Carry Her Heart (16 page)

Chapter
Fourteen

Foreword from
Raise Your Hands,
by Piper George:

I started my career in pediatric nursing and fell into writing by accident. My first books were for younger readers, but the last few years I’ve started writing Young Adult fiction. When I meet readers and they tell me, “I thought you were my age,” I’m so complimented.

I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to see the world from a child’s, and then from a young adult’s, perspective. More than see the world, I try to feel the world and be relevant as I write.

The student authors in this collection bring an authenticity that no matter how close I come I can never truly master. They bring a rawness, and in some cases a vulnerability, to their writing as they describe their school experiences. My hope is this book will help parents understand what it means to be a teen today, and that it will help student readers realize they’re not alone. I hope it will make readers feel that some of their own experiences are captured in this story. Every child or young adult needs to feel that he or she has that connection and more importantly, that his or her voice is heard . . .

The next morning, I could not get going.

After the signing, a bunch of the students and their families had stopped by my house. At about eleven, Ned left for some stakeout. He was never very specific about his work projects, but he assured me he’d be safe.

Cooper stayed after everyone else had left. It was after one when I said good night to her.

Sundays are generally my lazy day, but sleeping in until eight o’clock in the morning went beyond lazy to crazy for me. I’m normally an early bird, but a late night and too much on my mind had made for a fitful night’s sleep.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that Ned had been gone all night. I kept waking up and reaching for him, only to find myself alone in my bed.

No, not
my
bed anymore.
Our
bed.

I took my coffee and paper out to the garden for the first time. The calendar said it was officially spring, and today, Mother Nature wasn’t arguing.

I was wrapped in a quilt, because although the sun was out, there was still a nip in the air. This was Erie, Pennsylvania, after all.

I was studying the backyard, trying to decide where I could possible fit the new bush the kids had given me, when the gate opened.

For a moment, I thought it was Ned. I knew we needed to talk, but I’d been avoiding thinking about it. I wasn’t sure how to start.
Hey, Ned, I haven’t mentioned it before, but I have a kid . . . sort of.

It wasn’t Ned, but my mom who came into view. My always-dressed-to-the-nines mother was disheveled and it was obvious she’d been crying.

“Mom? What’s wrong? Is it Dad?” I jumped up from the bench. “Did something happen to Dad?”

She shook her head and pulled me back onto the bench with her. “No. That’s not it. Your father’s still sleeping. I left to come over here before he woke up. I’ve been up all night. Your speech last night . . .”

She shook her head.

I opened up the quilt and wrapped her in it along with me.

We sat in silence, wrapped up together, while my mother collected herself.

“This book . . .”

“The book? I only wrote the foreword and afterword. It’s the students’ stories, not mine.”

“Maybe not yours, but I know that as you worked on it, as you worked with those children, you saw Amanda. You saw her in every story, on every page, in every student. Piper, I read it in one sitting and when I finished, I started to cry. I haven’t been able to stop.”

“Mom?” I knew that some of the stories were tearjerkers, but I hadn’t expected this reaction from anyone, much less my mother.

“I’ve always been behind you, always supported your philanthropic nature. But until last night, I don’t think I ever realized that everything you’ve done, everything you do, has been for your daughter. For Amanda.”

“It has,” I admitted softly. “I may have given her up, but my life has been built around her. Someday, if or when she finds me, I want her to know that I never forgot her. Not for one minute of one day.”

“That’s what I realized last night. You’re heartbroken and it’s my fault,” my mother—my strong, brash mother who’d always stood by my side and lent me her strength and support—whispered as she started to cry again.

Heartbroken?

I really thought hard before I answered.
Heartbroken
?

Giving up my child was the hardest thing I’d ever done. And I’d missed her every day since she left my arms and yes, I worried about her, in much the same way everyone who’s ever had a child worries. Yes, I’d built a life around her. But my heart wasn’t broken. Seventeen years later, I still believed I’d made the best decision for both of us. Surely I’d sent a piece of my heart with her when she left, but what was left was intact.

If it was broken, I couldn’t have given it to Ned, and I was sure that I’d done that.

“Mom, that’s not—” I started to protest.

She interrupted, “It is. I read the book. You might not have written every word in it, but your heart bled on the pages.”

“Mom—”

She interrupted. “I am your mother.” She wiped at her eyes. “My job is to save you from pain. And though you didn’t talk about Amanda, I’ve always seen her clearly behind your stories. She was the little girl in the grocery store and the reason you started Amanda’s Pantry. She’s every child you’ve written for. She’s Jo Larson and all the other students who worked on the book.”

I didn’t know what to say to all that, because it was true. “Where you see pain, I see—”

“I could have saved you all the pain if I hadn’t been so selfish,” she admitted. “I could have dropped out of my doctorate program. Juggling school and my teaching took so much time away from home—from you and your father. Even before the baby, I sensed how much strain it was putting on our relationship. You were at an age when you needed your mother present. If I had been around more, maybe you’d never have gotten pregnant. Maybe—”

“Mom, stop,” I said in my firmest nurse’s voice. I didn’t need to use it often anymore, but I still had it. “I know you’ve always worried that I was somehow torturing myself, first by working on the ped’s floor at the hospital, then with the books and Amanda’s Pantry. And you’ve always been wrong. All the things I do give me such . . . satisfaction. Joy. No, glee.”

My new character was a bubbly sort who used the word
glee
a lot. Sometimes I give characters attributes I want to develop, and sometimes I give them attributes I already have or believe in. I think most of my life is a quiet sort of happiness. Sitting here in my garden, reading a Sunday paper, or working on the front porch.

But those quiet, happy moments were punctuated by frequent moments of utter and absolute glee. Story times at the school when one of the kindergarteners hugs me. Saturdays at Amanda’s Pantry. Letters from readers, or from people the pantry has helped. Other moments.

