Carry Her Heart (18 page)

“I knew this should have waited until after—”

“No, you’re wrong. It shouldn’t have waited another minute. Is it okay if I crash here, or would you rather I go home so you don’t have to tiptoe around the house?”

“It’s up to you,” I said. What I wanted to say was,
Stay. Don’t ever leave
.

“I’ll be back over after I get some sleep.” He kissed me and then left. Just walked out of my door with Amanda’s journal in his hand.

For the last four years, I’d written to Amanda after so many big and small moments.

I knew the pages were almost filled, and I’d told myself that when it was full, I’d be done.

But right now, I wanted to write to her. I’d tried to explain things to her in the journal before, but I wanted to try again. Maybe try to explain myself better to her than I’d explained myself to Ned.

I loved him.

And I wasn’t sure that was going to be enough.

Chapter Sixteen

The next few weeks were awkward.

Ned didn’t mention marriage or families . . . or Amanda. He also didn’t mention having read the journal, but one day after he left for another outing, I found it in the center of the bed.

I picked it up and sat cross-legged in front of the faded blue trunk. I traced the
T. P. E. 1837
.

Talia Piper Eliason. I wondered what this woman I’d been named after was like. And then I thought about Rose. Rose who’d sent her son away to a better life.

What would her son have said if he’d met her again? Would he have thanked her for her sacrifices? Would he have blamed her because he’d grown up feeling the lack of a mother in his life?

I thought about writing in the journal, but for the first time in four years, I didn’t know what to say to Amanda. I gently placed it in the trunk, along with all the books and letters—all the pieces of Amanda’s story—and I shut the lid.

I stood and looked out the window at my garden. Everything was blooming. It was that fresh, spring green that would deepen over the summer, until turning into a tired green by fall. I thought about going out back, but even that didn’t appeal. Nothing felt right.

I needed to fix things with Ned, but I didn’t know how. He was out of town somewhere again, so I wouldn’t be fixing anything today.

I knew that although he still said he loved me, our relationship had shifted when I told him about Amanda. I just wasn’t sure what it was shifting to.

He felt distant. But maybe it was me. Maybe I was pulling back in order to protect myself.

Ned claimed he knew me, but if he did, he’d know how much this awkwardness between us was hurting me.

To really stir my jumbled emotional pot, it was Mother’s Day.

Despite having had a daughter, I knew that I wasn’t a mother. That knowledge had always made Mother’s Day one of the hardest days of the year for me.

As I had so many other years, I decided to concentrate on my mom. I took my parents down to Smuggler’s Wharf, a lovely little restaurant that sat on the bay.

Dad talked about his classes and his book. I listened and nodded at the proper places.

I realized my mother sensed my mood when she reached across the table and took my hand. “Piper . . .” That’s all she said, my name, but I knew she was telling me she was sorry and that she understood. I’m pretty sure that for the first time she understood that it wasn’t regret that made the day hard, it was simply missing Amanda.

How could I miss someone I’d only held for an hour? I wasn’t sure, but I did.

I gave Mom’s hand a squeeze and wondered about the woman Amanda called mom.

I looked at my mother and hoped that Amanda’s was like her. Strict, but reasonable. Loving. Always so loving. And understanding.

After lunch, we drove from the bay to the peninsula and took a long walk. My mother always swore she was a simple soul. A day when she didn’t have to cook and got a trip to Presque Isle was enough to celebrate any holiday in her mind.

We stayed for the sunset. As it lowered in the sky, I felt the pulse of missing Amanda with each breath I took. Maybe it was amplified because I missed Ned, too. Not just because he’d been traveling so much, but because I felt as if the distance between us grew wider every day.

Ned and Amanda.

Amanda and Ned.

“Piper,” my mother said again.

She wrapped her arm around me as we stood, watching the sun sink into Lake Erie.

My father seemed oblivious to my turmoil, which was fine with me. I thought maybe I’d go write in the journal, but my parents had barely pulled out of my driveway when Ned came in the door.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Pip,” he said as he handed me the flowers. He had a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Forget-me-nots and white roses—my favorites.

And out of nowhere I felt a burst of anger flare in my chest. “I am not a mother. I gave up that name years ago when I gave up my daughter.”

Even as I said the words, I realized that calling Amanda my daughter when I’d always denied being a mother—being
her
mother—didn’t make sense.

Ned didn’t call me out on the contradiction. He simply pulled me into his arms and said, “You are most definitely a mother.”

“I gave Amanda away and gave that name to another woman.”

“Pip, you know that I think your mother’s great. She reminds me of my mom in so many ways. And do you know what quality shines through in both of them? The thing that makes them such outstanding mothers?”

When I didn’t respond, he said, “A good mother—like both of our mothers—is someone who puts her own wants and needs aside in the interest of her child.”

