in my home by a photographer. She
browsed through the other photos, but kept going back to the one of me
at fifteen months.
Hands still trembling, I began to shuffle through a dozen or so pictures,
hoping to find a family member who looked like me. They were mostly
of her three children. Hesitating briefly while holding a photo of Jessica,
the four-year-old, who had beautiful long red hair and big blue eyes, I
sought desperately for a similar feature. It was taken at school and she
was sitting at a table with books in front of her. Perhaps in the eyes
there was a resemblance, I tried to convince myself. Her other two
children, Sara and Matthew, looked like each other and there was no
denying they were siblings. Their faces and noses were similar in
shape. I put the photos back in the envelope and handed them back to
her.
“Anne, those are for you to keep.”
“Thank you.” I placed them on the table in front of me. “You can keep
mine as well.”
Smiling, she handed me a faded white folder marked West Point Hotel
in large letters. When I opened it, I saw a picture of a group of people
sitting around a table.
“See if you can pick out your father.”
I noticed she was in the forefront of the photo and a man sat alongside.
He could not possibly be my father, I thought to myself. He had a large
pointed nose and his head was shaped differently than mine.
“He’s not sitting with me,” she added with a playful laugh.
I glanced at the others in the picture and then my eyes focused on a
man sitting on the opposite side of the table. It was my father.
I looked exactly like him.
And what astounded me the most was the way his eyes stared up at me
from the photo, they were haunting, telling me I had seen those same
eyes every time I looked in a mirror. They were my eyes. There were
no words to express my astonishment at finally seeing someone I
resembled. My mouth practically hung open, while I marveled at the
striking similarities. Any uncertainty about our being related was put to
rest. He was my father and she was my mother.
“I haven’t been in contact with him since 1966,” she reminded me as I
studied his features in the photo. “We were dance partners at the studio
where we worked together. We were at a competition in this picture,”
she said, pointing to the front of the photo holder. “It was at the West
Point Hotel in upstate New York.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded paper. “This is the
program from that evening. See my name printed here.” Her finger
scrolled a list of names until it reached her name, Josephine
Wood.
“This was my professional name,” she explained, and then laughed.
“In those days teachers had different names so that male students
wouldn’t be able to call and ask for dates.” She sighed deeply and said,
“Jon was very nice and I guess I did have a small crush on him.”
I concentrated on the photo of my father. “You’re right,” I said,
suddenly finding words. “He does look like me. I can especially see it in
the eyes. He has large, sleepy eyes with gray bags under them. I can
remember as a child, my parents commenting about how I looked so
tired all the time, with the bags under my eyes. I’d run to a mirror to
see what they were talking about, but I never saw any bags under
them.”
She laughed and said, “His eyes were green like mine.”
“Yes, I read that in the letter from the Catholic Charities.”
“Do you have that letter with you?” she asked, suddenly losing her
smile. “I’d like to read it, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes. I’m not sure why I even brought it with me, but I stuck it
alongside the photos before leaving my house.” I reached into my purse.
“I’m just curious what they told you about me and all.” She took it from
me almost reluctantly, and as her eyes scanned each sentence, her face
became sullen. I was sure she was going to cry, but she didn’t.
“They didn’t make me look too good…” her voice broke.
“They were just providing the basic facts,” I said, taking care to sound
reassuring even though I had thought the same thing upon first reading
it. It was a cold, impersonal letter, making her sound like a selfish
mother, and I wished I hadn’t brought it along.
Her eyes remained on the paper. “I know, but still, it sounds as if I didn’
t care.” Her voice trailed away. She folded the letter and handed it back
to me across the table.
“I didn’t think that,” I said warmly. “Thank you for letting me see this,”
I said, handing her the photograph of my father. “I was hoping you
would have a picture of him.”
“You can keep the photo.”
“Thank you.” I put it on top of the other photos in front of me.
She forced a weak smile. “Do you have any questions for me?”
Before I could answer, the waiter came over to take our order. We
asked for two diet Cokes and he suggested we try the nacho appetizer.
