The Sound of Hope...a Memoir
It was when I was nearly five years old, the world shook beneath my feet. It
was a sweltering day in August 1970. I was standing next to my Aunt Lorraine
with my hand pressed firmly on her protruding belly. She was one of Mom’s
younger sisters and was nine months pregnant, a week past her due date and
in no mood for the likes of me, an inquisitive little girl completely enchanted
with the idea of a live baby inside her belly.
My mother and grandmother were sitting like bookends on Grandma’s love
seat, each holding a cold glass of iced tea in one hand and a lit cigarette in the
other. Aunt Lorraine, whose belly was so far out she couldn’t even tie her own
shoelaces, was sprawled out on the couch across from them, fanning herself
with a Good Housekeeping magazine while the only fan we owned oscillated in
front of her. The three of them wanted nothing more than to be left in peace.
“Don’t press too hard, Annie,” Aunt Lorraine warned, “you might hurt the
baby.” From the glare on her face it was clear she reached her limits with me.
“There it is again!” I exclaimed, my eyes dancing with delight. “The baby just
kicked. Did you feel that, Aunt Lorraine?” I kept my hand steady on her belly
but my legs were bouncing with excitement as I waited for another movement.
Aunt Lorraine smiled. “Of course. I feel it every time the baby kicks, but I feel
it from the inside.”
“So is a baby really in there?” I asked, not fully believing it.
“Yes, Annie.”
“How come you don’t need to pick out your baby? Mommy and Daddy went to
the special nursery and picked me out. They said there were lots of babies that
needed to be adopted and…”
“Annie! Stop talking so fast,” Mommy scolded.
I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oops… I forgot. ” Ever since I could talk,
the words came out as fast as lightening, in fact, everything I did was super
fast. I was full of energy and forever running, shouting and moving. I drove
everybody crazy. By the time I was three, my parents had had enough. Where
was the sweet, quiet little girl who was supposed to sit nicely all day and play
with her dolls? Mom, after reaching her wits end, asked my pediatrician for a
medication to calm me down. He refused and told her to enroll me in ballet
classes to help release the excess energy. I started ballet the following week,
but it hardly had the effect the doctor promised, my parents still constantly
reminded me to slow down.
Aunt Lorraine still hadn’t answered my question and I remained with my hand
cupped over my mouth with wide eyes, waiting.
Sighing, Aunt Lorraine finally answered. “No, we don’t need to pick out our
baby.”
My legs stopped bouncing. “Why not?”
Aunt Lorraine glanced inquisitively at Mommy, who shrugged her shoulders as
if to say, you’re on your own with this one. “No,” Aunt Lorraine said, turning
back to me. “It’s already here in my stomach. Hopefully the baby is going to
come out soon.” She adjusted the pillow behind her back. “Then the baby will
stay in the nursery until we both come home.”
“Like the nursery I was in, like Thomas and Brian too,” I told her.
“Annie,” Mommy interrupted. “You know what I told you before. When your
father and I decided that we wanted a baby, we called the adoption agency
and they told us to come to the special nursery. That’s how you, Thomas and
Brian were adopted.” The answer was given in a brisk, matter-of-fact way, as
if she were referring to picking out a dog at the pound.
I looked at Mommy. “But how did I get to the special nursery?”
She puffed deeply on her cigarette. “Another woman gave birth to you. She
brought you to the special nursery and then we came and took you home.”
“So I was in someone else’s belly?” I asked, for the first time realizing that not
everyone was adopted. Up till then, in my fleeting thoughts, I always pictured
parents going to a big room where newborn babies wrapped securely in
receiving blankets were all lined up, waiting patiently. I never thought about
how the babies actually got to the nursery, having only picturing the parents
arriving, then looking over all the babies like slabs of meat arranged in a deli
counter.
“Yes, you were inside another mother’s belly,” Mommy muttered, as if she
hated to admit this fact. “After you were born you were adopted like Thomas
and Brian were.”
“So Aunt Lorraine’s baby won’t be adopted?”
“No!” Mommy, Grandma and Aunt Lorraine said in unison.
Another piece of the puzzle slid into place. “Not all babies are brought to the
nursery to be adopted?” I asked, tilting my head to the side. It wasn’t so much
a question but a statement needing confirmation.
“No, not all babies. Only the ones whose original mothers decide they can’t
keep them,” Mommy said, stressing this fact. “Only Thomas, Brian and you are
adopted.”
My vision of everybody being adopted exploded. Trembling and feeling sick to
my stomach, I slid down to my knees on the floor.
“After we saw your father and I decided that we wanted to keep you.”
“Oh yes,” Grandma smiled, reaching toward the ashtray on the coffee table.
“You were so tiny.” She tapped her cigarette and a long ash dropped off. “And
you cried so much and so loud that Thomas asked if we could pick out a quieter
baby,” she cackled.