And Ned.

Always Ned.

It didn’t matter if we were cooking dinner, or washing the dishes together. It didn’t matter if we were walking the dogs, or weeding my backyard jungle.

Waking up next to him and watching him sleep.

Those were small moments that filled me with . . . definitely glee.

I realized my mother needed to hear that. So I repeated it and kept listing things. “Dinner with you and Dad. Seeing you win that award last year. Our vacation to the Outer Banks so many years ago. Do you remember the baby turtle?”

Her tears were slowing and she nodded. “You were so excited as we watched it crawl from the sand and into the water.”

“
Glee
, Mom,” I said, borrowing the word again. “My life is filled with the big moments and the smaller ones, but all of them make me happy. I need you to hear this and believe what I’m about to say this time. I have an utterly wonderful life.”

“But—” she started.

I interrupted. “Mom, I would never have let you quit school to help me keep Amanda, because I’m sure in my heart of hearts, she’s where she was supposed to be. She’s with a couple who couldn’t have biological children. She’s loved and cherished. They were able to give her the childhood and life I wanted for her. Please hear me on this—I wouldn’t have let you quit school to help with her because even if you could have been home more to be Amanda’s grandmother,
I
wasn’t equipped to be her mother. Not the kind of mother I dreamed of for her. No matter what, I’d have still given her up for adoption. It was the right thing for her. For me. And for you.” I wrapped my arm around her. “Honestly, Mom, it was the right thing.”

She fell silent. I knew her well enough to simply sit quietly next to her and allow her a moment to digest what I’d said.

After a few minutes, I quietly added, “You were the best mother ever. I was too young to live up to that, and that was what I wanted for Amanda. I truly believe that’s what I gave her. And I’m at peace with the decision. I always have been. I won’t say I never worry about her. I think we worry about people we love, which is why you’re here this morning, worrying about me.”

“Still, what if I—”

“Ned has pointed out that I use
what if
every day when I work, but you have to be fair. What if you had quit and I tried to raise her? Could I still have made it through college? Would I still have been a nurse? And if I weren’t, would I have become a writer? Or would I have started Amanda’s Pantry? If I hadn’t started Amanda’s Pantry, what would happen to all the kids and families we serve? Mom, maybe I’m the selfish one, but like I said, I love my life. All the work I do is filled with meaning, and I’m surrounded by people I love.”

“Ned,” she said.

This time I didn’t answer but only nodded.

“Have you told him about Amanda then?”

“No. I really don’t know why. I know he’ll accept that part of me, just like he’s accepted every other part of me. It’s just . . .”

“Just?” Mom prompted.

“What if he sees me differently?” There. I’d given my hesitancy a name.

I think I’d known all along this was a big part of why I hadn’t told him. “I mean, if I can’t convince you that I’m at peace with my past, and that I love my life as it stands, how can I convince him? What if he sees me as a tragic figure and pities me?”

Mom sat straighter and all traces of her tears disappeared in an instant. “You’re right. I’ve done you a disservice seeing you as someone who’s heartbroken. Giving away a piece of your heart doesn’t break it. A heart never runs out of room. A heart can always expand. You gave a part to Amanda, and you’ve given pieces to every child you’ve worked with at the hospital, the pantry, and at the school. You put a piece of your heart in every book you write . . . that’s what your readers respond to. Your stories are genuine because you put yourself into them.”

“I try to,” I admitted.

“You’ve given away all those pieces of your heart, but instead of having less left, your heart’s only gotten bigger because of it. You need to tell Ned, and he’ll see that.”

I’d meant what I’d said; I wasn’t afraid of him not accepting me after learning what happened all those years ago, but I was afraid that somehow he’d see me differently.

Still, I had to tell him. We couldn’t go any further until I did.

Dear Amanda,

When I picked up this soft leather notebook the first time, it was a book of blank pages. I thought I would fill those pages with a part of your story you never knew. A part you could never know unless I told it to you in this journal, and the chest full of letters, pictures, and even a few receipts that I’ve kept from Amanda’s Pantry.

For almost four years, I’ve worked on your story. Only, I’ve come to realize that part of your story is my story. This journal, or letter, is autobiographical in nature. Your autobiography and mine. As if that symbiotic union we shared for nine months wasn’t severed at your birth, or even when your parents took you from my arms and walked out of my life with you.

Now, as most of the pages of the journal are filled, I’ve realized it’s even more than just our story—it’s the story of all the people whose lives we’ve touched. It’s their stories, too. At least a chapter or a few pages of their stories.

For instance, though I only ever caught a glimpse of your parents, it’s their story in a way.

I’ve rarely mentioned your biological father, but yes, it’s his as well. He was a boy, as much as I was a girl, when you were conceived. He walked away from the news, still very much a boy, while I was forced to grow up in that instant I realized you existed. I was forced to make decisions for you that would affect your entire life.

I don’t resent your father’s ability to stay Peter Pan. Maybe he grew up a few years later, or maybe he grew up yesterday.

Or maybe he’s never grown up.

I don’t begrudge him the time he remained a child.

Nor would I change my instant move from childhood to adulthood, because my transformation sent you into your parents’ arms and into what I pray was a happy life.

Today, I realized how very much our story is my mother’s story, too.

My mother thought my heart was broken because I’d given you to your parents.

It wasn’t.

It isn’t.

And I think she finally understood. My mother was almost poetic as she realized that hearts are unique. You can give away piece after piece, but there’s always more. I sent a piece of my heart away with you. I’ve given other pieces to the kids I’ve worked with over the years. And yet, rather than getting smaller, my heart continues to expand and grow. I’ve given a huge part of it to Ned now, and yet there’s still more.