I still didn’t say anything. He didn’t need me to agree to something we both knew to be true.

“If that’s the definition of a mother, then you have been a mother since before Amanda was even born. You gave her up—gave up that piece of your heart—so that she could have a better life. You’ve missed her ever since.”

He held my hand and allowed me to simply mull over his words.

After a long time, my hand still in his, he said, “You are a mother. You’ve always been one, Pip.” He let go of my hand, leaned down, and picked up the slightly banged-up flowers. “And every Mother’s Day from now on, I will bring you flowers on Amanda’s behalf. If she knew what you’d done for her, she’d bring them herself.”

He was quiet again, giving me time to compose myself and more than that, time to let what he said really sink in.

“I am Amanda’s mother.” I’d never said those words before. In my heart, she’d always been my daughter, but I’d never allowed myself to think of myself as her mother. I’d always forced myself to think of her other mother as her mother. I was simply the woman who’d given birth to her and then given her away.

She’d been my daughter, but I’d never been her mother.

Until now.

Until Ned.

That was a greater gift than any flowers.

It was the best Mother’s Day present I’d ever received.

“Thank you,” I whispered. And this time, I didn’t wait for him to pull me into his arms. I walked into them willingly. I stepped into his embrace and knew that he’d open his arms to me.

And he did.

I wasn’t sure we’d settled anything, but I knew he loved me. I knew I loved him.

And for now, that would be enough.

Dear Amanda,

Sharing biographical stats with someone is easy. Your name, the city you were born in, what high school you went to, jobs . . . all those things I can share with ease. I share them with readers and friends alike.

But getting to your truths . . . those pieces of yourself that you keep hidden from sight because they’re so fragile that an unkind word or scathing look could damage them—damage you—is so much harder.

Amanda, that’s why I started this journal. I hope and dream that someday we’ll meet. I can tell you my blood type, my family’s medical history. I can even give you some cursory information along those lines about your father. And maybe that’s all you’ll want from me. But I hope you want more. You’ve been part of my daily life since the moment I learned I was pregnant. We might not be together, but your existence has shaped and formed me. It has sent me in directions I might never have gone.

If all you want is those statistics, I will happily share them. But I will give you this journal and the chest of letters from people you helped. And maybe through them, you’ll know more about me . . . about the things I hold closest and dearest to me. And you should know, of all those things, you are at the center.

There are only a couple of pages left in the journal.

But once, before I tuck this journal away in the chest, I want to sign an entry the way I feel. Not to take anything away from your mom, but to express what Ned finally drove home for me.

Love,

Your Other Mother

Chapter Seventeen

Ned and I settled into a new normal after Mother’s Day. And though we didn’t talk about it anymore, we lived together.

He put his house on the market, but we still we didn’t talk about engagements or marriage or future children.

We fell back into our routine. I should have been happy. It seemed I had what I wanted—Ned with no strings or expectations.

And yet, I wasn’t happy at all. I felt like we’d lost something. Maybe the sense of possibility. I’d cut off an entire potential future for us.

Ned was still gone more than he’d ever been. Not just local stakeouts, but gone out of town. He called every night while he was away, but I missed him so much I ached with it. My writing had suffered this spring. For the first time in my writing career, I’d had to ask my editor for an extension on this contract. I tried to force the words, but they wouldn’t come.

I didn’t sit on the porch in the mornings because if I did, I simply stared at my laptop screen. I felt like a fraud.

I’d helped out at the clinic a few days, read at the school and gone through the motions at the pantry, but for the first time, I felt disconnected from everything I did that gave my life meaning.

I felt lost.

On Monday afternoon, I heard someone at the screen door and knew Ned was home.

As I had the thought, he walked in.

I drank in the sight of him. “You’re home. I’ve missed you . . .” Words came tumbling out of my mouth, one after another. None of them what I really wanted to say.
I love you. Ask me again to marry you, please
.

Ned hugged me, but I could tell that things had shifted again and I wasn’t sure why or how now. I let my arms drop to my sides and stepped back. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not wrong,” he said. “I did something, and I hope when you find out you’ll understand why and forgive me for going behind your back.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

Rather than answer, he said, “I have something for you,” and thrust a DVD jewel case toward me.

I had no clue what he could possibly need me to see. I stood there, frozen, a DVD in my hand, and the man I loved was standing so close that I could smell his cologne. It smelled woodsy. Ourdoorsy. It smelled just the way Couch Couch might have smelled.

I must have stood there too long because Ned shook me from my musings by asking, “Can we watch it now, Pip?”

I smiled, though I wanted nothing more than to go back into his arms. Maybe, if he held me long enough, I could say all the things I needed to say. “It’s your show.”

“No, it’s yours,” was his cryptic response.