I looked at Mommy, then at Grandma. “Why can’t I see the mother who had
me in her belly? Where is she?”
“We don’t know where she is, Annie,” Mommy said, shaking her head and
glancing at Grandma.
Grandma shrugged. “After she decided to give you up she wasn’t allowed to
see you,” she said simply.
I rested my back against the couch, reflecting on this revelation. Then a
moment later I jumped back to my feet. “Why not?” I demanded. “Why can’t
she see me?”
I tried to picture what she looked like, but the only thing that came to mind
was a picture of a woman veiled in dark gray. Immediately an aura of mystery
formed about this phantom mother of mine—my other mother. I wanted to see
her.
My urgent question met with silence. The women just sat there watching the
smoke from their cigarettes drift toward the fan.
There was no valid answer for my question. When I was adopted in 1966, the
adoption process was kept closed in most states. The state where I was born,
New Jersey, sealed the original birth certificate containing my birth name after
the adoption became legal. From that day on, history was rewritten and I was
considered to be the natural child of my adoptive parents. Nobody, not even a
court of law, was allowed to unseal or view the original document.
I glanced at Aunt Lorraine on the couch, still fanning herself with the
magazine. “Oh, this heat is unbearable,” she moaned. “Why can’t this baby be
born?”
“The baby will come when it’s good and ready. You can’t rush these things,”
Grandma said knowingly. “You were born late, Lorraine, eleven days past
your due date.”
I looked over in Mommy’s direction. “Was I born late?”
Mommy rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know… I think they told me you were
born right on time.” She gulped the remainder of her iced tea.
The day I realized I had two mothers, I was cut in half. One mother had had
me in her belly and brought me to the special nursery, while this mother I
called Mommy took me home from the nursery to live. One half of myself
resided here with my family. The other half was lost, lost to a shadowy woman
floating somewhere out there in the world.
The story about how I became a part of my family finally sank in. I truly
understood what it was to be adopted and this realization entered like a
charging bull, taking hold of my naïve preconceptions and throwing them to the
wind. It left me feeling half naked, as if I was missing some part of myself. But
the lasting impression was as clear as a bright sunny day: My brothers and I
were different from everyone else. We were adopted.
Little did I know, at such a ripe young age, that I had only scratched the
surface of the mystery of my origins. But deep inside, I was sure of one thing:
No secret could be kept forever.
was a sweltering day in August 1970. I was standing next to my Aunt Lorraine
with my hand pressed firmly on her protruding belly. She was one of Mom’s
younger sisters and was nine months pregnant, a week past her due date and
in no mood for the likes of me, an inquisitive little girl completely enchanted
with the idea of a live baby inside her belly.
My mother and grandmother were sitting like bookends on Grandma’s love
seat, each holding a cold glass of iced tea in one hand and a lit cigarette in the
other. Aunt Lorraine, whose belly was so far out she couldn’t even tie her own
shoelaces, was sprawled out on the couch across from them, fanning herself
with a Good Housekeeping magazine while the only fan we owned oscillated in
front of her. The three of them wanted nothing more than to be left in peace.
“Don’t press too hard, Annie,” Aunt Lorraine warned, “you might hurt the
baby.” From the glare on her face it was clear she reached her limits with me.
“There it is again!” I exclaimed, my eyes dancing with delight. “The baby just
kicked. Did you feel that, Aunt Lorraine?” I kept my hand steady on her belly
but my legs were bouncing with excitement as I waited for another movement.
Aunt Lorraine smiled. “Of course. I feel it every time the baby kicks, but I feel
it from the inside.”
“So is a baby really in there?” I asked, not fully believing it.
“Yes, Annie.”
“How come you don’t need to pick out your baby? Mommy and Daddy went to
the special nursery and picked me out. They said there were lots of babies that
needed to be adopted and…”
“Annie! Stop talking so fast,” Mommy scolded.
I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oops… I forgot. ” Ever since I could talk,
the words came out as fast as lightening, in fact, everything I did was super
fast. I was full of energy and forever running, shouting and moving. I drove
everybody crazy. By the time I was three, my parents had had enough. Where
was the sweet, quiet little girl who was supposed to sit nicely all day and play
with her dolls? Mom, after reaching her wits end, asked my pediatrician for a
medication to calm me down. He refused and told her to enroll me in ballet
classes to help release the excess energy. I started ballet the following week,
but it hardly had the effect the doctor promised, my parents still constantly
reminded me to slow down.
Aunt Lorraine still hadn’t answered my question and I remained with my hand
cupped over my mouth with wide eyes, waiting.
Sighing, Aunt Lorraine finally answered. “No, we don’t need to pick out our
baby.”
My legs stopped bouncing. “Why not?”
