Aurator, The (17 page)

20. Progenitor
 

All the way to my parent’s house, I heard Nicholai’s words resonating in my head. Past and present.

Nicholai, get out of my head. I’m just going to talk to them.

“Megan, please, there’s no reason to hurt them. Please just think through what you’re doing and the motivation behind it,” he pleaded.

Why do you care anyway?
All I could hear was chuckling. It was irritating. How I wished that this new serpodus worked like a radio and I could just change stations—or better, turn it off.

“Hey! I didn’t ask for this either, but here we are.”

Ugh
. I gripped the steering wheel.
You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay, okay,” Nicholai said through my thoughts. Look. From a practical standpoint, most, if not all of the Caduceus don’t know you exist. If you maintain your everyday family life then you don’t appear different than anyone else. However, on a more… emotional level… Megan… they raised and loved you. If they love you half as much as I love my children or, for that matter, half as much as you love your children, imagine what this would do to them. Knowing that you know.”

I took a deep breath. I love my girls and felt a sharp pang in my gut as I imagined myself in my parent’s shoes.

“That’s it, Megan. You have to try and understand… empathize with your parents before you attempt to speak with them.”

I rolled my eyes as I pulled up to the house.
Come on Nicholai. I need some time to think about things before I go in. Can we say good-bye?

“All right then. Good luck and let me know how it went. Take care and… I love you.”

I was caught for a moment.
I love you?
These words always were so difficult for me to say, except to my husband and girls. Yet here was this man who represented a quintessential stranger to me. Well he is a stranger who is a relative. I shook it off.

Then I heard, “It’s okay, Megan, just let me know how it goes and try not to overthink everything too much. Sometimes things just
are
and don’t have specific reasons or explanations.”

Okay, thanks, I’ll talk to you later.

My mind filled with questions. How would I approach the subject? What would I say? Would they be angry, hurt, relieved? How would I feel after? What was my motive for this?

This last question I decided to ponder before going in. Nicholai had asked me this. As I thought about it I had to admit that my motivation seemed unclear. On the one hand I wanted answers about my past. I wanted to know the truth. On the other hand I knew the truth was painful for them and I didn’t want to cause them any more pain. Would I have done the same thing if I had come upon one of my children in the same way? Would I have wanted them to know that I had broken the law to obtain them?

I looked toward the house and suddenly saw, felt, and smelled a rush of memories sweeping through my mind. The Christmases dragging trees through the house and leaving needles everywhere that my mother would curse for the next two months. The wrestling events between my brother, father, and me that they would sometimes even let me win. Watching my mother and father dress up to go out on very infrequent date nights and thinking how beautiful my mom was. Wishing I would look like her when I grew up.

Looking down at my hands that were clasped a little tightly in my lap, I noticed they were slightly sweaty. After taking a deep breath I realized that it was now or never.

As I walked toward the front door I was hit with a rush of emotions. They crashed into me as if trying to push me back through time. I stopped just short of the front steps and, turning toward the grass to my right, I could see my brother and me running in the sprinklers while my mom and dad sat in their lawn chairs drinking lemonade. I could almost hear the chatter, “
Mom, he’s hogging the water
 . . .
No I’m not, she’s lying
,” and then mom piping in, “
All right you two, just get along
 . . .
Dear, would you like some more lemonade?
”

Simple chatter. Nothing really. Yet now every word was fraught with lies. “
He’s hogging the water—because he’s your real son
 . . .
no I’m not, she’s lying
 . . .
because you bought her on sale
 . . .
all right you two, just get along—or we’ll have to give Megan back
 . . .
Dear, would you like some more lemonade—you liar?
” I tried to shake it off. Why did I always have to be so judgmental?

The house was typical for San Francisco. Tall, narrow, and about six inches from the neighbors on either side. As a child I always thought that was so when the earthquakes came, the house couldn’t fall over because the ones next to it would hold it up. The drapes in the front bay window were open so that you could see the table set squarely in front with my grandmother’s heirloom vase. My parents recently updated the house with new windows and painted the exterior gray. It was about time. I don’t think the house had been painted since I was ten.

I counted the twelve steps up the narrow walkway. I raised my hand and knocked. My mother’s voice rang out in song from inside, “Come in.”

I entered and my mom glided across the floor to meet me. She was always so graceful and I admired that about her. I chuckled to myself. Being graceful myself, I actually thought I got that from her.

Her arms wrapped around me in a loving embrace, clearly glad to see me. “Hi honey, I’m so glad you’re here. But why do you insist on knocking? This is your house too.”

I rolled my eyes. Always the same question, and I grudgingly gave the same answer. “Mom, I’m respecting yours and Dad’s privacy, the same reason you knock when you come to my house.”

Her hand went up toward her mouth as if trying to keep in a secret, then looking back and forth she leaned toward me, “You’re about thirty minutes too late to catch us
doing
anything.” Then she giggled.

“UGH! MOM! No offense, but please, not in front of the children.” She seemed caught off guard for a moment.

“Oh, are the girls with you?”

My lips pursed, I was not amused. “No mom,” I started through clenched teeth, “Me!”

My mom laughed, “Honey, you really do need to lighten up.”

In most situations I would not be referred to as a prude, but I would be hard-pressed to find anyone who wasn’t grossed out in some way to think about their parents having any relationship beyond a hug and kiss hello and good-bye.