I tried to formulate a question, but nothing came to mind. Finally,
slightly embarrassed, I said, “I have so many questions I want to ask
you, but right now I’m drawing a blank.”
Again the tears were welling in my eyes, and there was a lump in my
throat. Jo, however, seemed completely relaxed and was smiling easily.
This was not the way I had imagined myself at our first meeting. I
should have been excited and overjoyed, but all I could think of was the
many years we were apart, never knowing each other’s names. That
thought gripped me.
“Maybe we should have written down the questions beforehand,” she
suggested with a small laugh.
“Yes.”
“I have so many questions I want to ask you, but I’m also drawing a
blank. When I’m home, I’m going to write them down so I don’t forget.”
I nodded my head again, trying to read the expression in her face. Was
she upset too? Did she too feel the intense sadness? It was hard to tell
as I searched her eyes for an answer. She seemed so cheerful as she
gazed at me, her expression frozen in a fixed smile. It made me
uncomfortable.
Excusing myself to go to the ladies room, I tried desperately to pull
myself together. I splashed water on my face and blotted it dry with a
paper towel, inadvertently removing some of my makeup. My skin
looked pale and blotchy. I could only imagine what she was thinking of
me.
After calming down I returned to the table, more relaxed and ready to
face her again. Sliding into my seat, I eyed the nacho appetizer, sitting
tantalizingly in the center of our table. Normally I would have polished
off at least half of it, but my stomach was still in knots. Neither of us
touched the nachos.
There was an uncomfortable silence, until she said, “I do have
something else to give you.” She reached into her purse, retrieved a
folded piece of notebook paper and handed it to me. “It’s something I
scribbled down a few years ago.”
It looked as if it had been hastily torn out of a spiral notebook. “Read it
later on, not now. I almost decided to throw it away and not give it to
you,” she said, her voice cracking, “but I think you should have it.”
“Okay.” I placed the paper underneath my pile of photos.
“I wrote it a few years ago,” she repeated. “I never thought I would be
giving it to you someday.” Her cheerfulness had vanished, and she
glanced dully at the photos I’d given her. After fumbling with the pile,
trying to arrange them in some order, she looked me straight in the eye
and said, “What are your intentions regarding me?” She stiffened in her
seat, waiting for a reply.
Her question took me by surprise. What did she want me to say? It was
hard to tell; her expression was blank, her eyes wide with anticipation.
I paused, trying to think of an answer as close to the truth as possible.
away from the door in a panic. I was getting more nervous by the
second. What would I say? How should I greet her? How many times I
had longed for this moment, being reunited with the person who had
been an illusion throughout most of my life! Twenty-two years might
not seem long to an adult, but to a child, it’s an epoch.
And now the moment was here. It was happening, and there was no
time to pull myself together because the door opened and she entered
like a breath of fresh air.
The figure standing in front of me was my mother. I wasn’t able to bring
myself to look at her. My eyes were welling up with tears, so I glanced
at the floor. My body turned and I motioned with my hand for her to
follow me. It was an unnatural invitation, one made without a smile or a
handshake. She accepted it anyway and walked behind me into the
restaurant.
I was mortified at my reaction and wished I had given her a hug or at
least looked into her eyes and said hello. Instead, I concentrated solely
on trying to stop the trembling that washed over me. She must think I’m
cold and calculating, I thought. She must think I hate her. She remained
behind me and I yearned to turn around and see her face.
The hostess greeted us and led us to the back of the restaurant. My
birth mother trailed behind me, out of my sight. I heard the clickety-
clack of her shoes on the ceramic floor. A spicy odor lingered in the air
and clung to my nose as I inhaled. The room was dimly lit and I saw the
familiar sombreros hanging on the wall and the brightly colored Tiffany-
style lamps hanging in each booth. A few patrons chatted over frothy
margaritas.