Aunt Lorraine glanced inquisitively at Mommy, who shrugged her shoulders as
if to say, you’re on your own with this one. “No,” Aunt Lorraine said, turning
back to me. “It’s already here in my stomach. Hopefully the baby is going to
come out soon.” She adjusted the pillow behind her back. “Then the baby will
stay in the nursery until we both come home.”
“Like the nursery I was in, like Thomas and Brian too,” I told her.
“Annie,” Mommy interrupted. “You know what I told you before. When your
father and I decided that we wanted a baby, we called the adoption agency
and they told us to come to the special nursery. That’s how you, Thomas and
Brian were adopted.” The answer was given in a brisk, matter-of-fact way, as
if she were referring to picking out a dog at the pound.
I looked at Mommy. “But how did I get to the special nursery?”
She puffed deeply on her cigarette. “Another woman gave birth to you. She
brought you to the special nursery and then we came and took you home.”
“So I was in someone else’s belly?” I asked, for the first time realizing that not
everyone was adopted. Up till then, in my fleeting thoughts, I always pictured
parents going to a big room where newborn babies wrapped securely in
receiving blankets were all lined up, waiting patiently. I never thought about
how the babies actually got to the nursery, having only picturing the parents
arriving, then looking over all the babies like slabs of meat arranged in a deli
counter.
“Yes, you were inside another mother’s belly,” Mommy muttered, as if she
hated to admit this fact. “After you were born you were adopted like Thomas
and Brian were.”
“So Aunt Lorraine’s baby won’t be adopted?”
“No!” Mommy, Grandma and Aunt Lorraine said in unison.
Another piece of the puzzle slid into place. “Not all babies are brought to the
nursery to be adopted?” I asked, tilting my head to the side. It wasn’t so much
a question but a statement needing confirmation.
“No, not all babies. Only the ones whose original mothers decide they can’t
keep them,” Mommy said, stressing this fact. “Only Thomas, Brian and you are
adopted.”
My vision of everybody being adopted exploded. Trembling and feeling sick to
my stomach, I slid down to my knees on the floor.
“After we saw your father and I decided that we wanted to keep you.”
“Oh yes,” Grandma smiled, reaching toward the ashtray on the coffee table.
“You were so tiny.” She tapped her cigarette and a long ash dropped off. “And
you cried so much and so loud that Thomas asked if we could pick out a quieter
baby,” she cackled.
I looked at Mommy, then at Grandma. “Why can’t I see the mother who had
me in her belly? Where is she?”
“We don’t know where she is, Annie,” Mommy said, shaking her head and
glancing at Grandma.
Grandma shrugged. “After she decided to give you up she wasn’t allowed to
see you,” she said simply.
I rested my back against the couch, reflecting on this revelation. Then a
moment later I jumped back to my feet. “Why not?” I demanded. “Why can’t
she see me?”
I tried to picture what she looked like, but the only thing that came to mind
was a picture of a woman veiled in dark gray. Immediately an aura of mystery
formed about this phantom mother of mine—my other mother. I wanted to see
her.
My urgent question met with silence. The women just sat there watching the
smoke from their cigarettes drift toward the fan.
There was no valid answer for my question. When I was adopted in 1966, the
adoption process was kept closed in most states. The state where I was born,
New Jersey, sealed the original birth certificate containing my birth name after
the adoption became legal. From that day on, history was rewritten and I was
considered to be the natural child of my adoptive parents. Nobody, not even a
court of law, was allowed to unseal or view the original document.
I glanced at Aunt Lorraine on the couch, still fanning herself with the
magazine. “Oh, this heat is unbearable,” she moaned. “Why can’t this baby be
born?”
“The baby will come when it’s good and ready. You can’t rush these things,”
Grandma said knowingly. “You were born late, Lorraine, eleven days past
your due date.”
I looked over in Mommy’s direction. “Was I born late?”
Mommy rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know… I think they told me you were
born right on time.” She gulped the remainder of her iced tea.
The day I realized I had two mothers, I was cut in half. One mother had had
me in her belly and brought me to the special nursery, while this mother I
called Mommy took me home from the nursery to live. One half of myself
resided here with my family. The other half was lost, lost to a shadowy woman
floating somewhere out there in the world.
The story about how I became a part of my family finally sank in. I truly
understood what it was to be adopted and this realization entered like a
charging bull, taking hold of my naïve preconceptions and throwing them to the
wind. It left me feeling half naked, as if I was missing some part of myself. But
the lasting impression was as clear as a bright sunny day: My brothers and I
were different from everyone else. We were adopted.
Little did I know, at such a ripe young age, that I had only scratched the
surface of the mystery of my origins. But deep inside, I was sure of one thing:
No secret could be kept forever.
| Excerpt from The Sound of Hope: A True Story of an Adoptee's Quest for her Origins |