“Come here, honey.” My mom motioned for me to sit on the couch. As I sat, she handed me a photo album with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it.
Figures
, I thought to myself. They’ve been home less than seventy-two hours and my mom has a completed photo album already. “You look, I’ll make tea,” she said.

Then she was off to the kitchen. Looking through the book, I began to drift into thought. What was I going to say? I examined how I felt. Somehow this wasn’t feeling right. My body wasn’t relaxed and I was rather anxious. Shouldn’t I feel anxious before I have the “hey you bought me off a guy in a bar” conversation?

“It’s not supposed to feel right.”

Ugh,
Nicholai,
get
out
of
here!

“Sorry, sorry. I was just worried.”

I slammed my hand onto one of the pages of the photo album just as my mom walked into the room. She stopped a few paces from me with her eyes curiously wide and eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?”

I took a deep breath as I looked down at the picture. “Yes, I was just looking at the Champs Élysées and wishing I could go there right now.” Then as if pretending to wipe something off the page, I listened for Nicholai but he was gone. Thank God.

“Oh honey, you’ll go there once your kids are older. It’s a lot of work to take little children there.” She set the cups of tea down and started turning pages in the album while it still sat in my lap. I looked at her face. There were more wrinkles now but they seemed to complement her gray hair. She really was a beautiful woman. Her skin was pale but she had a lovely complexion and was still fit because she walked every day. I always admired my mom for staying home with us while we were growing up. Now being a mom myself, I definitely understood how hard she worked. Our house was always clean and well stocked with food and necessary items. She had been involved in both of our schools as well as dropping us off and picking us up every day. At least until we got our licenses. Even then she was waiting for us when we got home with snacks and would sit at the table anxiously awaiting the teenage tales of the day. I looked toward the dining room table and reflected that some of my best memories were with my mom at that table, dishing about the drama at school. She always appeared to be so interested. Most of the stories I brought home were for her benefit. Since I was not part of the drama myself, I had to rely on hearsay from others, usually something I overheard at the lockers so I would have some juicy tidbit to share with her. She really was a great mom.

My kids adore her. Even at her age, she’s the first to get on the floor and wrestle with them. Boy, do they love to wrestle with her. It was cute when they were one and two years old, but as they got older and stronger, I started having muscle cramps and backaches after our nighttime matches. But Nana didn’t seem to care. She probably spent the next three days after a wrestling match lathered up with some liniment and dosed up on anti-inflammatories, but it never stopped her from participating again during the next visit.

Then suddenly I heard a loud, “Hello? Megan?”

“Hey, dad. I’m in the living room.”

My dad walked through the door that led from the kitchen to the dining room. As he turned toward me his face lit up with a huge smile. I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach thinking over and over how I was going to bring up the subject of adoption and effectively wipe the smile off his face.

Placing the photo album on the coffee table, I stood and met his open arms with my own. My dad’s hugs were always so comforting to me. While I hadn’t often opened up to him regarding my pain and troubles growing up, when I did he was always there with a hug. Always nonjudgmental and a great listener. Maybe it’s a lawyer thing. Or just a dad thing.

My dad and I sat down together, while my mom popped into the kitchen to check on the tea. My dad took the photo album from the table. “Okay,” he started, looking around to make sure my mom wasn’t listening. “You know your mother. We have a few good photos and the rest are sunsets… hundreds and hundreds of sunsets.” Shaking his head with a smirk on his face he flipped through the many sunsets and pointed out the few photos of monuments they took.

I looked at my father instead of the photos. He was an attractive man with strong features. Even at his age he was not that gray. If it weren’t for the wrinkles on his face that trailed down his neck, it would be difficult to gauge his real age. He still worked out several times a week and consulted for local law firms. He had always said that if he stopped moving he would die.

My parents’ marriage was one I had admired and hoped to emulate when I found someone of my own. They were and are best friends. After he showed me the photos and told the corresponding stories, he closed the book.

“Okay now. What was the midnight phone call for when we were in Paris? It wasn’t just because it was your birthday, was it, because we didn’t forget.”

“No no, Dad, that’s fine. I’m sorry about that late night call… I…”

“Tea,” sang my mother as she walked into the room.

After pouring tea for each of us, she sat down across from dad and me. My dad turned back toward me.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” asked my mother.

“I was asking Megan why the late call when we were in Paris. She sounded upset on the phone, and I was about to find out why.”

“Oh, that’s right,” mom said. “Did you get our birthday card? Sorry to interrupt, go ahead dear.”

I winced. I hated when my mother called me dear. I always tried to remember my own feelings so that I would never call my children that… or patients for that matter. I looked back and forth from my mom to my dad.

“Oh guys, you know me. I got a wild harebrained idea to have a big family reunion this summer and wasn’t thinking about where you were or what time it was.”

They both looked at each other and then looked at me. I don’t think they believed me, but I could tell from their faces they wouldn’t press me on it. I quickly moved on.

“Anyway, then I thought that it was too short notice for everyone and dropped the idea altogether.” I tried to change the subject, “The girls missed you guys.”

My mom was great about accepting whatever I said at face value and moving on. Dad, however, was not an easy sell. While I was talking with mom about the girls coming over to spend the night, I could see my dad staring in my direction. As I child I knew that it was best not to make direct eye contact with dad. Especially if I was trying to get away with or avoid something. He had a special gift of looking at someone and getting them to talk. It was probably a very useful skill in his profession, but it was terrible if you were his child.