I put the DVD in and he sat on the couch next to me as I turned on the television, then hit play on the remote.

It was a graduation. I paused and looked at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Watch.”

The camera panned to the aisle and students, wearing their blue-and-white caps and gowns, strolled into view. Only a couple kids walked by before I saw her.

I hit pause. There she was, frozen on my screen. I knew it was her in the same way my heart knew it was Ned on the other side of the door.

Amanda.

Her hair had never faded to a browner shade. It was red, but not as crazy red as mine. I’d call it more strawberry blond. But red. She smiled in that frame I’d frozen on the screen.

Oh, she smiled so hard it looked as if her face might break from all the happiness that was trying to spill out.

She had different colored cords draped over her gown.

“You found her?” I didn’t know how to feel. Thrilled to see her. Angry that Ned had gone looking for her.

“I didn’t say anything to her or her parents,” Ned said quickly. “I know I overstepped, but you needed to know. I’ve watched you write in that journal since I met you. And now I’ve read it. You needed not just to hope she was all right, but to see it. To be able to feel it in the depths of your bones.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I found her a couple weeks ago. I was just going to give you a report, and a few pictures. But when I realized I could go to her graduation and film her and no one would be the wiser, I knew I had to. No one would know. I’d be just one more family member with a camera in his hand. I didn’t know when I went just how much the camera would capture.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ll have to watch. I couldn’t do it justice if I tried to tell you,” he said.

“I was willing to wait and hope . . .” I was crying so hard I couldn’t say anything else. I stared at the screen again. There. Amanda.

She looked so utterly happy. And beautiful. And the cords meant she’d done well in high school.

Tears were streaming down my face. I didn’t attempt to stop them or even brush them aside.

Ned said, “I know you were waiting for her. You would have waited forever. And I believed you when you said you did what was best for her, but you still worried. We’ve talked about you making your living from your imagination. That
what-if
is a tool of your trade. Every book you write is a
what-if
scenario for Amanda. What if she’s bullied in school? What if her feet are big and she feels ugly? What if she’s hurt, or scared, or unhappy? What if she was hungry or lost? I wanted to give you peace of mind while you wait for her.”

“So you found her and went to her graduation.” It was more a statement than a question.

“I found her so you would know she was okay. And if she wasn’t—” Ned paused. “We’d have crossed that bridge together.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Do you have to ask?”

I didn’t have to ask. I saw his answer in his eyes. More than that, I felt it. It was such a deep, intimate part of me. It had always been there. Even this last month or so when things had felt off-kilter, it had been there. He loved me and I loved him.

I hit play on the remote again.

“You can fast-forward through the speeches,” Ned said.

I shook my head no. I wanted to see this—to see every moment. I watched with more intensity than I’d ever watched anything.

The class slowly walked down the aisle and took their seats. A few didn’t sit in the auditorium seats, but instead walked onto the stage and joined the teachers on the folding chairs up there.

Amanda was one of those.

The principal talked, but I heard none of the words. I lived for the moments the camera panned toward the chairs and I caught sight of her. As he filmed the scene, Ned must have known that’s how I’d feel, because the camera didn’t stray from her for long.

The first speaker talked, but to my ears it was
blah, blah, blah
.

Amanda stood.

“What did they say?” I asked.

“She’s valedictorian,” Ned said quietly.

I hit rewind and went back and listened closely as they announced the valedictorian . . . Amanda. Only that wasn’t her name. I’d always known that wasn’t her name, but it was the name I’d carried with me through all those years of not knowing, of hoping, of praying for her.

Siobhan Ahearn.

She looked as Irish as her name sounded. It fit her.

I thought I saw my father in her. Ned had zoomed the camera in on her and yes, her eyes were my father’s eyes. Eyes that I’d always thought looked like the picture of my great-grandmother Rose.

Amanda didn’t look nervous as she stood at the podium in front of a microphone. I had never given a speech without practically quaking in my shoes, but I saw no evidence of that in her. I was impressed by her bravery.

But Amanda—Siobhan—looked as if she was as comfortable at the microphone as she was on her living room couch.

“Congratulations to all of us,” she said and the room erupted in thunderous applause.

“We did it. We’re graduating. I know that the last thing you all want to do is sit through a long speech. You’ve all gone to school with me for years . . . you’ve heard just about everything I have to say. I know, I’ve always had a lot to say.” There was a pregnant pause, and as if on cue, the crowd laughed. She went on, “So I’ll make this brief.”

Someone in the audience shouted, “No, you won’t.”

The audience laughed again and Amanda-Siobhan laughed along with them.

But the noise died down and she grew more serious as she went back to her speech.