Finally, as we slid into a booth, I was forced to face her. I glanced at
her, quickly taking in her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, all her features at
once. She doesn’t look anything like me, I thought with gut-wrenching
disappointment. Her hair was jet black, smooth and styled in a chin-
length bob, as she had said. It was slightly crimped and pulled back in a
barrette on one side. Her eyes, dark green, were shaped differently and
much smaller than mine. She had a soft, flawless complexion and
appeared younger than her forty-three years. Her skin was slightly
darker than mine and her features were clearly Spanish.
As we sat there in momentary silence, studying each other, I fought
back my tears and wondered what to say.
“You look like your father,” she whispered, gazing at me with
amazement and smiling.
“We don’t look anything like each other,” I heard myself murmur. I bit
down on my lip. Why did I say such a dumb thing? But she didn’t appear
affected by my awkwardness. She continued to stare at me with a
broad smile.
“I think there are a few similarities, like your lips and your nose.”
She leaned forward, trying to get a better view. “They’re shaped very
much like mine,” she pointed out.
“I guess so,” I responded, not convinced. I was beginning to doubt she
was my mother at all. Maybe the adoption agency had mixed up my file.
She reached into her purse and took out an envelope. “I have pictures
of my family,” she said, opening the envelope and taking out about a
dozen pictures. She handed me the photos.
“Thank you, I also brought some,” I said taking out my pictures and
pushing them across the table.
She sighed deeply, appearing relieved. “I’m so glad you brought these.
On the phone last night, I forgot to ask you to bring pictures of yourself
growing up.”
She began slowly looking at them, tilting her head from side to side as
she looked at each one. Her eyes were intense and focused as she came
upon a photo of me at fifteen months old. It was a professional black
and white photograph taken in my home by a photographer. She
browsed through the other photos, but kept going back to the one of me
at fifteen months.
Hands still trembling, I began to shuffle through a dozen or so pictures,
hoping to find a family member who looked like me. They were mostly
of her three children. Hesitating briefly while holding a photo of Jessica,
the four-year-old, who had beautiful long red hair and big blue eyes, I
sought desperately for a similar feature. It was taken at school and she
was sitting at a table with books in front of her. Perhaps in the eyes
there was a resemblance, I tried to convince myself. Her other two
children, Sara and Matthew, looked like each other and there was no
denying they were siblings. Their faces and noses were similar in
shape. I put the photos back in the envelope and handed them back to
her.
“Anne, those are for you to keep.”
“Thank you.” I placed them on the table in front of me. “You can keep
mine as well.”
Smiling, she handed me a faded white folder marked West Point Hotel
in large letters. When I opened it, I saw a picture of a group of people
sitting around a table.
“See if you can pick out your father.”
I noticed she was in the forefront of the photo and a man sat alongside.
He could not possibly be my father, I thought to myself. He had a large
pointed nose and his head was shaped differently than mine.
“He’s not sitting with me,” she added with a playful laugh.
I glanced at the others in the picture and then my eyes focused on a
man sitting on the opposite side of the table. It was my father.
I looked exactly like him.
And what astounded me the most was the way his eyes stared up at me
from the photo, they were haunting, telling me I had seen those same
eyes every time I looked in a mirror. They were my eyes. There were
no words to express my astonishment at finally seeing someone I
resembled. My mouth practically hung open, while I marveled at the
striking similarities. Any uncertainty about our being related was put to
rest. He was my father and she was my mother.
“I haven’t been in contact with him since 1966,” she reminded me as I
studied his features in the photo. “We were dance partners at the studio
where we worked together. We were at a competition in this picture,”
she said, pointing to the front of the photo holder. “It was at the West
Point Hotel in upstate New York.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded paper. “This is the
program from that evening. See my name printed here.” Her finger
scrolled a list of names until it reached her name, Josephine
Wood.
“This was my professional name,” she explained, and then laughed.
“In those days teachers had different names so that male students
wouldn’t be able to call and ask for dates.” She sighed deeply and said,
“Jon was very nice and I guess I did have a small crush on him.”
I concentrated on the photo of my father. “You’re right,” I said,
suddenly finding words. “He does look like me. I can especially see it in
the eyes. He has large, sleepy eyes with gray bags under them. I can
remember as a child, my parents commenting about how I looked so
tired all the time, with the bags under my eyes. I’d run to a mirror to
see what they were talking about, but I never saw any bags under
them.”
She laughed and said, “His eyes were green like mine.”
“Yes, I read that in the letter from the Catholic Charities.”
“Do you have that letter with you?” she asked, suddenly losing her
smile. “I’d like to read it, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes. I’m not sure why I even brought it with me, but I stuck it
alongside the photos before leaving my house.” I reached into my purse.
“I’m just curious what they told you about me and all.” She took it from
me almost reluctantly, and as her eyes scanned each sentence, her face
became sullen. I was sure she was going to cry, but she didn’t.
“They didn’t make me look too good…” her voice broke.
“They were just providing the basic facts,” I said, taking care to sound
reassuring even though I had thought the same thing upon first reading
it. It was a cold, impersonal letter, making her sound like a selfish
mother, and I wished I hadn’t brought it along.
Her eyes remained on the paper. “I know, but still, it sounds as if I didn’
t care.” Her voice trailed away. She folded the letter and handed it back
to me across the table.
“I didn’t think that,” I said warmly. “Thank you for letting me see this,”
I said, handing her the photograph of my father. “I was hoping you
would have a picture of him.”
“You can keep the photo.”
“Thank you.” I put it on top of the other photos in front of me.
She forced a weak smile. “Do you have any questions for me?”
Before I could answer, the waiter came over to take our order. We
asked for two diet Cokes and he suggested we try the nacho appetizer.
I tried to formulate a question, but nothing came to mind. Finally,
slightly embarrassed, I said, “I have so many questions I want to ask
you, but right now I’m drawing a blank.”
Again the tears were welling in my eyes, and there was a lump in my
throat. Jo, however, seemed completely relaxed and was smiling easily.
This was not the way I had imagined myself at our first meeting. I
should have been excited and overjoyed, but all I could think of was the
many years we were apart, never knowing each other’s names. That
thought gripped me.
“Maybe we should have written down the questions beforehand,” she
suggested with a small laugh.
“Yes.”
“I have so many questions I want to ask you, but I’m also drawing a
blank. When I’m home, I’m going to write them down so I don’t forget.”
I nodded my head again, trying to read the expression in her face. Was
she upset too? Did she too feel the intense sadness? It was hard to tell
as I searched her eyes for an answer. She seemed so cheerful as she
gazed at me, her expression frozen in a fixed smile. It made me
uncomfortable.
Excusing myself to go to the ladies room, I tried desperately to pull
myself together. I splashed water on my face and blotted it dry with a
paper towel, inadvertently removing some of my makeup. My skin
looked pale and blotchy. I could only imagine what she was thinking of
me.
After calming down I returned to the table, more relaxed and ready to
face her again. Sliding into my seat, I eyed the nacho appetizer, sitting
tantalizingly in the center of our table. Normally I would have polished
off at least half of it, but my stomach was still in knots. Neither of us
touched the nachos.
There was an uncomfortable silence, until she said, “I do have
something else to give you.” She reached into her purse, retrieved a
folded piece of notebook paper and handed it to me. “It’s something I
scribbled down a few years ago.”
It looked as if it had been hastily torn out of a spiral notebook. “Read it
later on, not now. I almost decided to throw it away and not give it to
you,” she said, her voice cracking, “but I think you should have it.”
“Okay.” I placed the paper underneath my pile of photos.
“I wrote it a few years ago,” she repeated. “I never thought I would be
giving it to you someday.” Her cheerfulness had vanished, and she
glanced dully at the photos I’d given her. After fumbling with the pile,
trying to arrange them in some order, she looked me straight in the eye
and said, “What are your intentions regarding me?” She stiffened in her
seat, waiting for a reply.
Her question took me by surprise. What did she want me to say? It was
hard to tell; her expression was blank, her eyes wide with anticipation.
I paused, trying to think of an answer as close to the truth as possible.