“Today we’ve reached a milestone and a crossroad. We are no longer children. We are adults and we all have decisions to make . . . important decisions that will affect the rest of our lives. Some of those decisions we already made or are in the process of making. Should we go to
X
school or
Y
school? Should we go to a trade school? Should we . . . ?”

She paused, then repeated, “Should we . . . ?” She left the sentence hanging there and toyed with her necklace.

I paused the DVD and tried to catch my breath.

“What?”

I’d been crying as I watched, but this was too much. I cried so hard I could hardly breathe past the tears.

“Pip?” Ned said, and I could hear that I was causing him pain, and that was enough to help me get myself back under control.

“The locket she’s wearing. It’s from me. The one I put in with the letter I wrote her and enclosed with a letter I wrote to her parents.”

“What did the letter say?” Ned asked.

I’d kept copies of both letters for myself. I had read them both over the years, just to be sure that I’d said everything right. They almost felt like a story I told myself. I could quote them verbatim to Ned.

“I told her parents, ‘Thank you. Thank you for taking my daughter into your home and into your heart. When, and if, you think she’s ready, I’ve sent a letter to her along with a locket that was my grandmother’s. I’ve left it unsealed so you can read it. If you choose not to give it to her, I understand. And even then, I thank you.’”

“You were a writer even then,” Ned said. “And the letter to her?”

“It said, ‘Please don’t ever feel I gave you to your parents because I didn’t love you or want you. I am too young, and you deserve so much more than I could give you. I would give you the sun and the moon; I would give you the world if I could, and still it wouldn’t be enough. I love you so much, I wonder that my heart can hold so much feeling and still beat.

“I wanted to give you something tangible. This locket was my great-grandmother’s. Two greats for you. Rose was an amazing lady. Her family was poor. She did what was expected. She married. Two months after she had her son, she lost her husband. Rather than raise her son, my grandfather, in poverty, she did the unexpected. She moved them to Dublin, where she worked as a maid in a hotel. But when he was five, she realized that wasn’t enough. So again, she did something unexpected.

“She put his needs first. She packed his bag, gave him this locket with her picture and his father’s, and sent him with an older sister to America. My grandfather never saw his mother again. But she worked and sent money for his upkeep and his education.

“His mother died when he was seventeen. He went on and became a teacher. When I was little, Grandpa used to tell me stories of his mom. He’d tell me about her strength. And I must have inherited enough of that strength to let you go. To give you a better life than I could give you. So if you wear the locket, remember, you come from a long line of people who are strong and who love deeply. Remember you have always been loved.”

Ned was crying now, but managed to whisper, “God, Pip.”

“I wanted her to know that sometimes love means letting go. I needed her to know that I loved her. I called on the strength of my Great-Grandmother Rose when I signed those adoption papers and gave my daughter to someone else to raise.”

There on the screen was my daughter, holding on to Rose’s locket.

“She knows,” Ned said. “She knows.”

I hoped so.

I hit play and Siobhan dropped the locket and said, “There are so many choices. And each one we make will have a lifelong impact. I know about that kind of life-changing decision. You see, today I need to thank both of my mothers for the choices they made. I thank the mother who raised me. She opened her heart and her home to a child she didn’t give birth to. That decision—made before I was born—set my life on a path. Never has any child been so loved.

“But I also need to thank the mother who gave birth to me. Most of you don’t know I’m adopted. Why would you? But before I was my parents’ daughter, there was another woman who carried me for nine months.”

She paused and I could see tears in her eyes even as I felt my own tears still streaming down my face. “She reached a crossroad in her life and made a decision that affected us both. She gave me my parents and because she did, she gave me a very happy life.”

I paused the tape again. It was too much to take in all at once. I looked at Ned and hiccupped through my tears as I asked, “She was happy?”

Having only seen the few moments of her on my television, I thought she was, but I needed to hear him say it. I needed to know that she was.

Ned nodded. “From everything I found, she has been very happy. Her parents love her and she loves them. She’s an only child who was doted on, but not spoiled. You gave her that, Pip. She had the life you dreamed of.”

I brushed at my eyes, needing a clear view as I hit play. There she was, on the screen in front of me. “I hope that mother who gave birth to me and had the strength to give me to another couple to raise had an equally happy life.

“I’ve always known I was adopted, and I’ve wondered about my birth parents. For my graduation, Mom and Dad gave me a letter this other mother wrote for me. It had this locket in it.” She touched the locket again. “And she told a beautiful story. I had my answer. Love. That other mother gave me away out of love. Someday, when I’m older, I will find her, if she wants to be found. And when I do, I’ll say,
Thank you for your decision
.
That decision you made before I was born gave me a wonderful life.”

Again, I hit pause because the tears were blinding me. I was crying too hard to watch anything more.

I cried for the great-grandmother who’d made an equally hard decision so many years ago.